Chapter 142: Finger Dribbling and Trash Talking!
The Suns' lineup on the floor: Nash, Chen Yan, Grant Hill, Barnes, and Diaw.
It wasn't their standard starting five, but this mix of starters and bench players actually gave Phoenix even more perimeter firepower.
Across from them, the Raptors ran out TJ Ford, Anthony Parker, Paul Pierce, Bosh, and Bargnani.
Ford had sparked Toronto in the second quarter with his speed and playmaking, so coach Sam Mitchell kept him on the floor. What Mitchell ignored, though, was Ford's glaring weakness—his defense. At barely 180 cm, he was a black hole on that end of the court.
Chen Yan wasted no time teaching him a lesson.
Ford tried a lateral pass, but Chen Yan pounced, picking it clean and tearing down the court like a runaway stallion. Ford scrambled back, his blistering straight-line speed closing the gap. For a moment, the chase looked like Formula 1 cars racing side by side.
Ford fixed his eyes on the ball, waiting for the moment Chen Yan brought it up. That was his only shot—strip it before the shot.
Instead, Chen Yan slowed, leaning into him, almost baiting him. Near the arc, he swung the ball around Ford's body with one hand—showboating, teasing—and then exploded to the rim.
One-handed slam. Effortless.
The crowd roared. Online, the GIF spread within minutes.
"This looks like an adult bullying a kid."
"Ford's just getting clowned."
"That ball-around-the-body move is sick—I wanna learn it."
"Don't try it unless you've got a seven-foot wingspan. Otherwise, you're smacking skulls."
"Bro, I tried it once. Defender didn't get concussed. I almost did."
Chen Yan was just warming up.
From there, he unleashed everything—transition threes, sharp cuts, mid-range pull-ups off hesitation moves. His scoring fire never cooled. As long as Toronto didn't send a hard double, he attacked one-on-one without hesitation.
Sam Mitchell threw bodies at him—Bargnani, Ford, even Pierce. None of it mattered. Chen Yan cooked them all.
With 2:47 left in the half, he had 34 points on the board.
"Chen is tearing this defense apart," Barkley said, almost in awe. "Did he even miss tonight? I don't remember."
"Hahaha," Kenny Smith added, "Sam Mitchell better rethink his defense, unless he wants another 81-point game on his record."
On the floor, Chen Yan squared up against Pierce. It was his third straight possession targeting "The Truth." He'd scored the last two, and Pierce's pride was boiling.
The trash talk started.
"If you try to pass me again, rookie, I'll rip you apart!" Pierce barked, eyes blazing.
Chen Yan smirked. "Don't kid yourself. You're just a Chihuahua pretending to be a bulldog."
"I'll lock you up and shove your head up your own ass!" Pierce stepped in closer, using every ounce of hidden strength, knowing the refs wouldn't call much at home.
Chen Yan didn't flinch. "So what—your mouth is your defense?"
The two jawed nose-to-nose, their words lost to the broadcast but the tension so thick the fans could feel it through the screen.
With seven seconds left on the shot clock, Chen Yan went to work.
He pounded the ball between his legs, behind his back. Pierce stayed locked in, not biting. Chen Yan then shifted into a crossover, but the dribble looked sloppy—like he lost control.
Pierce lunged for the steal.
But it was bait.
The ball danced on Chen Yan's fingertips, low to the ground, like he was playing a piano. Finger dribbles, rapid, erratic, impossible to time.
Two quick beats, then Chen Yan snapped the ball the other way, sliding past Pierce, whose balance collapsed beneath him. Knees buckled.
Pierce dropped, stunned.
Chen Yan rose for a long two, clean and open.
The ball circled the rim once and dropped through.
Chen Yan glanced up at the scoreboard.
Thirty-six points.
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