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Chapter 349: Mavericks vs Knicks 2
🕑 Added 2025-09-19 09:07:47 +0000 UTCThe moment the young Knicks reserves spotted O’Neal backing Mahinmi down on the block, they all popped up from the bench in unison, grinning like kids at recess.
“Shaq!” someone shouted.
“Come on, big fella, give us a dunk!” another chimed in.
Just as the Garden started to buzz, a sharp ding of the whistle cut through the noise. Mahinmi, crafty to the last second, had wrapped O’Neal up before the big man could turn and finish. Big Diesel was forced to retreat, jaws empty.
O’Neal shuffled to the free-throw line, expression blank but eyes flashing. Behind him, the Knicks’ youngsters sank back into their seats, pretending nothing had happened.
“Man, I’ve been sitting too long,” one muttered with a stretch.
“Taylor dropped a new track today—might as well stand up for that,” another teased.
“Anybody catch that new animation, Rango, yet? Heard it’s solid,” someone else added, half-laughing.
Shaq heard every word. He made a mental note for tomorrow’s practice: each of these witty guys was going to get a personal shark splash. The disrespect was unbelievable. Were these really his teammates? At times it felt like a bench full of Kobes—only without the charm.
Bang… bang…
Two clanks later, both free throws rimmed out. Lin Yi was the first to duck his head and lead the rest of the bench out of the path of Shaq’s famous death stare—a Lakers tradition, alive and well in New York.
O’Neal exhaled, the hint of a grin betraying him. The ribbing actually helped. Years ago, he would’ve powered through double teams, but he knew those days were behind him. Watching Lin Yi rewrite records this season stirred both envy and nostalgia—memories of when he was the unstoppable force.
As he jogged back to half court, Shaq gave himself a light slap on the cheek. Could he really keep this up? Over the summer, when doubts crept in, Lin Yi had sent a simple message:
Come run with us.
The Shark hadn’t hesitated. If this was to be his final run, he wasn’t going to coast. He’d trained like it mattered—because it did.
The Knicks were a contender, no question. And Shaquille O’Neal wasn’t about to watch a championship from the sidelines.
The next play reignited the crowd. Ellis drove hard for a layup, only for O’Neal to swat the ball against the backboard with a thunderous smack. Battier gathered the rebound and pushed it forward. Shaq was already rumbling downcourt, each step making Madison Square Garden shiver.
Marbury spotted the big man barreling in.
“Shaq!” he yelled, lofting the ball toward the rim.
BOOM!
Even without the dunk, the crowd erupted. O’Neal strutted back on defense, every sway of his shoulders pure theater. From the bench, Lin Yi pumped his fists, urging the fans to raise the volume. The Garden obliged.
At midcourt, Shaq and Marbury met with a firm, echoing a high-five. Thirty-nine and thirty-three, still proving they belonged.
Somewhere on the Mavericks’ sideline, Coach Carlisle suddenly realized just how hostile this arena had become.
During a second-quarter timeout, Lin Yi wrapped an arm around the winded veteran. “Honestly, Shaq, I thought you’d left those legs back in Orlando,” he joked.
O’Neal’s grin spread, mischievous as ever. “Big Aristotle doesn’t rely on running,” he said, catching his breath.
Lin Yi laughed, ready to head back on court, but Shaq called after him.
“I’ve gone against Michael Jordan. I’ve shared a locker room with Kobe Bryant,” he said, voice dropping into something almost reverent. “If you want me chasing a ring with you, kid, show me your best.”
Lin Yi met his gaze and nodded, the answer firm. “Count on it.”
...
Players from both teams filed back onto the hardwood, the Garden buzzing like a power line. The Knicks had possession, the Mavericks set in their familiar half-court stance.
Lin Yi brought the ball across midcourt, his dribble a low, rhythmic movement between the legs. A quick feint to the right drew Marion off balance; in the same breath, Lin snapped the ball left and spun through the gap.
He exploded toward the paint, a streak of white and blue.
Okafor slid over, bracing for contact, but Lin never slowed. He launched himself with a single bound, eyes locked on the rim, the rest of the world blurred away. For an instant, it looked as though gravity had simply given up.
Okafor felt himself sinking while Lin Yi kept rising.
WHAM!
The dunk crashed home with a violence that shook the backboard and sent the Garden into a frenzy. Every fan on their feet, every camera flashing.
O’Neal rose from the bench and clapped like a proud uncle. “Now that’s a dunk,” he barked, grin wide. “That’s real steel—none of that fluff.”
The scoreboard flipped: 45–47. Knicks by two.
Dallas answered quickly. Nowitzki, calm as a winter lake, stepped into a one-legged fadeaway and tied it at forty-seven. The veteran glanced at Lin Yi with a look that said everything: he didn’t care about nicknames—Showtime, Death, Reaper. The chariot simply keeps rolling.
Lin Yi caught the inbounds and went right back at him, Marion draped over his shoulder. A sudden rise, a high release.
Swish.
47–50. The anti-tank round fired straight through.
“What a pity this isn’t June,” Mike Breen said over the network feed, his voice carrying both awe and a touch of regret.
“If this were the Finals,” he added after a beat, “Lin Yi and Nowitzki would already be carving out a legend.”
Beside him, Mark Jackson nodded silently, lost in the same thought.
Down on the floor, Shaq would’ve laughed if he’d heard them. This game didn’t need a trophy to feel monumental. For O’Neal, the duel wasn’t about who filled the box score. It was about the weight a franchise player carries—possession after possession, never letting the team sag.
Back in the Garden, the shoot-out only intensified.
Nowitzki glided into another jumper—pure.
Lin Yi crossed over, stopped on a dime, and drilled a pull-up of his own.
Dirk spun baseline, drew contact, and somehow finished for a three-point play.
Lin answered instantly, a deep three off a hard screen—net.
The crowd barely had time to breathe before the horn signaled halftime.
60–60. Dead even.
The stat sheet told its own story: Nowitzki with 23 in the half, Lin Yi matching him bucket for bucket. Twenty-three—a number with a certain magic in basketball lore.
..
In the Mavericks tunnel, Coach Carlisle rested a hand on Dirk’s shoulder. “How’s it feel out there?”
Dirk’s smile was easy, eyes bright. “Feels like the old days,” he said, the kind of quiet joy that comes when everything clicks. Carlisle simply nodded; that was all the answer he needed.
Across the hall, the Knicks moved toward their locker room. Lin Yi exhaled, chest heaving but eyes sharp. Marbury fell in step beside him, then gave a quick tug to Lou Williams and Lance Stephenson, pulling them a half-pace back.
The message was unspoken: let the Man lead the way.
