Chapter 235: The Difference Between the Regular Season and the Playoffs
As Chen Yan walked back to the bench, he grinned and exchanged a high-five with Nash. Playing alongside the two-time MVP always felt natural. Just as the fans had said—Nash's return had completely unleashed Chen Yan's offensive rhythm.
After the timeout, Iverson slowly brought the ball up the court. This time, he deliberately controlled the pace. With eight seconds left on the shot clock, he motioned for his teammates to spread the floor. The key now was to execute and score to stop the Suns' momentum.
Carmelo Anthony caught the ball, leaned his shoulder into Raja Bell, and passed it out. He wasn't forcing shots—missing two early jumpers had cooled his confidence. Instead, he gave Anthony Carter a chance to reset the rhythm.
Carter rose up from deep.
Swish!
A clean three-pointer.
11–7.
The make gave the Nuggets a brief boost. Melo and Iverson slapped Carter's hand as they jogged back. That bucket was crucial—had it rimmed out, the Suns could've easily stretched the lead into double digits.
Phoenix responded immediately. Nash crossed half court and called for spacing, waving his teammates wide before handing the ball to Chen Yan.
Nash was the team's conductor, but he wasn't obsessed with ball dominance. Seeing Chen on fire, he was happy to let the rookie take control.
Chen held the ball one-handed near the free-throw line, reading the defense. Kenyon Martin locked in, focused on cutting off Chen's right side.
After a quick glance, Chen exploded left.
Anthony rotated over to help, trapping Chen along the baseline. Two defenders—one in front, one behind—compressed his space, forcing him into the corner.
It was a smart adjustment.
This was playoff basketball.
In the regular season, teams moved from opponent to opponent with little time for in-depth scouting. Everyone ran their standard systems. But in the playoffs, it was a chess match. Coaches studied every habit, every weakness.
They knew Chen Yan's tendencies: his off-hand drives weren't as fluid, and his efficiency from the short corner dipped. That was exactly where they wanted to funnel him.
The playoffs weren't about selling tickets—they were about survival.
Anthony and Martin stayed aggressive, bodying Chen and cutting off his angles.
The refs stayed silent.
After several possessions, both teams already understood how the officials were calling the game tonight: physical, no cheap fouls.
Chen staggered for a split second under pressure, boxed in by the two defenders. Then, instead of forcing a tough shot, he leapt into the air—mid-spin—and whipped the ball behind him.
The pass caught everyone off guard.
But for Chen, it wasn't improvisation; it was anticipation. He'd already mapped the floor, noting where every defender stood before he jumped.
The ball zipped straight to Diaw at the high post. Carter rotated late, trying to contest.
Diaw, calm and composed, sold a fake before flicking the ball backward without even looking.
Pure basketball artistry.
From the top of the arc, Nash caught, squared up, and released.
Behind the play, Chen turned even before the shot left Nash's hands, raising three fingers with quiet confidence.
He didn't need to watch.
Swish!
14–7.
The sound of the net rippled through the arena, followed by an eruption from the Phoenix crowd.
They weren't just cheering for Nash's precision—they were roaring for Chen's cold-blooded swagger.
Nash jogged over, chuckling as he patted Chen on the back.
The veteran was never one for theatrics; he just wanted to win. If the spotlight was on Chen, so be it. What mattered was the scoreboard.
"Beautiful play! That's how you move the ball!" Barkley shouted from the TNT booth.
Kenny Smith nodded. "Three guys who can pass, shoot, and space the floor—it's hard not to be efficient when the ball moves like that."
The Suns kept firing. Their offense looked seamless, even in half-court sets. But the Nuggets refused to break away.
Iverson attacked relentlessly in the first half of the opening quarter, slashing into the paint and drawing contact. Anthony eventually found his rhythm again, burying a series of mid-range jumpers to close the gap.
At the end of the first quarter, the scoreboard read 30–24.
Phoenix led by six.
It wasn't a blowout, but Denver's issues were clear. Their scoring came almost entirely from isolation—Iverson here, Anthony there. It lacked flow.
Talent wasn't the problem. Chemistry was.
That had been Denver's flaw all season, and as the first quarter ended, it was starting to show again.
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