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Chapter 370: Interlude
🕑 Added 2025-09-30 13:32:15 +0000 UTCThe Knicks had done it — Game 1 was theirs.
Final score: 103-110.
When the buzzer rang, Madison Square Garden didn’t just cheer; it erupted. Some fans laughed, some screamed, and more than a few were crying. After twelve long years, the Knicks had taken the opening step back on the Finals stage.
“Congratulations to the New York Knicks!” Yu Jia’s voice carried over the broadcast, while he and Su Junyang stood and clapped in the booth. Even Zhang Heli, usually the calmest of the trio, was grinning ear to ear.
On the stat sheet, Lin Yi’s night was nothing short of monstrous: 41 minutes, 39 points on 15-of-26 shooting, 14 rebounds, 5 assists, 3 blocks, and a steal. He didn’t miss from the line, and he buried three of his four threes. Without question, he was the best player on the floor.
Dirk Nowitzki, fever and all, still battled his way to 26 points, 8 boards, and 3 assists. But his condition had clearly limited him, and that edge made all the difference. As O’Neal had once said during the end Eastern Conference Finals, sometimes luck is part of strength.
Nobody in the Mavericks locker room was about to wave the white flag after just one loss. Carlisle knew this was a long series. And in equal measure, the Knicks weren’t treating this single win as a crowning moment. Both sides understood: the Finals are a war of attrition, not a one-night showcase.
Still, the chatter online had its own flavor. Knicks fans were quick to drag an old Popovich quote back into the spotlight: “Lin Yi is the Duncan of the Knicks.”
Coach Pop, of course, had meant it as a compliment to Lin’s steadiness. Knicks fans took it further.
“Duncan won Finals MVP as a sophomore,” one fan posted.
Another replied: “You see where this is going, right?”
Popovich, reading this in San Antonio, could only shake his head. “Wild imaginations these days,” he muttered.
But privately, Popovich was watching with a coach’s eye. He knew these Finals would set a tone for years to come. Both New York and Dallas shared a trait that made them dangerous: perimeter firepower.
It was the same lesson he’d taken to heart when the Spurs were bounced by the Grizzlies earlier in the playoffs. Without enough shooters, their offense had been easy to smother. Watching the Knicks space the floor with Danny Green and Gallinari, or seeing Dallas lean on Jason Kidd and Monta Ellis, Popovich understood the direction the league was heading.
That’s why, even as the Finals raged, the Spurs were busy. The draft was coming, and San Antonio’s scouts had circled a name they couldn’t stop talking about. They were already making quiet calls to Indiana, which held the 15th pick.
“Kawhi Leonard’s ceiling is high,” one of the Spurs’ analysts told Pop. “This kid’s different. He’s agreed to work out only with us. Not even the Pacers know exactly what he’s got.”
Popovich trusted his staff — they’d been right too many times before. But there was one wrinkle. The kid’s uncle, Dennis Robertson, who was guiding him through the process, had a reputation Pop didn’t care for. Rumor had it he’d even pushed the youngster to turn down Lin Yi’s agent, Zhong Muchen, just to keep things in the family.
Popovich wasn’t naive. A lockout was looming that summer, and he knew the Spurs needed to start preparing for life after Duncan. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder: would the uncle actually allow this prodigy to slide into San Antonio’s system, quietly, without a fight?
...
When Jerry West stepped off the plane in Oakland, suitcase in hand, the two Warriors owners were already waiting at the gate.
“Jerry, we’re sorry…” one of them started, almost apologetic. The Warriors hadn’t managed to tank the way they had planned, which complicated their draft position.
West just smiled, calm as ever, his tone warm and deliberate.
“No need to apologize. This is actually a good sign.”
It was as if the Bay itself exhaled with him, like something fresh was about to be born in Oakland.
“This proves the young guys on our roster have real potential,” West continued. “What they need now is guidance, step by step. If we do this right, we can build a dynasty here.”
He’d been out of a job for six months, but he hadn’t stopped watching the league, and he hadn’t taken his eyes off the Warriors.
“Stephen Curry needs a mentor,” West said flatly. “His ceiling isn’t any lower than Lin’s. If Steve Nash leaves Phoenix this summer, we should make a serious run at him.”
He paused, then added: “And I want us to speak with Mark Jackson. He’s coached guards at the highest level—he understands their mindset.”
West laid out his draft plan with surgical precision.
“If we can trade up, we do it. If not, here’s our fallback.” He handed over a file thick with names, notes, and projections.
The owners exchanged a smile. This was exactly why they’d chased Jerry West. The man never stepped into a fight unprepared.
Meanwhile, Stephen Curry—blissfully unaware—was in New York celebrating the Knicks’ Game 1 win at Lin Yi’s villa with DeMarcus Cousins. He didn’t yet know that the most influential mentor of his career, since Coach McKillop was already sketching his future.
Across the league, dominoes were shifting.
Chris Paul had privately told New Orleans he wanted out.
Dwight Howard was busier on his socials, a signal, not-so-subtle, that the Magic needed to give him reinforcements.
Denver’s front office had decamped to Cleveland for what they called a working vacation.
Danny Ainge was already drawing up another scheme, while Daryl Morey was trying to talk Yao Ming into one last extension. Yi Jianlian had earned promises from the Wizards brass.
On the surface, it was Knicks versus Mavericks, but beneath that, the entire NBA was bracing for a new era.
And David Stern?
He wasn’t thrilled. He knew the looming labor dispute would drag out, ugly and unresolved. The Finals were making money, sure—Lin Yi’s rise was printing dollars—but storm clouds were building.
The players’ union was playing smart this time.
Their rallying cry was simple: we’re fighting for the league’s best players. A not-so-subtle nod to Lin Yi, who served as a shield for them since he was Stern’s new golden boy. It was clever—it fired up younger players too.
…
Back in New York, after Game 1, the Knicks weren’t fooling themselves. Winning the opener was only the start. They knew Dallas, even with Dirk running on fumes, wasn’t about to roll over.
But something about Lin Yi felt different in this series. In Game 1, he’d played like a war axe, steady and relentless, chopping out paths for his teammates.
Still, the team had noticed he’d been unusually serious, all business. So at the next practice, Lou Williams decided to lighten the mood.
“Lin, tell us a joke,” Lou said with a grin.
Lin blinked. He hadn’t realized how tightly wound the group felt. Did they really think he was dragging them into some kind of death march?
Fine. He thought for two seconds, then deadpanned:
“Okay. One day, a hamburger was walking down the street. Suddenly, it felt hungry. So… it ate itself.”
Silence. Then groans.
“That ain’t even a joke. That's the cravings talking,” said Lou.
Shaq rolled his eyes.
Chandler just put his head in his hands.
A Gallinari threw towels at him.
Assistant coach Dan walked back from the restroom, baffled at the sight of players ganging up on Lin Yi.
“What the hell happened?”
D’Antoni just sighed, caught between amusement and embarrassment.
“Honestly? I don’t know. Just men acting like kids.”
Dan saw his brother’s expression and shook his head in mirth.
