GRANDMAESTA_30
patreon
Chapter 323: What Happens at Thirty-Nine?
🕑 Added 2025-08-27 22:46:19 +0000 UTCFebruary 2nd, New Year’s Eve.
In Washington, Yi Jianlian was settling in nicely. The local Chinese community invited him to spend the evening with them, and unlike the shy, quiet Yi Lin Yi remembered, this version of Yi showed a bit more social savvy. He even rang up a few Wizards teammates—John Wall among them—to experience the Chinese New Year atmosphere together. A small thing, but it showed he was learning how to connect.
Down south in Houston, Yao Ming’s house was lively. Family reunited, laughter filling the air. Retirement, though, would have to wait. Yao knew his numbers had dipped in the back half of the season, but he was convinced that with his current, more methodical style, he could stretch his career to at least the summer of 2012.
As for Lin Yi, the first thing he did was call home. Midnight was about to fall in China, and with it, the first day of the New Year. The league had leaned into the occasion, too—shooting a special Lunar New Year video and preparing for tomorrow’s “Spring Festival Games.” The Rockets, Wizards, and Knicks would all wear uniforms with Chinese-themed designs: three cities, three pillars of Chinese basketball. For fans back home, it almost felt like every day of the 2010/11 season was New Year’s.
…
The next morning, a heavy knock came at Lin Yi’s door.
It was O’Neal.
And not just Shaq—he brought his son, Shareef. The young man stepped forward confidently and, in polished Mandarin, greeted, “Uncle Lin Yi, Happy New Year!”
Lin Yi had to chuckle. Shareef’s accent and fluency were already cleaner than his father’s. He handed him a traditional red envelope, feeling for once that last year’s wish—spending New Year’s not alone—had come true.
O’Neal, meanwhile, plopped himself onto Lin Yi’s sofa, the furniture groaning in protest. Spotting Shareef heading straight for the console and booting up 2K11.
Soon, Tijana and Olsen rushed over, notebooks in hand. To Lin Yi’s dismay, they were clamouring for O’Neal’s autograph.
Really? You live with me every day, he thought. My face is plastered on New York billboards, but you want Shaq’s scribble?
“Sure,” O’Neal signed them before calling out suddenly, “Hey, what’s my rating in this year’s 2K?”
Before Lin Yi could even answer, Shareef piped up. “Dad, you’re trash—77. Unc is the king in this one.”
The boy barely got the words out before Shaq’s playful “iron fist” came crashing down. Shareef laughed, yelped, and begged for mercy.
Lin Yi, meanwhile, thought back to another name that haunted 2K matchups—Yao Ming. If anyone was “bugged” in that game, it was Yao. Of course, that wasn’t something he’d ever dare say in front of O’Neal. Some truths were better kept to yourself.
After the laughter eased, Lin Yi leaned forward. “Shaq, I wanted to pick your brain on something.”
O’Neal, now peeling a banana, gave a mock bow. “Ask away. Shaq the all-knowing is here.”
It wasn’t a light question. Lin Yi wanted advice on post-up play.
The league was adjusting to him. At 216 cm with guard-like handles, his ability to blow past defenders was already causing headaches. But in the playoffs, when the pace tightened and whistles got scarce, he knew he couldn’t just rely on face-up drives. He needed a weapon that wouldn’t be blunted when referees swallowed their whistles.
Take his recent duel with Randolph. Z-Bo didn’t waste energy—he played with a quiet efficiency, using craft rather than brute force. Lin Yi realised he had to evolve the same way.
The NBA had always adapted its rules to balance dominant forces. Chamberlain had forced changes. Shaq too. One day, maybe Lin Yi would push the league toward another rule shift. But for now, his post-up game lagged far behind his perimeter arsenal.
Referees, he noticed, were contradictory with him. On drives, they gave him contact calls. In the paint? Suddenly, defenders could get away with all sorts of clutching and holding. It was the league’s way of both promoting him and keeping him in check—praise mixed with restraint. Stern understood the balance. Too much hype, too many freebies, and Lin Yi would never earn the respect that longevity brought.
Still, Lin Yi couldn’t ignore the reality: the postseason wasn’t about stat-padding. It was about survival. The old warriors knew this—Dirk’s fadeaway in crunch time, for example, was the weapon that carried Dallas in 2011. Not the role players. Not Barea or Terry. Dirk.
The Heat, looming in the East, was a different kind of threat. With James and Bosh able to switch onto him, and Riley lurking like a chess master behind the scenes, Lin Yi knew Miami would try everything to cage him.
There was only one answer: sharpen the blade.
And that blade, for him, had to be a signature post move.
The turnaround fadeaway tempted him. But like Shaq once said, “Not all fadeaways are created equal.” Some were timeless—artistry in motion. Others were awkward, labored, and painful to watch.
Lin Yi intended to master the first kind.
