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Chapter 358: Interlude End
🕑 Added 2025-09-24 15:11:05 +0000 UTCBy the end of the 2010-11 season, twenty-seven players had claimed an NBA regular-season MVP.
Lin Yi became the twenty-eighth.
The league announced its awards early in the morning Beijing time.
Zhang Xiaowei—about to sit for the college entrance exam and dreaming of studying sports journalism—was secretly scrolling Weibo on his phone under the desk.
“What’s with this server? Did Weibo just crash?” he muttered.
Lag or not, one headline still popped up at the top of the trending list:
“Congratulations Lin Yi—first Chinese player ever to win the NBA Regular-Season MVP!”
“My guy is unstoppable!” Zhang blurted, a little too loudly.
Every head in the English classroom turned. His teacher, elegant and smiling, raised an eyebrow.
“Since you’re so enthusiastic, Xiaowei,” she said, voice light but sharp, “why don’t you tell us—in English—how you feel about Lin Yi’s award?”
Zhang froze. “Uh… very happiness.” he managed.
A few classmates snickered. His teacher’s expression didn’t change, but you could almost see her patience meter tick down.
Meanwhile, social media was melting.
Weibo couldn’t stay online. Chinese fans were rushing to see how the rest of the world was reacting, and forums were filling faster than anyone could refresh.
In the NBA’s long history, every MVP has become a Hall-of-Fame, a name etched into legend. Lin Yi was only in his second season, but tonight he’d joined that company.
And it wasn’t just an MVP.
It was unanimous—something no one had done before.
ESPN carried the ceremony live. Lin Yi stood in a tailored suit beside the bronze Most Valuable Trophy, the symbol of basketball’s highest individual honor. Shaquille O’Neal handled the hosting duties.
Countless players had spilled sweat for a chance to touch that trophy. Lin Yi was no different.
He thought back to endless nights of jumpers and drives, to hours of drills that would bore anyone else.
For him, it was never boring. He simply loved the game.
Beneath the stage sat a row of familiar faces—Yao Ming, Yi Jianlian, Curry, Cousins, DeRozan, and Wall—each with their own story of sacrifice and grind.
Lin Yi glanced at the trophy again. This wasn’t an ending. It was a checkpoint.
Real greatness meant always climbing.
Shaq gave him a nod. Time to speak.
Lin caught Commissioner Stern’s look—half a warning, half a dare—and smiled.
“First,” Lin began, voice steady, “I want to thank my parents. None of this happens without them.
“I owe so much to the coaches and teammates who pushed me—Coach McKillop and Mike, my college guys, best friend Stephen Curry, and the Knicks.
“I love basketball. I can’t really put that love into words, but I hope I can keep playing until I can’t stand anymore.”
Then he switched smoothly to Chinese.
“还有我要感谢所有中国球迷。去年中国行让我很感动。”
(“And I especially want to thank all the Chinese fans. Last year’s China tour meant a lot to me.”)
He looked toward Yao Ming. “Speaking of Chinese basketball, I have to thank Big Yao.”
Yao grinned and gave a discreet thumb-up.
He wanted to stand on an Olympic court with Yao, to give Chinese fans the pride they deserved. Basketball made him happy—and if it could make hundreds of millions back home just as happy, why wouldn’t he give everything he had?
That was his bottom line.
That was why soldiers fight, why legends keep pushing even when the sky seems to fall.
Because someone has to hold it up.
And tonight, Lin Yi—China’s own giant—was ready to do just that.
And what made Big Zhi a legend during the Guangzhou Asian Games?
It was the fans. Always the fans. Without them, basketball is just a game in an empty gym.
Without that kind of support, could Lin Yi really stand here tonight, admired by millions across two continents?
Not a chance.
That realization hit him harder than the roar of Madison Square Garden. Basketball wasn’t only his dream anymore; it carried the hopes of hundreds of millions. He thought back to that night at Staples Center, when he’d watched Yao Ming limp off the court but refuse to quit.
“I’m going back,” Yao had told the Rockets’ team doctor. The man had tears in his eyes, not yet understanding how much that one playoff game meant to Yao—or to everyone watching.
Legends don’t last forever. But their spirit does, if someone picks it up and carries it forward.
Tonight, Lin Yi—through sweat and relentless work—pushed that door of hope a little wider. New Yorkers hailed him as their guy, Chinese fans called him a hero, and veterans like Yao and Big Zhi saw a young man ready to inherit the mantle.
Every NBA great had chased the same dream. Lin Yi knew he wasn’t there yet. Not compared to the unyielding Kobe Bryant, the defiant Allen Iverson, the sleepy-eyed assassin Tracy McGrady, or Vince Carter, who kept coming back for the love of the game.
He thought of the quiet Stone Buddha, the ever-crafty Germinator,” the aging KG who still fought like a rookie. Of Olajuwon’s footwork, Shaq’s sheer force, Patrick Ewing’s fire, David Robinson’s discipline—and, above all, Michael Jordan, the bridge between eras.
Names like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Wilt Chamberlain still seemed to echo in the rafters. When Lin Yi finally held the trophy, he understood its weight in a way no stats sheet could capture.
Respect for those who came before. Ambition for what lay ahead.
His acceptance speech carried across living rooms from New York to Shanghai. Each word felt deliberate, steady. Tonight, he had truly stepped out of the beginner zone and onto basketball’s main stage.
Then he added in Chinese, eyes twinkling, “And hey, students—do your homework. Maybe spend less time glued to your phones.”
Luckily for Lin Yi, Commissioner Stern didn’t catch the message. To him, it was a clean, heartfelt speech—no empty clichés, no dragged-out platitudes. Stern could already see the young star’s reputation reaching a new peak.
Stephen Curry, who once dreamed of being the league’s first unanimous MVP, watched with quiet admiration. At that moment, Lin Yi looked even taller in his eyes.
Curry clenched his fists. When the ceremony ended, he headed straight for Lin Yi.
Lin Yi grinned and tapped the gleaming trophy. “Want to borrow this?”
Curry shook his head, determination flashing. “No. I want to earn mine.”
The meaning of that trophy was different for each player. Curry felt envy, sure, but no jealousy—only fuel for the fire.
Big Yao pulled Lin Yi into a proud embrace, while Yi Jianlian snapped a quick photo on his phone, trying to capture the moment for history.
Winning MVP wasn’t the finish line.
Next up: beat the Celtics and take that final step into the Eastern Conference Finals.
May 3rd, Madison Square Garden.
New York Knicks vs. Boston Celtics.
Eastern Conference Semifinals, Game 2.
