TL: 200PS
Chapter 351: Parents Watch the Game and Vote O'Neal Out!
"Cleveland wants this in the half court," Mike Breen said as the camera panned over the packed building. "To really threaten Phoenix, they have to drag the tempo down, lean on LeBron's force, and use the size of their 2 bigs to grind out possessions."
Mark Jackson nodded. "That's right. You slow it down, you make it ugly, you make it physical, and you try to turn it into a wrestling match in the paint."
Jeff Van Gundy gave a dry little laugh. "And if you're Cleveland, the good news is you have size. The bad news is, asking Shaq and Big Z to run with Phoenix for 48 minutes is like asking a refrigerator to win a foot race."
Breen chuckled. "So Phoenix's formula is simple. Push pace, stretch the floor, and force those bigs to defend in space."
"Exactly," Jackson said. "If the Suns are fast, they're dangerous."
The players stepped toward midcourt. The giant Larry O'Brien logo gleamed beneath the lights. Game 1 of the 2007 to 2008 NBA Finals was seconds away.
The building was already loud, and it only got louder as the broadcast showed a middle aged couple seated in a prime spot, matching fan shirts, hands folded tight like they were trying to keep their hearts from jumping out of their chests.
The lower third graphic popped up.
Chen Yan's Father and Mother.
A lot of fans in the arena had not known who they were until that caption appeared. Then the noise rose another notch, warm and appreciative, the kind of roar that felt personal.
A few days earlier, Chen Yan had flown his parents to Phoenix. He wanted them here for this. He wanted them to see the road he'd carved and the last mountain he meant to climb.
Finals tickets were impossible for normal people. For Chen Yan's parents, the only ticket needed was their son's face.
Back on the floor, Amar'e Stoudemire and Shaquille O'Neal stood over the ball at center court.
The whistle blew.
The ball went up.
Stoudemire rose first, quicker and higher, and tapped it clean. Youth mattered, even on a jump ball.
Steve Nash collected the tip and brought it across half court. On Phoenix's very first possession, he swung it to Chen Yan.
The message was clear.
Go.
Larry Hughes squared up, shoulders low, eyes serious. Chen Yan did not hesitate.
Two sharp jab steps. A quick read. Then he attacked Hughes's lead foot, one dribble to sell the drive, and snapped into a pull up from the high post in one smooth motion.
Hughes could not contest in time.
Swish.
0 to 2.
Chen Yan opened the Finals with a clean jumper, and the crowd reacted like it had been waiting all day to exhale.
Hughes stayed expressionless. At this point in the playoffs, everyone understood what guarding Chen Yan meant. If you drew that assignment, you did not expect a quiet night. You just tried to survive it with dignity.
Cleveland came back.
Daniel Gibson crossed half court and found LeBron James. LeBron called for a screen immediately, and Zydrunas Ilgauskas stepped up.
LeBron took 1 step, and the whistle hit.
Two quick blasts.
Offensive foul. Moving screen.
LeBron spread his hands. Ilgauskas shook his head. Neither argued. The game had just started. No one wanted to spend Game 1 negotiating with the officials.
Turnover.
Phoenix went right back to work.
Nash brought it up and called for Boris Diaw at the top. The screen came, Nash turned the corner, and when Ilgauskas stayed back, Nash stopped near the left elbow and rose into a smooth mid range jumper.
Swish.
0 to 4.
Nash backpedaled, casually tucking hair behind his ear like he had not just hit a Finals shot with the calm of a man ordering coffee. The extra rest showed. His touch was clean, and his body looked lighter.
Cleveland answered with the exact kind of possession Phoenix expected.
Gibson got it to LeBron again. Another screen with Ilgauskas. Phoenix cut him off, so LeBron reset outside the arc, called for it again, and this time he turned the corner with daylight.
In the paint, LeBron drew the defense and fired a pass in mid air, switching hands as he delivered it to Shaq under the rim. LeBron was not carrying extra weight yet, so even his improvisation looked smooth, almost graceful.
Shaq caught it point blank and detonated.
Boom.
A violent dunk. The rim shook. The crowd reacted, half annoyed, half impressed. The Big Shark still had bite.
Stoudemire watched from the side. He did not contest. Not because he was passive, but because that was an automatic foul waiting to happen. A dunk from that distance was not worth donating free throws and rhythm.
Phoenix inbounded quickly. Their answer to size was speed. Their answer to power was tempo.
Nash pushed it up, then swung it to Chen Yan a step beyond the arc.
Chen Yan drifted laterally. Stoudemire set the screen, clipped Hughes just enough, then rolled hard.
Chen Yan did not feed the roll.
He slid 1 more step, saw Shaq planted in the paint with no intention of stepping out, and let it fly from deep.
Swish.
2 to 7.
Mike D'Antoni clapped hard on the sideline. Phoenix's start was not an accident. It was the plan.
Cleveland's twin tower lineup was built to own the paint. But it came with a problem that could not be hidden in a Finals.
Pick and rolls.
If you could not defend in space, Phoenix would make you pay in cash, not in theory.
Jeff Van Gundy leaned into it as the replay rolled. "This is exactly what Phoenix wants. If Shaq is not going to come out, that's a practice shot for a guy like Chen Yan."
Mark Jackson pointed at the screen. "And the worst part is, you cannot fix that with effort. That's personnel. That's math."
Breen continued as the Suns jogged back on defense. "Phoenix's staff expected Cleveland to play Big Z and Shaq together. It gives you size, but it also gives the Suns a target, because those 2 bigs have to defend after the screen."
It was not new. Even at his peak, Shaq could be forced into uncomfortable spots when the right guards kept pulling him into space.
Cleveland had tried to bring a wall into the Finals.
Phoenix planned to turn it into a door.
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