Without Bogut, the Bucks lost a fierce enforcer in the paint—every bit as painful.
Still,
their overall firepower is superior.
And the Knicks just lost Curry and David Lee—essentially their second and third options.
That's a massive hit.
Playing at home, the Bucks still hold a slight edge.
Nine minutes left.
If they grind it out, five points is a gap they can close.
For the Knicks, win or lose, the X-factor is Su Yan alone.
Then of course—they have to win.
8:11.
Su Yan hunts down Jennings: no talk, just ball, a human tank.
Bull-dozing.
Jennings tries to stop him—can't.
Every bump feels like ribs about to shatter.
What the hell—how can a face that pretty pack that much power? Isn't that cheating?!
Jennings' scalp tingles.
He stumbles back; Su Yan storms the rim—no Bogut lurking, Tyson screening.
Swish!
Layup good.
7:24.
Su Yan loses Fernández without the ball, catches up top left, meets Salmons.
Bang!
Power unleashed, no savings.
Time to close the game and the offense is basically all on him.
So hold nothing back.
Go savage—one ferocious burst to bury Milwaukee.
Thud!
Brutal collision.
Salmons, sturdy as he is, can't anchor—backpedals like Jennings.
Su Yan steps back behind the arc.
Rises for three.
Quick flick, net rip.
Swish!
Holy—
That's Su Yan's ninth triple of the night; he's up to 38 with over half a quarter left!
Does this mean… he might drop 50, pass Jennings and become the youngest 50-point man ever?!
The words barely leave the mouth—
the arena erupts; Bucks fans refuse to believe it, yet panic flickers in every eye.
Su Yan—stone-cold killer.
With Andrew gone, Su Yan found a new door to the rim—again and again!
And—again!
Batum can't slow him; Su Yan sky-high, finishes through contact.
No finesse.
Pure brute force.
But that's skill too—40 points!
Oh my—he barrels in, dumps Batum, flips Jennings.
Absolute violence!
Tyson Chandler clears the lane; Su Yan finishes easy.
Andrew played dirty, hurt a Knick, hurt Su Yan's brother—now Su Yan takes it out on Andrew's teammates.
Jon Barry roars on the call.
Su Yan's wrecking-ball drives are pure adrenaline for the crowd—sheer ecstasy!
For the Bucks, though—pure agony.
It hurts—so damn much!
Bright side: they've slowed him a bit and scored themselves; the gap hasn't grown.
Still five.
Four minutes left.
A quick 6-0 burst by either side flips the script.
Salmons up top right, isolates Wilson Chandler, reads the D.
Whoosh—
he explodes, one bump, spin, pump-fake—Wilson leaves his feet.
Damn it!
Wilson curses mid-air.
But unlike Bogut, he doesn't yank Salmons' arm on the way down.
He accepts the foul—
no dirty play.
Salmons waits, rises, cans the 15-footer.
Team's go-to scorer delivers—bleeding stopped.
Three-point game.
One possession, and against a shorthanded Knicks squad, Bucks still hold the edge.
Ball swings the other way.
Larry Hughes pushes, hands off to Su Yan top of the key, darts right.
Salmons switches up.
Su Yan barely glances—faster drive, another brutal crash coming.
Again?!
Salmons' scalp prickles; chest aches before contact.
He's cracking, starting to fear the collision, but has no choice.
While setting his stance he half-yells, "Su Yan, you're a three-point sniper—
let it fly from deep.
You're the face of elegance—why keep smashing like this?!"
???
I'd love to.
But you beg me to shoot while glued to my hip—
how am I supposed to?!
Two-faced much?
Su Yan flashes an innocent yet chilling grin: "Elegance is an act—big bro's a straight-up freak!!!"
Words drop—
contact lands.
Salmons tries to stop, can't.
He sinks; Su Yan steps back, no look, no rim-check, no adjust—zero elegance.
All freak.
Rises for three.
Comet-white net-snapper—arrow to the heart!
Tenth triple of the night—Su Yan's at 45!!!
Su Yan: 45.
Jennings: stuck on 13, shooting a disaster.
Thud!
Jennings catches on the wing; Su Yan presses—his mind blanks, panic plain on his face.
'This monster's beyond me…'
The thought loops; Jennings freezes.
But Su Yan, bent on sealing the win for Curry and David Lee,
gives no reprieve.
He lunges—quick, precise swipe—rips the ball away.
Coast-to-coast break.
Salmons sprints to chase, groaning inside.
Come on—
why me again? Another one-on-one means another collision!
I can't take it.
My chest—feels cracked.
Coach, sub me out.
Mom, take me home.
Salmons is still running but already wearing the mask of pain, bracing for impact.
It's brutal.
No choice—arrow nocked, must fly.
They sprint side-by-side, reach the rim together; Su Yan can't yet rise and dunk through contact.
But the bump?
Child's play.
Bang!
Just as Salmons feared, Su Yan's iron frame smashes into him.
Even at full brace he's a moth to a windshield.
Su Yan knocks him off, easy layup.
47 points.
Personal 5-0 run—eight-point lea
d, game all but iced!
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn luffy1898