“You mean when your defender leans into you, he always sneaks in little tricks to throw you off?” Shaq asked, finishing his banana and eyeing the donuts Tijana had placed on the table. He didn’t hesitate for a minute before picking one up.
“Exactly. You’ve lived in the low post your whole career, Shaq. You’ve got to have something better than what I’m doing,” Lin Yi said, genuinely curious.
Shaq didn’t even blink. “What’s so hard about that? Just push them out of the way!” He gave Lin Yi a look that screamed Are you seriously asking me this?
Lin Yi: “…”
The big man smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “Looks like the so-called Showtime isn’t invincible after all.”
Lin Yi resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He couldn’t exactly win a debate with Shaq. The man had size, strength, and ego all on his side.
Maybe I should team up with Kobe one day to knock some sense into this guy, Lin Yi thought. Though knowing Shaq, he’d probably pick us both up and toss us aside like rag dolls.
“Shareef, go play on your own. Daddy’s about to give Uncle Lin a lesson in real basketball,” Shaq said, ruffling his son’s hair.
Shareef muttered something under his breath and rolled his eyes, clearly not impressed with Dad’s wisdom.
Shaq sighed dramatically. “Man, times have changed. Back when I threw Camby to the ground after dunking on him, nobody questioned me. Now I’ve got kids rolling their eyes at me.”
But for all his theatrics, Shaq respected Lin Yi. He knew the kid could hold his own against anyone. When he said Lin could’ve battled the old “four giant centres” of the league, he wasn’t just being polite. Lin Yi’s style was jerky, unpredictable, and, in many ways, tougher to defend than the head-to-head power battles Shaq had fought in his prime.
Out in the backyard, Shaq decided to make things practical. He posted up against Lin Yi, his massive frame still intimidating. “You’re strong, Lin. Real strong. But the reason you can’t move guys as easily is because you’re forcing it wrong.”
Lin Yi nodded, listening intently, like a student.
“And your footwork’s sharp—wait a second…” Shaq squinted. “Hold on. What the hell have you been practicing all summer?”
Lin Yi sheepishly dribbled the ball and showed him—snake-like crossovers, advanced dribble packages, step-backs, and a silky jumper right in his face.
Shaq’s jaw nearly hit the ground. “…911? Somebody calls the cops. There’s a monster loose in New York!”
He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re seven-foot and you’re out here moving like Kobe. This ain’t right.”
Lin Yi just grinned. Truth be told, he rarely stressed about post-ups. With his length and creativity, he could usually fake defenders out or lean on his turnaround jumper. But things were changing. Defenses were tightening up. Teams were forming what he half-jokingly called the “Anti-Lin Alliance.”
He needed a weapon. A move that would hold up when the game slowed, when whistles stopped, when the pressure was suffocating.
The Sky Hook crossed his mind, but he knew it was almost a lost art. Something like that couldn’t just be copied—it had to be perfected.
Still, with Shaq’s advice and his own determination, Lin Yi believed he could create something new before the playoffs.
“But Lin,” Shaq said, lowering his voice, “you’ll need serious work on this. I’m talking summer-long, grind-every-day type training.” He paused, looking strangely thoughtful. “Man, why does this feel like I’m teaching a bigger, scarier Kobe how to play in the post?”
Lin Yi chuckled, but nodded. Most players did wait until the summer to polish things like this. But he wasn’t like most players. He had his own way of leveling up mid-season—though that wasn’t something he could exactly explain to Shaq.
He thought quietly to himself: Once the next upgrade comes, my entire foundation shifts. And when that happens… I’ll make every single one of those defenders pay for trying to stop me.
For now, though, he kept that to himself.
What mattered most was the road ahead. The Knicks’ path ran straight through Miami. And to beat the Heat, Lin Yi couldn’t just be good—he had to be unstoppable.
Shaq worked with him for over an hour. Beneath all the jokes and bravado, the big man had a treasure trove of tricks—angles, leverage, subtle fakes under the rim. People always remembered his brute force, but Shaq’s footwork and timing were underappreciated.
Yet the longer they worked, the more Shaq found himself muttering under his breath. What kind of freak is this kid?
He even caught himself wondering: If I were 27 again, at my absolute peak, how would I deal with him? The thought didn’t sit comfortably.
..
That evening, Tijana and Olsen served up a proper New Year’s dinner. The table was full, the house alive with laughter. Afterward, Lin Yi dragged Shareef and the girls into a heated round of 2K while Shaq looked on, nostalgia creeping in.
Watching the four of them giggle and bicker, the big fella sighed. “Man… I really am getting old.”
Lin Yi noticed. He walked over and patted him on the shoulder. “Shaq, don’t dwell on it. Time comes for all of us. Doesn’t mean we stop climbing.”
Shaq gave a small smile.
As for Lin Yi, another thought gnawed at him: What about when I’m 39? Will I have broken Kareem’s record by then? Will my name stand where others only dare look up?
The questions only fueled him.
Because for Lin Yi, life wasn’t about stopping. It was about climbing. Always climbing.
