NBA: Basketball Legend.

Chapter 211: Chapter 211: Group Greetings to Chen Yan, Weird Technical Foul!

Chapter 211: Group Greetings to Chen Yan, Weird Technical Foul!

”Wow! A super long-range alley-oop! Chen and Nash just locked in one of tonight’s top five plays!” Kenny Smith’s voice boomed across the national broadcast.

”Three seconds from steal to slam! That’s classic Phoenix basketball right there,” Barkley laughed. ”Pure chaos, pure rhythm.”

Back on the court, the Mavericks tried to steady themselves. Jason Terry came off a screen and let fly from deep.

Terry’s greatest strength had always been his fearlessness, but that same confidence could cut both ways.

When he was hot, he could torch anyone. When he was off, he could burn his own team down.

Bang!

The ball clanged hard off the rim.

Head coach Avery Johnson frowned from the sideline, clearly unhappy with Terry’s shot selection over the last two possessions. The ”Little General” gave a quick signal toward the bench—Jason Kidd started warming up.

The Mavericks’ transition defense held strong this time, stopping the Suns from another lightning-fast break.

Terry, clearly frustrated, decided to make up for it on defense. He picked up Nash full-court, pressuring hard.

But Nash was unfazed. A quick cross, a hesitation, and Terry was left reaching for air. The veteran point guard blew past him effortlessly.

As Nash drove into the paint, Ray Allen rotated to help. Nash slowed his pace, baiting the double-team, and then—just like clockwork—whipped a behind-the-back pass to Chen Yan in the corner.

Chen caught it in stride, no hesitation.

”Swish!”

Pure. 61–59.

”Timeout!” Avery Johnson threw up his hands, unable to watch the collapse continue.

”Eight straight points for Phoenix, all triggered by Chen Yan!” Kenny Smith exclaimed.

”Yeah,” Barkley added. ”Johnson’s gotta find a way to cool this kid down before the roof blows off.”

Avery Johnson slammed his clipboard in frustration. ”What is that shot selection? What are we doing out there?” He glared at Terry, then took a deep breath and reset. ”Alright, Jason, calm down. Kidd, you’re in. Josh Howard, you’ve got Chen Yan. Stick with him—contest everything.”

Howard nodded. Compared to Ray Allen, he had the size and mobility to bother Chen.

On the Suns bench, D’Antoni patted Chen on the shoulder with a grin. ”Keep that fire, kid. You’ve got us right where we want them.”

The injured players—Grant Hill on crutches, Azubuike with a wrapped ankle—crowded around Chen, clapping and shouting encouragement.

”Let’s go, Chen!”

”You’re cooking out there!”

The timeout ended, and the Mavericks came back with a smoother rhythm thanks to Kidd’s leadership. When the veteran had the ball, the entire offense flowed. Players moved instinctively, confident he’d find them.

Nowitzki came off a baseline curl, Kidd hit him in stride, and Dirk launched his signature one-legged fadeaway.

”Swish!”

63–59. A clean response.

Phoenix had the ball again.

Chen had found his rhythm now, and Nash immediately handed him control of the next possession.

Chen signaled for Stoudemire to set a high screen.

While he could go one-on-one anytime, the pick-and-roll made everything easier.

”Bang!”

Chen used the screen perfectly, shaking off Josh Howard and forcing Dampier into a switch.

It was a mismatch nightmare. Dampier was a tank—great against post players, terrible against quick guards.

Chen gave a quick fake, crossed over, and pulled up.

”Swish!”

63–62.

Dampier didn’t even have time to react. If he had, Chen would’ve blown past him. With his balance, control, and speed, there were a hundred ways to punish a slow-footed defender.

That shot made it 11 straight points for Chen Yan.

As he jogged back, he started dancing his shoulders in rhythm to the crowd’s boos, the confidence practically dripping off him.

The Suns bench burst out laughing, mimicking his little dance from the sidelines.

The camera cut to Mark Cuban, who was already on his feet.

”Hey! Kid! Put that dance away and remember whose building this is!” he yelled from courtside, pointing furiously.

Cuban’s outburst fired up the entire crowd. The American Airlines Center turned into a storm of jeers.

”Go back to Phoenix!”

”You’re trash!”

”This is Dallas, not your circus!”

”Let’s see you dance after we crush you!”

The insults poured in.

Nash jogged over and tapped Chen on the arm. ”Don’t let it get to you. Ignore the noise.”

Chen grinned. ”Get to me? I love this. Makes me want to torch them even more.”

That was Chen—born to thrive in chaos. To him, pressure wasn’t the crowd shouting; it was the thrill of silencing them.

Nash laughed and shook his head. ”You’re insane.”

The next Mavericks possession, Nowitzki caught the ball off a Kidd pass and turned to rise for another fadeaway.

Before he could release it, a flash of orange blurred across his vision.

”Snap!”

Chen Yan darted from the blind side and stripped the ball clean.

Nowitzki froze. ”What—?”

”Foul! That’s a foul!” Mark Cuban screamed, standing halfway onto the court.

But the refs didn’t blow the whistle.

Chen was already gone, sprinting down the court.

Ray Allen and Josh Howard tried to give chase but quickly realized it was pointless.

Kidd didn’t even try. ”Man, I’m 35. I’m not chasing that kid,” he muttered.

Chen finished the play with a smooth layup off the glass.

63–64. Suns lead.

The arena erupted again, this time in anger.

Cuban was still yelling at the officials. ”How is that not a foul? Are you blind?”

The referee waved him off. ”Sit down, Mark. That’s enough.”

But Cuban kept going, his face red, voice rising. His frustration turned into a full-on tirade—every word sharper than the last.

Finally, the ref snapped.

”Beep!”

A whistle pierced through the noise.

Everyone froze.

Then confusion swept across the court.

The referee had just called a technical foul—but not on a player, not on a coach... on Mavericks assistant coach Mathis.

Mathis blinked, stunned. He had been sitting quietly on the bench, sipping water.

”Wait... what? What did I do? Is drinking water a foul now?” he asked, bewildered.

The ref refused to explain and signaled for play to continue.

The crowd murmured in disbelief, but the truth spread quickly among reporters courtside.

The technical wasn’t on Mathis. It was supposed to be on Mark Cuban.

But NBA rules didn’t allow referees to issue technical fouls to owners.

So the officials simply handed it to the nearest assistant coach instead.

Mathis stared blankly, shaking his head. ”Unbelievable...”

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