NBA: Basketball Legend.

Chapter 131: Chapter 131: Whether It’s Reasonable or Not, There’s Always Something to Brag About!

Chapter 131: Whether It’s Reasonable or Not, There’s Always Something to Brag About!

Swish!

After sinking his free throw, Tim Duncan immediately jogged to the offensive end, calling for the ball on the low block against Stoudemire.

He went to work the moment he got it. A hard bump to create space, then a smooth crossover fake. Duncan leaned into Stoudemire, nudged him back, and banked in an easy hook off the glass.

Classic Duncan—strength mixed with textbook fundamentals. Amar’e had no answer.

There’s a reason the whole league struggled with Duncan. The ”Stone Buddha” wasn’t flashy, but he brought his own system with him. You didn’t build around him—he was the system.

That steady presence calmed the Spurs.

The rest of the second quarter turned into a back-and-forth. Both teams traded baskets, neither side giving an inch. At halftime, the Suns clung to a slim 50–45 lead.

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The third quarter opened with San Antonio crashing the boards harder, securing second-chance points. The Suns countered by pushing the pace, exploiting the Spurs’ slow transition defense for quick buckets.

Every possession grew more physical. The intensity, the trash talk, the body bumps—it all felt like playoff basketball.

Then, chaos.

During a scramble, Robert Horry’s arm smacked Nash in the back of the head. Nash dropped to the floor clutching his skull. The Suns’ bench was on edge, tempers flaring, nearly sparking a full-blown fight.

Hard to say if it was intentional, but it always seemed to be Nash taking the punishment whenever Phoenix faced the Spurs.

With Nash limited by San Antonio’s rough defense, the Suns leaned heavily on Stoudemire and Chen Yan to carry the scoring load.

At the end of the third, Phoenix held on 69–67.

Chen Yan already had 29 points. He was cruising toward another 30-plus night—no small feat against the Spurs, the stingiest defense in the league. They allowed only 90.6 points per game, so Chen Yan hitting 30 was like carving out one-third of their entire defense.

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Fourth Quarter.

Both teams looked gassed. A week-long road trip had drained the Suns, and the Spurs’ relentless full-court effort was taking its toll on their legs too.

With 3:20 left, it was still a nail-biter. Phoenix up 84–83.

On the floor for Phoenix: Nash, Chen Yan, Raja Bell, Diaw, Stoudemire.

On the floor for San Antonio: Parker, Bowen, Ginobili, Duncan, Oberto.

The Suns had the ball.

Nash held it at the top of the arc, dribbling patiently, waiting for movement. At this stage, every single possession could decide the game.

Amar’e flashed to the free throw line, calling for it. Nash delivered.

Stoudemire sized up Duncan, gave him a quick bounce, then exploded forward. Few bigs in history could face up like Amar’e. His first step was a nightmare—even for Tim Duncan.

He blew by, gaining half a step and attacking the rim.

But from the weakside corner, Manu Ginobili had already read the play. He abandoned his man, slid into the lane, and positioned himself perfectly.

As Amar’e gathered to rise, Manu sold it—arms across his chest, head snapping back, collapsing to the hardwood like he’d been shot.

The whistle blew instantly.

Offensive foul.

The Spurs’ bench went wild. Fans didn’t care whether it was a flop or legit contact—Ginobili had delivered them the ball.

Still on the ground, Manu clenched his fist and roared in triumph before Duncan and Finley pulled him to his feet.

Stoudemire, red-hot with rage, screamed, ”He faked it! That’s a flop! He dropped like he got shot!”

He looked ready to charge the refs. Teammates rushed in, wrapping him up before he drew a technical.

The Spurs calmly inbounded and reset.

Now it was Tony Parker’s turn to orchestrate. Chen Yan picked him up at the perimeter, sliding with every dribble.

Raja Bell shadowed Ginobili, locked on tight. When Parker and Manu shared the court, Ginobili often became the deadlier weapon, and Bell knew it.

Nash took the least threatening assignment, sticking with Bowen in the corner to minimize his defensive liability.

