NBA: Basketball Legend.

Chapter 322: Chapter 322: World Famous Painting, Old Fish Turns into Grilled Fish

Chapter 322: World Famous Painting, Old Fish Turns into Grilled Fish

”Beautiful!”

Stoudemire charged straight at Chen Yan and slapped his hand with a loud high five. The lob had been perfect, soft, simple, and brutal, the kind of pass Amar e loved most. Give him a clear runway and he would try to tear the rim off the backboard.

Los Angeles came right back.

The triangle set up again.

Garnett caught it at the high post. He did not shoot. His touch was not great tonight anyway, every point he had came from inside. Instead, he held the ball high and watched bodies move, reading the floor like a quarterback.

Posey cut hard.

Garnett hit him on time.

Chen Yan lost his man on that action. As the second quarter started, he had leaned a little more toward offense, a conscious choice, and the Lakers tried to punish it immediately.

Posey thought the layup was automatic.

Then Stoudemire exploded in from the wing.

Bang.

A thunderclap block that sent the ball screaming into the stands.

”Good play,” Chen Yan said, then patted Stoudemire on the butt as they turned to get set. He could feel it tonight, the hunger in his teammates. If they were going to steal one in Los Angeles, it would have to start with that kind of violence.

On the sideline, D Antoni clapped hard. Energy came first. Everything else followed.

Because the ball went out of bounds, the Lakers kept possession.

Posey inbounded.

Kobe curled off a screen, changed pace into the corner, caught, and fired in one motion.

Clang.

Airball.

Raja Bell had been perfect on the closeout, chest square, hand up, no bailout lane.

Nash tracked down the long rebound.

He turned to push, saw daylight, and then ran straight into Garnett.

Beep, beep.

Blocking foul.

Garnett did not argue. It was intentional, a tactical foul to kill the break. In the playoffs, everyone hunted what you do best, and Phoenix’s transition game had already been squeezed. Not because the Suns were worse, but because opponents were willing to foul, bump, and sacrifice a whistle just to keep them out of open court rhythm.

Phoenix took it out and reset.

Crossing half court, Nash swung it to Chen Yan.

Chen Yan palmed it with 1 hand, casual and clean, like the ball belonged to him on principle.

Posey crouched low in front, eyes locked, trying to read the next move.

Chen Yan lifted his hand and called for a screen.

Nash, the point guard, sprinted over.

The arena laughed.

”Nash setting a screen?”

”What is this, a prank?”

”He usually runs the pick and roll as the ball handler, I have never seen him do the dirty work like that.”

The goal was obvious, force the switch.

Nash’s screen, however, was a little rusty. He missed Posey on the first attempt, looped back, and tried again.

It worked.

Switch.

Now Fisher was in front of Chen Yan again.

Old Fish, called out by name.

This time Fisher backed off, giving Chen Yan a step and a half, determined not to get blown by in 1 move again. If Chen Yan hit a deep 3, fine. He would live with it.

Chen Yan did not shoot.

A shot needs rhythm. Not every open look is a good look.

He dribbled with his right, reset his feet, then snapped forward with a sudden burst.

His acceleration was absurd. If he was a car, he was a Ferrari. Fisher was a compact sedan praying the light stayed red.

Fisher held his ground at first. Giving space had a purpose, and he felt good about it.

Then Chen Yan slammed on the brakes.

A hard stop, a between the legs pullback, sharp enough to cut the air.

Fisher’s balance betrayed him. He slipped and fell into a full split on the hardwood.

Chen Yan drifted back beyond the 3 point line, calm as a surgeon.

Before the ball even left his hands, the Suns bench was already springing up.

Chen Yan released it, then turned his head and pointed at his teammates like he was calling his shot in a home run derby.

A true man does not look back at the explosion.

Swish.

The shot fell clean, like it had been guided.

44 to 40.

”HOLY, that was cold!”

”Chen Yan is showing off again!”

”Old Fish is stretched so wide I felt it through the screen.”

”Ankle collector.”

”He celebrated before it went in, and he has done it all season.”

”That is shooter confidence.”

”This is exactly why I watch him.”

The Staples Center went quieter for a moment.

This was Los Angeles, so there would be no replay on the big screen, no slow motion humiliation. But the Suns bench did not need help.

They were already reenacting Fisher’s fall, dropping into splits on the sideline like it was a team dance.

Los Angeles brought it up.

Fisher dribbled across half court, face steady. For all the jokes, he had been in too many wars for his mind to crack off 1 embarrassment.

At the right wing, Kobe stepped up to receive it.

Fisher delivered.

Raja Bell shaded high, conceding the baseline on purpose.

Kobe attacked the baseline immediately.

Phoenix’s defense collapsed like a trap snapping shut. This was the look they wanted, 2 bodies closing, the baseline cutting off escape, no space to rise into a jumper.

It should have been a dead possession.

But Kobe lived in dead possessions.

He planted, launched out of bounds, and while floating beyond the line, whipped the ball back into play.

The pass was perfect.

Fisher was waiting outside.

Catch and shoot.

Swish.

44 to 43.

Staples erupted again.

Kobe had said it before, Fisher was his favorite teammate. He trusted him. He would find him.

And that trust mattered, because Fisher’s value on offense often depended on the space Kobe created. Without Kobe, Fisher probably was not starting. Defensively, he was a target, and everyone knew it.

Fisher jogged back, feeling like he had regained some dignity.

Then the nightmare returned.

Chen Yan waved his hand again, like a teacher taking attendance.

And once more, he called Fisher’s name.

Bang. Bang.

Chen Yan dribbled in rhythm, turning the ball into a metronome. Fisher moved like a puppet, center of gravity yanked left and right by every change of pace.

Slow drags first, almost sleepy.

Fisher settled.

Then Chen Yan sped the dribble up, dropped his hips, lowered the bounce, and changed levels.

Fisher reached.

Chen Yan was already gone.

Another blow by.

Fisher lunged, missed, and because his weight had tilted forward, he collapsed again, dropping to 1 knee, the last stubborn pose of a veteran refusing to fully fall apart.

The Suns bench exploded.

Shaking the same man twice in back to back possessions was not just a mismatch.

It was a public execution.

And in the Western Conference Finals, you almost never saw it.

Chen Yan sliced into the heart of the Lakers defense.

Garnett rotated over fast.

Body contact.

Chen Yan spun, smooth and wide, not Tony Parker quick, but bigger, more violent through the turn. The push off after the spin carried extra explosion.

Garnett slid with him, ready to contest.

Chen Yan shielded the ball with his left, extended with his right, and finished with control.

Garnett’s hand missed by a hair.

The ball kissed the glass, rolled the rim, and dropped.

46 to 43.

As it fell, the taunts came pouring in from everywhere.

”Beautiful handle, beautiful finish.”

”I cannot believe Fisher got cooked again.”

”Old Fish is a man of principles, he does not get crossed twice in the same spot.”

”Not only that, the 2 falls were different, like he planned the choreography.”

”Hahaha, Chen Yan just turned Old Fish into grilled fish.”

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