Chapter 158: Ghostly Steal, Garnett's Iron-Blooded Push-Ups
The Suns inbounded from the baseline.
Kwame Brown's disastrous free throws hadn't broken the Lakers' will. Kobe clapped his hands, barking at his teammates to stay locked in.
1:07 left. The Lakers trailed by just three. One stop, and they still had life.
The Suns probed but couldn't crack the Lakers' tight zone. Stoudemire, rushing, pulled up from mid-range—off the mark.
Kwame Brown snagged the rebound. For a split second he fumbled it, nearly dribbling it off his knee, but he recovered before disaster struck. Kobe and Phil Jackson both froze on the sideline, terrified for that heartbeat of chaos.
Now the ball was in Kobe's hands. He crossed half court deliberately, the clock and the crowd both pounding in his head.
It was the final minute, the atmosphere molten. Everyone in the arena knew the ball would live and die with him.
"DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE!"
The Phoenix crowd roared, the entire arena on its feet, trying to suffocate the Lakers with noise.
Kobe lowered his stance, pounding the ball at the top of the arc. Fisher spaced to the corner, ready to spot up. The rest of the Lakers cleared out.
Kwame Brown shuffled away from the paint, almost hiding in the corner. He wanted no part of this possession. He knew if Chen Yan or Stoudemire fouled him again, the free throws would be his—and nobody trusted that outcome. Not even him.
Kobe let the clock drip down. Nine seconds left on the shot clock. Garnett flashed to the high post, setting a screen. Raja Bell angled himself to fight through.
But instead of taking the pick, Kobe zipped the ball into Garnett's hands and cut hard—without the ball.
It was sudden. Simple. Brutal. A misdirection that caught Bell leaning the wrong way.
Kobe knifed toward the paint, Garnett cocked back and fired a bullet pass, the timing perfect—until it wasn't.
Like a shadow, Chen Yan appeared.
He darted across the lane, stretched, and snatched the ball out of mid-air.
A ghostly steal.
Kobe's connection with Garnett—so flawless all night—had been shattered at the worst possible moment.
"OH MY GOD! What a steal! What a clutch steal!" Barkley shouted in the TNT booth, nearly falling out of his chair.
Kenny Smith slapped the desk. "That's championship-level defense! You don't just win games with scoring—you win with plays like that!"
Chen Yan staggered a step after corralling the ball, then slowed it down. No rush. No wild fast break. He crossed half court at a steady, measured pace.
"That's the right call," Kenny added, his voice steady now. "You've got under a minute left, up three—you bleed the clock and make them chase you. The Lakers are the ones under pressure."
Chen Yan stood at the top of the key, dribbling with calm precision. The clock was ticking, the pressure mounting.
Stoudemire stepped up to the high post to set a screen, mirroring the Lakers' last possession. But Chen Yan wasn't about to give the ball up now. Not in this moment. This was his time.
Stoudemire braced himself, acting like a wall to nudge Kobe off track. Garnett switched onto Chen Yan immediately, eyes blazing. The turnover from the last play was still burning inside him. That botched pass had nearly cost the Lakers the game, and he wasn't going to let Chen Yan walk through him so easily.
For once, Garnett kept his mouth shut. No trash talk. Just silence and grit. He was gassed, his legs heavy after playing nearly the entire second half, but his pride wouldn't let him back down.
"Come on," Garnett muttered under his breath, crouching low, arms spread.
Chen Yan studied him, reading every twitch, every fraction of hesitation. He could sense the fatigue, the slight delay in Garnett's reactions.
Just beyond the three-point line, Chen Yan unleashed a blur of crossovers. Garnett tried to mirror him, sliding step for step, but every shuffle felt heavier, slower.
Then—bang.
Chen Yan hit him with a perfect change of direction, attacking Garnett's front foot. Garnett lunged, his balance betrayed him, and the seven-footer toppled to the hardwood.
The arena gasped.
Flat on his chest, Garnett immediately dropped into push-ups, trying to mask the embarrassment with defiance, as if it were intentional. The crowd erupted in equal parts laughter and awe.
Chen Yan didn't flinch. He burst into the paint, froze Kwame Brown with a fake pass, and slipped in a smooth layup off the glass.
Two more points. Forty-eight on the night.
The scoreboard lit up: 117–112. The Suns had pushed the lead to five with just 32 seconds left.
The fans lost it.
"That move just broke Garnett's ankles into next week!"
"He hit the floor, then turned it into push-ups. Unreal!"
"Chen Yan just made the Wolf King look like a meme!"
On the sideline, Phil Jackson stood up, his voice sharp as he signaled.
"Timeout!"
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