NBA: Basketball Legend.

Chapter 123: Chapter 123: Chen Yan Only Needs Three Seconds, Yao Ming Throws the Towel in Anger!

Chapter 123: Chen Yan Only Needs Three Seconds, Yao Ming Throws the Towel in Anger!

The Rockets tried to mount a comeback late in the third quarter. McGrady found his rhythm, dishing out assists to Alston and Battier for a pair of timely threes.

But just as momentum began to shift, Steve Nash shut the door.

Phoenix’s floor general picked apart the Rockets’ defense with pinpoint shooting and crisp fast-break passing. The Suns’ offense stayed hot, pouring in 29 points in the quarter—while the Rockets managed just a measly two.

79–66. A 13-point Suns lead heading into the fourth.

And just like that, Houston was in deep trouble.

Everyone in the building knew what that score meant. The Rockets were notorious for collapsing in fourth quarters. They could ride a lead for three quarters, but once that final stretch hit? They fell apart. And tonight, they were already trailing.

The numbers don’t lie. In the 13 games prior where the Rockets trailed going into the fourth, they lost every single one.

So when the fourth quarter started, history repeated itself.

They clanked 6 of their first 8 shots. Only two went in—and one of them was from Chuck Hayes, of all people.

Adelman had upgraded the team’s offense since replacing Van Gundy. His Princeton-style system spread the floor and got everyone involved. No more of the old, predictable ”give it to Yao or T-Mac and pray” playbook. The Rockets were moving better, passing smarter.

But all the strategy in the world can’t fix tired legs.

Yao Ming? The man’s a mountain—226cm tall, 300kg of pure weight. Running up and down the court with the high-octane Suns was draining him like crazy. Every possession was a war of attrition for him.

McGrady? He was never known for his stamina. Freak athlete, sure. Crazy handles, insane vertical, all-time scoring talent—but low endurance. Back in his Orlando days, he once dropped 52 points through three quarters against the Wizards. But in the fourth? Gassed. Couldn’t hit anything. Even his free throws went cold.

Scoring buckets, turns out, is hard when your lungs are on fire.

And the Suns? They were just getting started.

Coach D’Antoni threw out the playbook. One instruction: run like hell.

No drawn-up sets. No slow execution. Just pure speed and chaos. And it worked. The Suns hit the Rockets with a lightning-fast run, forcing Adelman to call timeout before things got ugly.

But the bleeding didn’t stop.

Coming out of the timeout, Houston still looked flat. The lead ballooned.

Chen Yan, smelling blood, eased up a bit on defense. He focused on cutting off jump shots instead of hounding drives, saving energy for transition buckets. On offense, he picked his spots.

With the whole world watching the first all-Chinese showdown in the NBA, Chen wanted to leave a mark. He already had 34 points, 6 boards, and 5 assists. But he wanted more.

”Chen!”

Dio’s shout echoed off the rim as he snagged a rebound and instantly launched a deep outlet pass. He didn’t hesitate. He knew where Chen Yan would be—already sprinting down the court.

Chen caught the ball two steps behind the arc, Battier locked onto him like glue.

The crowd held its breath.

Chen leaned forward, exploded twice off the dribble—bang, bang!—and drove hard.

Then—stop on a dime. Behind the back.

Battier bit.

The veteran defender went flying like he dove off a cliff, completely fooled by the sudden brake.

That move—accelerate, brake, pull-back—that’s vintage Chen Yan now. A signature. His version of the killer crossover.

And Battier? Normally rock-solid. His defensive footwork is elite, rarely fooled.

But this wasn’t just about footwork. If Battier didn’t sprint to match Chen’s first step, he’d get blown by. But if he did?

Chen had the counter ready. Change of pace. Change of direction. Shot ready.

This was the toughest part of defending Chen Yan in transition—Battier had been grinding all game long and still couldn’t find a way to shut him down.

No hesitation. Chen Yan pulled up from deep—just outside the three-point line.

At that moment, Battier was a solid three steps away—nowhere near close enough to contest. All he could do was watch the arc of the ball and pray it missed.

