Chapter 273: D Antoni is at a loss for words and everyone is praising him
The box score told the story, and somehow still did not feel loud enough for what the arena had just witnessed.
Phoenix
Chen Yan finished with 55 points, 8 assists, 7 rebounds, 2 blocks, 1 steal, and 3 turnovers.
Stoudemire added 20 points and 12 rebounds.
Nash had 10 points and 11 assists.
Grant Hill chipped in 11 points.
Azubuike gave them 8 points and 4 boards.
San Antonio
Parker posted 21 points and 9 assists.
Ginobili had 20 points.
Duncan put up 19 points, 14 rebounds, and 3 blocks.
Finley scored 10.
Oberto had 10 points and 7 rebounds.
Bowen added 9 points with 5 rebounds.
The Spurs' core trio still did what they always did, steady, efficient, and painfully consistent, combining for 60 points. On almost any other night that would be enough to control a game.
Tonight was not any other night.
Chen Yan not only smashed the playoff single game three point record, he became the youngest player ever to reach 50 in a postseason game. The numbers were historic, and the way he got them felt even bigger.
Headlines flooded in before the locker room doors had even cooled down.
"The rim was an ocean tonight, Chen Yan could not miss."
"Another record, the most dangerous rookie the playoffs have seen."
Chen Yan read a few of them with a faint smile. "Wins and records," he said, voice calm, "I'll take both."
Eleven threes. Fifty five points. From deep range to the paint, his shots tore through San Antonio's defense like a storm front. It was the kind of performance that makes an entire league recheck its assumptions.
San Antonio, meanwhile, looked like San Antonio. Their offense was cleaner overall, their rotations smoother, their plan more coherent. The difference was simple.
Phoenix had Chen Yan.
Last year, the Spurs were the Spurs and the Suns were a team that could be solved with patience. Now the Spurs were still the Spurs, but the Suns were something else entirely.
As the players walked through the tunnel, the crowd was still roaring.
"Yeah!"
"Great job!"
"Keep smashing them!"
"Rest up and take Game 2!"
Phoenix fans were floating. Beating the Spurs in Game 1 already felt good. Beating them while watching a rookie set records felt like two holidays landing on the same day.
As Chen Yan headed inside, the system voice chimed in his head.
"Congratulations on winning a playoff game. 6 Honor Points awarded."
"Congratulations on breaking the playoff single game three point record. 15 Honor Points awarded."
"Congratulations on becoming the youngest player to score 50 in the playoffs. 25 Honor Points awarded."
Forty six Honor Points in one night.
Chen Yan nearly laughed. The 25 points he had spent on a Status Boost Card before tipoff came right back double. Winning while stacking rewards felt almost unfair, and he was not about to pretend he disliked it.
Before disappearing into the tunnel, he peeled off the towel around his shoulders and tossed it into the lower bowl. He loved that little ritual, giving the fans something to take home besides the memory.
A blond woman snagged it in a scramble. On the broadcast, the camera found her a second later. She hugged the towel like a trophy, then, completely unbothered by the nationwide audience, pressed it to her face and took two dramatic breaths like it was holy incense.
Then she started crying.
Her boyfriend looked at her, looked at the towel, and immediately took two deep breaths himself.
The moment went viral in seconds, half hilarious, half ridiculous, and totally on brand for how Phoenix treated Chen Yan now. The city was in love.
…
Popovich stepped to the mic first, blunt as ever.
"We were good on both ends," he said, "but they had an X factor. His presence blew up my plan."
Nobody needed clarification on who he meant.
Ginobili, asked about the record barrage, shook his head with a tired grin. "He was pulling from 27 feet all night, and he kept hitting them. That kind of shot making is maddening."
A reporter asked how they would slow Chen Yan in Game 2.
Popovich paused, eyes flat. "We will watch the film. Then we will come back with a clearer head."
San Antonio did not look rattled. Chen Yan's explosion stunned them, but it did not break them. That team had been through too many wars to panic after one loss.
Across the hall, Phoenix's press conference was in full swing. Chen Yan took the center seat, the clear face of the night.
"Was this win what you expected?" a reporter asked.
Chen Yan nodded. "The score says 12 points, but the game was tighter than that. We had to grind for every stop, every run. Getting Game 1 matters a lot in this series."
Another reporter leaned in. "Fans have been calling you the Death God because you keep closing games late. You like the nickname?"
Chen Yan smiled. "If the fans like it, I like it."
"Why so many deep threes tonight?" someone asked.
"I did not think about distance," Chen Yan said, like he was describing a warmup. "If it felt right, I took it."
The room laughed softly, half amused, half amazed.
They turned to Mike D Antoni.
"Is the ultra deep three a secret weapon for you guys?" a reporter asked.
D Antoni gave a helpless little shrug, mustache twitching. "Honestly, I am as surprised as you are. I have never coached a guy who makes those shots look that normal."
"Are you going to limit his range next game?"
D Antoni asked back, "How many threes did he make tonight?"
"Eleven. New playoff record."
D Antoni opened his hands. "Then why would I limit that?"
Everybody in the room grinned. That was D Antoni. Freedom, pace, and whatever puts the ball through the rim. If it works, he lets it breathe.
They swung to Nash.
"Steve, Chen is the youngest 50 point scorer in playoff history now. Thoughts?"
Nash deadpanned. "My job was to pass him the ball."
The press burst out laughing.
Chen Yan shook his head modestly. "Steve is the engine. He is the reason our offense runs. Without him, I do not get those chances."
It was not empty humility. Nash's shooting gravity mattered too. He had taken 4.7 threes per game this season and hit 47 percent. You could not ignore him for even a second, and that spacing was oxygen for Chen Yan's attacks.
About half an hour later, the legends started weighing in.
Reggie Miller: "Eleven threes. That is special. You are watching a great shooter grow up right in front of you."
Dell Curry: "The way he stretches the floor changes what you think is possible."
Isiah Thomas: "Most elite shooters live on the line. He was two steps behind it and still comfortable. And this was not a regular season night, this was the Western Conference semifinals."
Scottie Pippen: "One or two deep ones can be luck. Six from that distance? That is a different player."
TNT analyst Klay Thompson, never shy: "Fifty five points felt like watching Jordan. If Chen came into the league 15 years earlier, I would have teamed up with him and nobody would be talking about Jordan."
Even Larry Bird, famous for his trash talk more than praise, gave him a new label.
"Chen is a special rookie. He has had a superstar season. I am calling him a rookie superstar."
Magic Johnson posted online later that night.
"Congrats to Chen, youngest 50 point playoff scorer. Looks like a calm gentleman off the court, but he is an absolute monster on it. Do not let the smile fool you."
Maybe Chen Yan was not a classic bully type star. But the way he scored, the way his numbers arrived in waves, felt even more brutal than a bruiser.
This night belonged to him. The spotlight was not split. It was a solo beam.
One superstar praising you is nice. A bunch doing it after a big game happens all the time. But when that praise starts to feel routine, that is when you realize you are staring at something that might be greatness.
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