Parker didn’t force it, didn’t rush. He slowed it down, letting the clock tick. He knew the stakes.

Duncan set a screen at the high post for Parker.

Tony took a quick sidestep, drew attention, and zipped a pass to Ginobili on the baseline.

Manu caught, gave a quick pump fake, then exploded toward the rim.

Raja Bell didn’t bite—he shadowed him step for step.

But Manu didn’t care. This was his rhythm, his style.

He leaned into Bell, took two exaggerated side steps, and launched a wild, leaning scoop with a dramatic backward fall.

If anyone else on the Spurs tried that shot, Popovich would’ve blown a gasket. But Ginobili? He had a green light for chaos. They didn’t call him ”Jordan in 20 minutes” for nothing.

The ball arced high, kissed the glass—and dropped in.

85–84. Spurs lead.

For the first time all half, San Antonio had the advantage.

Barkley, laughing in the booth: ”That’s Manu. You can’t game plan for him. He’ll pull something out of nowhere, and it’ll go in.”

Kenny Smith: ”And that could flip the momentum. Look at this crowd—it’s on fire after that bucket!”

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Phoenix possession.

D’Antoni didn’t call timeout—he only had one left, and he was saving it for the absolute crunch moment.

The arena shook with chants.

”Defense! Defense! Defense!”

The Spurs turned up playoff-level intensity. Pop stalked the sideline, barking instructions—switch everything on screens, collapse on drives, deny threes. Force Phoenix into mid-range shots.

Popovich’s belief was simple: mid-range won’t kill you—unless the shooter’s name is Kobe Bryant.

Nash brought it across half court. Bruce Bowen was in his chest, physical, arms everywhere. At home in San Antonio, refs weren’t blowing that whistle this late.

Nash handed off to Diaw at the left wing. With Steve locked up, Diaw became the Suns’ release valve.

From the baseline, Chen Yan cut hard, Ginobili chasing him tight. Manu wasn’t an elite stopper, but his effort was relentless.

Chen Yan sprinted, then suddenly stopped on a dime, pivoted, and accelerated the other way. The sharp rhythm shift—gone. He left Ginobili half a step behind.

Diaw hit him perfectly at the free throw line.

Chen Yan rose, smooth as silk. Manu lunged to contest—too late.

Swish!

86–85 Suns.

That shot came with swagger. The last three minutes of a tight game—Chen’s passive skill [Heart of Steel] kicked in, giving him ice-cold precision. His jumper felt automatic.

Zhang Weiping on the broadcast: ”That’s how you use movement to create a mid-range look. Very steady, very reasonable.”

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Spurs back on offense.

Duncan commanded a double in the post, then swung the ball to Bowen in the corner.

Open three. He rose, fired—

Clang! Off the iron.

Bowen’s misses didn’t matter to the Spurs. They sprinted back, setting their defense.

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Suns with the ball again.

Stoudemire didn’t call for his usual isolation. By now, fatigue had dulled his one-on-one edge. Instead, he screened weakside for Chen Yan.

Chen popped out to the perimeter, caught the ball. Manu fought through the screen and stuck with him this time.

Chen palmed the rock one-handed, holding it out in front—the classic three-threat stance, dripping with style. Only Jordan had ever made it look this cool.

But it wasn’t just for show. With Chen’s skill set, it was lethal. He could pass, shoot, or blow by you in a blink.

He rocked the ball, probing. Ginobili stayed disciplined, not falling for fakes.

If Chen drove, Manu’s job was to slow him down long enough for Duncan to help.

If Chen shot, he’d contest with everything.

Chen suddenly slid sideways, rose up.

Commentator: ”Here it comes—he’s pulling up!”

Everyone knew it. Even Ginobili. But it didn’t matter.

Swish! Right in Manu’s face.

Perfect defense, better offense.

88–85 Suns.

Yu Jia, almost singing: ”Good shot! Totally unreasonable—but that’s what stars do!”

On TV, fans were stunned. Reasonable, unreasonable—who cared? When Chen Yan pulled the trigger, it went in.

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