May 31st, 2011.
Day of the NBA Final.
Lin Yi stood in front of the mirror, exhaling slowly.
"I've just about mastered the gold-level basics," he murmured to himself. "Footwork, rebounding, those tough midrange shots… and the range is there now too. Plus the amethyst ankle-breaker—yeah, it's all coming together."
He tugged at the red suit jacket he'd chosen for the night. Superstition or not, maybe red would bring luck.
"Let's go."
Olsen caught him at the door, wrapping him in a hug. She has basically been lodging at his place now. Not that he minded, he loved her companionship.
Lin Yi had never been to the Finals before. He once asked Shaq what it was like.
The big man had only smiled mysteriously and said, like he was letting a kid in on a secret: "You'll know when you're there."
Now, he was there.
…
On the drive to Madison Square Garden, Jorge Bilson's young son piped up from the backseat. "Dad, what are the Finals like?"
The elder Bilson smiled, ruffling his hair. "Simple, son. You give it everything, and you make sure you don't walk away with regrets."
The kid grinned. "Then tonight it's Lin-Showtime!"
Meanwhile, in the city itself, the anticipation was feverish. At 7:30 p.m., lights across New York flicked off one by one, leaving behind a massive glowing mosaic. Aerial shots from local news captured it perfectly: a single message shining across the skyline—Come on, Knicks!
Dolan, ever the showman, had promised fans a Hot Pot Dinner after the Finals—win or lose—flying in chefs from China after hearing about Lin Yi's hot pot pact with O'Neal.
…
Madison Square Garden, New York
Reporters from across the globe jostled for position, cameras rolling. The Finals were about to begin.
..
In the Knicks' locker room, Shaq nudged Lin Yi. "Say something."
The chatter faded. Headphones came off. Every eye turned to Lin Yi.
He hesitated only a moment. "I've never been on this stage before," he admitted, "but we all know what's waiting for us. I tried to treat this like just another game… but it's not."
"The trophy's right there. Our opponents want it just as badly. But so do we. Tonight's about stepping into history. Let's go out there and take it."
The room vibrated with adrenaline. Shaq bellowed like a DJ hyping a crowd: "LEEEEEEET'S GOOOOO!"
…
Across China, classrooms full of students erupted in cheers as schools wheeled in TVs to broadcast the game live. On CCTV, Yu Jia and Su Junyang admitted they were nervous too.
In the U.S., Stern didn't even bother checking the ratings report. He knew already: tonight's Finals would shatter overseas records. Silver, standing nearby, whispered, "This is a feast."
Courtside, Stephen Curry leaned forward, eyes locked on Lin Yi warming up. "One day," he said quietly, "I'll be here too."
Yao Ming and Yi Jianlian sat a few rows behind, content to just watch the moment.
On the other side, Mavericks coach Rick Carlisle worried about Dirk. The German had been running a fever—39.6 degrees. Still, Nowitzki knelt, touched the Garden floor, and whispered with a faint smile, "Finals. I'm back."
Mark Cuban sat buried in a sea of blue-and-white Knicks fans, grinning like a kid at his first game.
On the TNT desk, Kenny Smith sighed. Barkley caught it.
"What's wrong with you, Kenny?"
Smith looked out at the crowd. "Honestly, Chuck? I feel bad no matter who loses. Both of these teams… they've got too many reasons to win."
..
The arena lights dimmed as the starting fives appeared on the big screen above the Garden.
New York Knicks:
Tyson Chandler
Lin Yi
Danilo Gallinari
Danny Green
Chauncey Billups.
Dallas Mavericks:
Emeka Okafor
Dirk Nowitzki
Shawn Marion
Monta Ellis
Jason Kidd.
From every corner of the arena, the sound of broadcasters in different languages carried over the noise—
"China Central Television…"
"ESPN…"
"TNT…"
"ABC…"
"German National TV…"
Voices layered on top of each other, proof that the world was watching.
At center court, Lin Yi and Nowitzki exchanged a glance. Dirk smacked his cheeks, trying to shake off the fever haze.
Then the whistle blew.
Game 1 of the NBA Finals was officially underway.
Lin Yi rose first, winning the tip for New York. Billups gathered the ball and pushed it forward, but Jason Kidd was already hounding him. Nearly fumbling, Billups steadied himself and slipped the ball to Lin Yi on the wing.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Each dribble echoed like a drumbeat.
He crossed once, shifted gears, and slipped past Shawn Marion. Rising strong, he finished off the glass.
Clang— The ball dropped through.
