Chapter 292: Fighting Through Cramps, The King Returns With A Three Pointer
The score was still razor close when the 4th quarter began.
Every possession felt like it came with a weight vest. In this kind of heat, neither team could really play clean basketball.
For the Spurs, this off the court wrinkle was a double edged move. Their average age was higher than Phoenix. They carried more miles, more veteran legs.
But they still held a slight edge. This was their building, their routines, their equipment. Their bench had ready access to ice buckets, fans, and constant cooling, while the Suns were fighting the environment as much as the opponent.
On the floor, the heat pressed down. In the stands, it was worse.
Fans had given up on just fanning themselves. Cups of ice, Coke, and beer were going straight over heads and down shirts.
For older NBA fans, the scene brought back memories of the 1984 Finals. Game 5, Lakers versus Celtics, Boston Garden turned into a furnace when Red Auerbach ordered the air conditioning shut off. The temperature climbed to 38 degrees Celsius, and the Celtics rode that brutal home advantage to a critical win and eventually the championship.
Tonight, Popovich's situation felt like a modern echo of that old move.
By the middle of the 4th, everyone's conditioning was being pushed to the limit.
Chen Yan's jersey, which he had just changed at the break, was already plastered to his skin, soaked through.
Popovich saw him fading. He started rotating fresh bodies at him on defense, not necessarily to shut him down, but to keep leaning on him, bump after bump, possession after possession.
The goal was simple. Not to stop his scoring outright, but to drain his energy.
Popovich understood the math. On this night, Chen was the Suns' only dependable source of offense.
Outside of a 3 and a half minute rest in the 1st quarter, Chen Yan had played every second.
In the 2nd half, almost every action ran through him. He had to bring the ball up, create, and finish. Even with his conditioning, the tank was starting to empty.
The clock bled down to the final 2 minutes and 7 seconds.
Suns ball.
Nash used a screen and tried to turn the corner, but his legs were heavy. He barely gained a step, then shoveled the ball out.
Raja Bell caught it and fired a three from a tough angle.
Bang.
Another miss.
His shot summed up Phoenix's perimeter disaster.
Outside of Chen Yan, the Suns' guards and wings had combined to shoot just 3 for 15 from deep, a brutal number in a playoff game.
Fortunately, Boris Diaw crashed in and grabbed the offensive rebound. Without even fully securing the ball, he snapped it back toward the middle, his peripheral vision picking up Chen cutting from the weak side.
Even running on low energy, Diaw's creativity stayed sharp.
Chen caught and went straight to the rack.
Duncan and Michael Finley converged, dragging him down in mid drive.
The Spurs were not even trying to contest clean at that point. They understood that sending Chen to the line was better than giving up an easy finish and all the momentum that came with it.
Chen hit the floor hard. Suns teammates rushed in and pulled him up, but as soon as he stood, something was clearly wrong. He limped toward the free throw line, his steps uneven.
Swish.
Swish.
2 cold free throws, nothing but net, and the game was tied at 75.
Then Chen immediately signaled toward the bench for a sub.
The heat, the dehydration, and the nonstop workload had finally caught up. His thigh seized in a full cramp.
D'Antoni moved quickly, sending Grant Hill to replace him. On the other side, Popovich checked Bowen back in, the same Bowen who had been hacked repeatedly earlier.
Under NBA rules, fouls away from the ball in the final 2 minutes result in 2 free throws and possession, so Popovich no longer had to worry about "hit Bowen" tactics at that stage.
Supported by an assistant coach, Chen Yan hobbled to the sideline. He did not wave for help, did not ask anyone to carry him, did not disappear down the tunnel.
All he could think about was getting back out there.
He knew the Suns needed him.
On the bench, he kept urging the team doctor to work on his hamstring, digging fingers into the tight muscle, trying to force it to loosen.
Popovich watched from across the floor, his expression calm, his thoughts anything but.
This was exactly what he wanted.
…
The game rolled on.
Popovich signaled for Tim Duncan in the next halfcourt set. The ball went inside.
Duncan caught, turned, and tried to go to work. Even his footwork, usually so smooth, had slowed under the heat.
Still, he was Tim Duncan. He spun, created contact, and drew a foul on Amar'e Stoudemire.
At the line, in a crucial moment, Duncan sank both.
77 to 75.
Chen watched from the sideline, nerves burning. There is no worse feeling for a competitor than watching a close playoff game play out without you.
On the next Suns possession, Stoudemire tried to attack the rim and Duncan met him there, smothering the shot with one massive palm. That was a Hall of Fame power forward reminding everyone who he was.
When he landed, Duncan was gasping, his chest heaving. His body was right at the edge.
For the next stretch, neither side could score from the field. The only points came from Spurs free throws in the paint.
Slowly, methodically, San Antonio nudged the lead out.
With 39 seconds left, the scoreboard read 82 to 78.
Then play stopped on a dead ball.
On television, fans from all over the world suddenly roared.
Chen Yan was back on his feet at the scorer's table.
D'Antoni signaled for the substitution, and Chen checked back in.
Even walking onto the floor, you could see the leftover stiffness in his steps. The cramp had not fully released, but he also knew that if he did not play now, there would be no more chances to play later.
Suns ball.
"Defense."
"Defense."
The ATT Center thundered with the chant.
Chen took the inbound and immediately attacked, driving into the teeth of the defense.
D'Antoni's play call was for a quick 2.
But the Spurs recovered fast. Duncan planted himself in the lane, using what remained of his strength to wall off the drive.
Chen did not force a bad layup. He kicked the ball out to the perimeter.
Raja Bell caught it with space, but he hesitated.
He had been ice cold all night and did not trust his shot with the season swinging on one release.
He held it for a beat, scanning, and in that instant Chen spun back out.
They executed a quick handoff, and Chen turned, rose, and fired in one motion.
Bowen, trailing just behind, never saw it coming.
Chen did not even bother to find the rim with his eyes. It was a pure feel shot.
It was also a gamble.
If they ran more clock and settled for a later look, even a make would leave them in a desperate position. This was the one window to flip the game.
Everyone in the arena followed the flight of the ball.
If it missed, the Suns were essentially done. If it dropped, everything stayed alive.
The ball cut through the hot air above the ATT Center and dropped toward the cylinder.
Swish.
82 to 81.
The Suns bench exploded, players spilling onto their feet, fists pumping.
In the TNT studio, Charles Barkley could barely stay in his seat.
"You want to know what a big heart looks like?" Chuck shouted. "That is it right there. That is a big time player."
Kenny Smith nodded beside him.
"The three point king shows up when it matters," Kenny said. "On a night when nothing else is falling for Phoenix, he still finds a way to give them a chance."
The numbers around him told the story. Nash was 2 for 9. Stoudemire was 3 for 10. Diaw was 2 for 6. Raja Bell was 1 for 6.
Even so, through cramps, heat, and exhaustion, Chen Yan had dragged the Suns all the way to the final 30 seconds on sheer individual will.
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