Chapter 365: Sweeping the Title, the League Just Changed
The 4th quarter opened with Phoenix going to the bench.
Cleveland, surprisingly, kept its starters on the floor, everyone except Shaquille O'Neal.
By Game 4, Mike Brown had effectively abandoned the Shaq and King experiment. It looked good on a promotional poster, but it never truly worked on the court. O'Neal's decline was obvious, he could not create space for LeBron, and in Phoenix's pace, his stamina became a problem every time the game sped up.
LeBron came out attacking anyway.
He powered to the rim for 2, then on the next trip he rose into a pull up jumper after a screen and knocked it down. The deficit shrank, still huge, but no longer comfortable.
He was playing for the fans, yes, but even more for his name. Getting swept in the Finals 2 years in a row would follow him forever, and LeBron cared about legacy as much as anyone alive.
Chen Yan saw the intent immediately.
He tossed his towel aside and asked to check in.
D'Antoni did not hesitate. At the next dead ball, Chen Yan, Stoudemire, Diaw, and Raja Bell all returned. Steve Nash stayed seated, his back had tightened again, and the plan was to buy him more rest.
J. Barea was running point.
Chen Yan needed exactly 1 touch to remind Cleveland what this game really was.
He caught the ball, rose into a pull up with no extra motion, and drilled it clean.
Swish.
"Instant offense," the broadcast said. "That is the mark of a star. He steps in and the temperature changes."
On the very next possession, Chen Yan made the adjustment that mattered. With Nash off the floor, he had to organize more, not just score.
He delivered a sharp pass, Barea caught it and fired from deep without thinking.
Swish.
Phoenix's lead climbed back past 20 like it never left.
Cleveland tried to answer, but their execution collapsed. A pass between Gibson and LeBron turned into a turnover, and Chen Yan picked it off with quick hands.
LeBron sprinted back, hunting one of his signature chase down blocks.
Chen Yan drove alone into the paint, sensed him closing, and stopped abruptly. LeBron had to brake to avoid crashing into him.
Then Chen Yan exploded again, a second burst of speed, up off 1 foot, and he laid it in before LeBron could reload.
That change of pace ruined the block attempt like it was never real.
LeBron had chased him all series, and still had not gotten one.
Cleveland's next possession ended the same way, another turnover. Their shoulders were already drooping. The fight was leaving the building even if the fans were still in their seats.
This time it was Barea who stole it and sprinted the other way. He did not have Nash's calm orchestration, but he had a kind of energy Nash could not manufacture, especially with that back.
Barea pushed past midcourt and found Chen Yan in stride.
Open floor. Open look.
Chen Yan caught, rose, and launched a transition 3.
Swish.
Some Cavaliers fans shut their eyes like it could hurt less if they did not watch.
The lead was creeping toward 30.
LeBron finally tried to stop the bleeding himself. After a switch, he posted up Barea, hunting the easy mismatch.
Instead, he found embarrassment.
His post game was still crude at this stage of his career. He backed Barea down once, then again, and the 1.77 meter guard did not move.
On the third bump, LeBron tried to force it, and his shoulder clipped Barea's chin.
The whistles came fast.
The official signaled offensive foul.
LeBron shook his head and jogged back without arguing. He knew the truth. The call did not matter, the outcome did.
Barea stayed on the floor for a moment, pumping his fists like he had just won a personal championship. Drawing an offensive foul on LeBron in the NBA Finals was a story he could tell for the rest of his life.
Chen Yan and Stoudemire pulled him up.
Phoenix inbounded.
Chen Yan brought it up himself, dribbling past half court with the ease of a man walking into his own house.
Then he crossed the logo.
2 steps behind it, he rose and fired anyway.
The lead was so large that his confidence turned into playfulness, and his shot selection turned into pure audacity. By any strict definition, it was nearly a half court attempt.
"Oh my goodness," the broadcast said. "He shot it. That is fearless."
The ball arced high, clean, and perfect.
Swish.
Quicken Loans Arena went dead silent.
Phoenix's bench erupted like the roof had been ripped off. Chen Yan turned toward them and hit his signature shoulder shimmy, dancing with the kind of joy that only comes when the game is already over, but the moment is still alive.
It was not taunting. It was not cruelty.
It was celebration.
The gap climbed past 30.
Chen Yan was not just winning a championship, he was announcing something bigger.
The old era, the bloody wrestling matches in the paint, the grind it out wars where every possession felt like an elbow to the ribs, it was not gone, but it was no longer the only way.
This was the era of spacing, speed, and 3s that landed like missiles.
Superstars never change.
But the league does.
Cleveland called timeout. When they returned, Brown pulled his starters and officially waved the white flag.
Garbage time.
Some fans headed for the exits, unable to watch the last minutes. Others stayed and kept clapping, not for the score, but for the jersey. Those were the loyal ones, the kind that suffer with the team instead of disappearing.
Nash remained stretched out near the signage, intending to rest for a few minutes, and somehow ending up there until the end.
During the lull, the broadcast booth was laughing.
"I've been around a long time," Barkley said, "and I don't know if I've ever seen somebody win a championship while dancing."
Kenny chuckled. "Charles, if you had a shooter like Chen back then, do you think you beat Michael?"
Barkley's voice perked up instantly. "If I had Chen next to me, I'd be the one flashing rings in Michael's face right now."
Kenny laughed, letting Barkley enjoy the fantasy as the clock kept falling.
Phoenix's bench did not ease up. They kept scoring, stretching the lead just to make sure there was no confusion about what this series had been.
LeBron sat with a towel over his head, staring into nothing.
With 20 seconds left, every player on the Suns bench stood.
They were about to witness history.
The buzzer sounded.
119 to 83.
Phoenix swept Cleveland, 4 to 0, and won the first championship in franchise history.
For the Suns, it was a title.
For the league, it felt like a signpost.
Phoenix did not win by surviving in the mud. They won by sprinting, shooting, and attacking in waves, proving that an offense built on pace and 3s could lift the Larry O'Brien Trophy.
On the other side, LeBron earned another Finals runner up finish, his second straight, and the weight of it showed even through the towel.
What it would do to his future, nobody could say.
But one thing was already clear.
Times had changed.
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