Chapter 153: Passionate Elbow Fight with Kobe
Chen Yan's string of big plays had the building on fire. Every dribble, every shot felt like fuel tossed onto the blaze. The Suns' fans were roaring, the bench was on their feet, and even neutral viewers were glued to the screen.
But Kobe Bryant stayed stone-faced.
No smile.
No emotion.
Just that cold, locked-in glare as he walked the ball up the floor.
Derek Fisher crossed half court and swung the ball straight to Kobe. No hand signals. No drawn-up play. The Lakers spread wide like soldiers parting for their general. Everyone knew whose possession this was.
Raja Bell crouched low, locked in. He'd battled Kobe before, and he knew what was coming. Still, defending Kobe was like trying to hold water in your hands—it always slipped through.
Kobe started rocking the ball side to side. Slow. Hypnotic. The rhythm lulled you, pulled you in.
Then—bang. A jab step.
Bell slid back half a step. Too much. That half step was all Kobe needed. He froze, pulled back, then exploded forward.
Bell lunged, desperate to recover. Too late.
Kobe was gone.
The drive was vintage Bryant. Not just speed, but artistry—change of pace, control of angles, the drop in his center of gravity. The kind of move that made even defenders admire him.
Diaw and Stoudemire rotated inside, bracing for impact. Kobe didn't hesitate. He rose, coiled like a spring, cocking the ball back for a thunderous dunk over both men.
The Lakers' bench jumped up, towels spinning, voices rising. They were already celebrating the highlight before it landed.
But the ball never went down.
Bang!
It smacked the rim with a violent crack, ricocheting into the stands. The whistle followed—foul on the contest.
Kobe grimaced, clapping his hands once in frustration. That dunk should've been his. It should've been a poster. But he swallowed it, walked calmly to the line, and buried both free throws.
48–51.
The crowd buzzed. The duel was heating up.
---
On the other end, Nash pushed the ball up and found Chen Yan near midcourt. The rookie had just nailed back-to-back threes. Nash didn't hesitate.
"Here, kid. Keep cooking."
Chen wasted no time. He attacked immediately—between the legs, shifting left, testing Kobe's front foot.
Kobe slid with him, chest squared, arms out. Their shoulders collided. Chen snapped the ball back, pulled it outside the arc, and rose up.
Kobe exploded off the floor, body cutting into him.
Beep!
The whistle pierced the noise. Three-point foul. On Kobe.
Chen hit the hardwood hard, back smacking the floor. But his eyes never left the ball.
The arc. The spin. The net.
Swish!
It dropped.
The arena detonated.
A four-point play in the making.
Chen pounded his fist into the air as Amar'e and Diaw sprinted over, pulling him up, slapping his back. The Suns' bench was chaos—towels flying, players screaming, pure euphoria.
"Are you kidding me?" Barkley howled from the TNT booth. "A step-back three, contact, and one? That's every defender's nightmare!"
Kenny Smith laughed over the noise. "Kobe read it, contested it, did everything right—and it still didn't matter. That's unguardable."
Chen walked calmly to the line, the chaos around him fading into silence. One dribble. Spin. Release.
Swish.
Four points in one trip. Ten points in his last three possessions.
The duel was fully alive now.
---
Possession after possession, it became less basketball and more war. Kobe stopped looking for teammates. Chen kept demanding the ball.
The hand-checks grew heavier. The forearms sharper. Jerseys tugged. Elbows nudged. Every cut was a fight, every screen a collision.
Chen snapped at him mid-play. "Is this all you've got? Cheap shots?"
Kobe's voice was flat, cold. "I'll show you what real basketball is, rookie."
Neither man backed down.
Each trip down the floor was another collision course. Fans weren't just watching a game anymore. They were watching pride slam into pride, ego into ego.
---
With 1:37 left before halftime, Stoudemire rose for a midrange jumper. Missed. The rebound caromed high into the lane.
Chen and Kobe both leapt.
Bang!
An elbow. Kobe's. It drilled into Chen's chest. The rookie staggered, clutching himself, lungs burning as if fire had spread across his ribs.
The refs swallowed their whistles. Play on.
Next trip, Chen fought for position inside. Kobe leaned on him. Chen snapped back, driving his own elbow into Kobe's sternum.
Another thud.
Kobe winced, teeth clenched, but he didn't retreat. If anything, his eyes burned hotter. The pain only fed him.
The crowd was half-shocked, half-thrilled. TNT's cameras zoomed in on the duel, ignoring the ball entirely. This wasn't basketball anymore—it was personal.
And still, no whistle.
Because the league knew what this was. It was Christmas, and everyone had tuned in for one reason: Chen Yan vs. Kobe Bryant.
By normal standards, both of them might have been ejected already. But this wasn't a normal game.
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