"Lin Yi opens the scoring for the Knicks!" Yu Jia's voice cracked with excitement on the broadcast.
Phones lit up all around the Garden as fans tried to capture the moment—New York's first basket in the Finals in over a decade.
0-2, Knicks.
On the other end, Dallas answered quickly. The ball swung to Nowitzki, who calmly backed down, turned, and released one of his trademark high-arching fades.
Swish.
The net barely moved. Even battling a fever, Dirk's touch was still velvet.
2–2.
And just like that, the Finals had begun.
.
Lin Yi opened Game 1 with a personal 7–0 run, forcing Dallas into an early timeout. The scoreboard read 8-13, Knicks up by five, and Madison Square Garden was shaking with chants of his name.
"Lin Yi's taken control early. He's set the tone for New York tonight," Yu Jia said, almost shouting over the Garden crowd.
…
But Carlisle hadn't called a timeout just because Lin Yi was rolling. The Mavericks' scouts had already concluded it would be nearly impossible to contain him straight up. They planned to hit him with a version of the Jordan Rules, crowding, trapping, and rotating bodies at every touch.
This stoppage was about Nowitzki. Dirk looked a step slower on defense, and Carlisle knew why—he was playing with a high fever.
"Dirk," Carlisle leaned in quietly, "this series isn't just one night."
He hoped his star would nod and agree to ease up. But Dirk wasn't hearing it. Inside, he was roaring at himself: Wake up. Stay on your feet. Don't you dare fold now.
Across the court, Lin Yi had already noticed something was off. The pregame reports about Dirk's fever weren't just rumors. Still, sympathy had no place here. Against a player of Nowitzki's caliber, the only real respect was to go at him with everything.
The timeout ended. Dirk came out and immediately hit one of his trademark one-legged fades, cutting it to 10-13.
The Knicks' plan was clear: wear him down. The bench wouldn't beat Dallas—the only way was to burn out Nowitzki himself.
Soon, Lin Yi and Gallinari ran a pick-and-roll, forcing Marion onto Lin. Dirk, gasping for air, switched back anyway. Even with a fever and heavy legs, he pushed himself into the lane. Lin attacked hard, rose for the layup, and Dirk lunged…
Boom!
Both big men crashed to the floor.
The crowd froze, then gasped. Players from both sides rushed over. Kidd patted Dirk's back, whispering, "Don't force it."
Dirk shook his head. "I'm fine."
Lin Yi walked to the line, locked in, and sank both free throws.
…
The first quarter unfolded like a chess match. Dallas stretched the Knicks' defense with outside shooting, forcing New York's iron wall to open up. Riley, watching from the stands, took notes.
If Miami wants to get back here next year, it starts with perimeter shooting, he thought.
After twelve minutes, it was 25-29, Knicks.
D'Antoni, arms crossed, glanced toward his bench.
"Second unit's up," he muttered, uneasy. But his worries faded fast.
Shaun Livingston, the man the staff had quietly pegged as the X-factor, checked in. For him, just being here was a small miracle. He thought back to last summer—Lin Yi convincing him to sign in New York, teammates visiting him during his injury, Lin telling him, We'll wait for you in the playoffs.
That one sentence had carried him through months of pain. Now it was his turn.
Early in the second quarter, Barea drove for a layup—27–29. On the next trip, Livingston got the ball on a switch. Barea was in front of him, giving up size. The first two post-up attempts went nowhere. On the third, Livingston stopped thinking and just rose, letting it fly.
Swish.
Livingston pumped his fist at Lin on the bench, then grinned toward his girlfriend in the stands.
27-31, Knicks.
This was the Finals. No mercy, no excuses. Everyone on the floor carried their own scars—Dirk with his fever, Livingston with his knee—but nobody here would ask for sympathy.
With eight minutes left in the half, the Knicks stretched the lead again. Dirk, restless on the bench, stood up. Carlisle hesitated, but the look in his star's eyes said everything. He waved him back in.
Lin Yi peeled the towel from his shoulders and checked in at the same time. Their eyes met across the floor.
Dirk's legs felt heavy, but his will held steady. Lin's gaze was sharp, relentless, carrying none of the malice Dirk imagined—just respect, and the hunger to compete.
On the Knicks' sideline, O'Neal watched with a grin.
"Good, the pressure hasn't gotten to him," he muttered.
Next to him, Gallinari sighed dramatically. "Shame he's still single, even with that hot babe living in his house."
Smack!
O'Neal cuffed him on the back of the head. "Man, you really know how to ruin a moment."
...
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