”Shua!” 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ

Battier’s prayer went unanswered. Nothing but net.

”Pull-up three in transition... cold-blooded,” Coach Xu said with a mix of admiration and surprise.

”It might’ve been a fast-break three, but that was a smart shot,” added Zhang Weiping, jumping in with his usual tactical analysis. ”He used the quick stop perfectly to shake Battier and carve out the space he needed.”

Right after the shot dropped, the Rockets rushed right back down. The Suns’ relentless pace had started rubbing off on them—everything sped up.

Yao Ming barely had time to post up when McGrady launched a three of his own, barely setting his feet.

”Bang!”

It clanked hard off the front iron. The arc was too low. McGrady was clearly forcing the issue—again.

Stoudemire grabbed the board, and instead of swinging it to Nash like usual, he went for the highlight. A full-court Hail Mary pass, practically from Arizona to California, trying to find Chen Yan on the break.

The pass? Sloppy. Dio he was not.

It sailed too long, almost hitting the baseline. But Chen Yan? He flipped the switch.

In a burst, he blew past Battier and Alston like they were cones at practice, tracked the ball down at full sprint, and spun into a vicious one-handed dunk.

BOOM!

Stoudemire was already racing downcourt, yelling and bumping chests with Chen Yan like he’d just dropped a dime from half court.

From the look on his face, you’d think that pass was textbook... but let’s be real, it was Chen Yan who bailed him out.

The Rockets were getting torched on every fast break, and fatigue was killing them. Phoenix kept running the same play: long outlet to Chen Yan in transition. Every time, three seconds or less.

The crowd was eating it up.

This was 2007—an era dominated by half-court sets and grind-it-out defense. The Suns were flipping that on its head. Their small-ball blitz was a full-on assault on the senses.

In the studio, Su Qun couldn’t help but praise the chaos.

”No one hates watching the Suns play. This offense is just... electric.”

Back in the U.S., legendary NBA writer Jackie MacMullan was watching the game, too. She’d just published her book ”Seven Seconds or Less” chronicling the ’05-’06 Suns.

Watching Chen Yan light up the Rockets?

She half-joked to herself:

Maybe I should’ve called it ”Three Seconds or Less.”

On the court, Rick Adelman had finally seen enough. He burned another timeout. But with the Suns now up by more than 20, the timeout felt more like a white flag.

Yao Ming sat on the bench, breathing heavy. He hadn’t touched the ball in four straight possessions. The confusion was clear on his face—what was the point of throwing him out there to just run suicides?

Adelman’s Princeton offense relied on constant movement, off-ball cuts, and quick passes to generate open looks. It needed a mobile big who could pass and read the floor like a point guard.

Yao? That wasn’t his game—not anymore.

Back in 2002, a younger, lighter Yao Ming might’ve thrived in this system. But now, heavier and molded into a more traditional low-post threat, he needed the game to slow down. He needed a savvy point guard to work the ball inside and let him go to work.

Adelman’s system asked him to be something he wasn’t. And that kind of shift couldn’t happen overnight.

Three minutes later, after more pointless running, Yao was subbed out. Garbage time had officially arrived.

As he sat down and grabbed the towel from the assistant coach, frustration finally boiled over. Yao, always the composed pro, snapped.

He slammed the towel to the floor in pure frustration—a rare glimpse of raw emotion from the big man.

Cameras caught it all.

The CCTV broadcast team didn’t hold back either.

”Adelman’s tactics tonight were just off,” one commentator said bluntly. ”Especially in the fourth. The Suns dictated everything. You can’t beat them at their own game by trying to play their style.”

”You’ve got a generational center in Yao Ming, and you’re using him like he’s just a screener? Makes no sense.”

”It’s not just on the coach, either,” added the third analyst. ”The Rockets played without discipline. They let the pace pull them out of their game. If they want to be contenders, they’ve got a long way to go.”

And with that, the buzzer sounded. The blowout was over.

The Suns had made their statement. Chen Yan had stolen the show.

And the Rockets?

They left with more questions than answers.

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