Roares locked in defensively on every possession from that point on, and Stanley was glued to Axton like industrial-strength duct tape.
Relentless pressure, perfect positioning, and a motor that just wouldn't die—he smothered Axton with a kind of physicality that bordered on reckless. He fought through screens, denied every passing lane, and never let Axton get comfortable. Sometimes it looked more like a wrestling match than basketball, but the refs—maybe swayed by the home crowd—kept their whistles silent.
Axton wasn't handling it well.
He started barking at the refs, throwing his arms up in frustration. The usual smooth rhythm of his game—gone. The effortless swing passes, the precise footwork in the post, the soft floaters? Replaced by turnovers and visible disbelief.
