GRANDMAESTA_30
patreon
Chapter 317: Spurs vs Knicks End
🕑 Added 2025-08-25 14:36:38 +0000 UTCWhen the Spurs took a timeout, Gregg Popovich glanced over at his players, eyes sharp as ever.
His gaze landed first on DeJuan Blair.
“How did you feel about defending Lin Yi that time?” Pop asked calmly, though there was a firmness behind the words.
Blair shifted in his seat. “…Yeah… tough,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact.
Pop didn’t press him. Instead, his eyes moved down the line to Antonio McDyess.
McDyess took a second, choosing his words carefully. “Coach, he’s improved a lot since the last time we faced him. The kid’s quicker, stronger—hard to read. Honestly, it’s challenging to defend him one-on-one right now.”
Popovich nodded slowly but didn’t entirely look satisfied. Finally, he turned to Tim Duncan.
The Big Fundamental, or Stone Buddha as he was known, had been silent up until then. He sat in thought, eyes half-closed, before offering his short, trademark response: “Faster.”
It was exactly the confirmation Popovich wanted.
He had already noticed the subtle differences in Lin Yi’s game, but it was always the players who felt those changes most acutely. Pop had deliberately avoided making adjustments in the first half. He wanted to see for himself how Lin Yi’s isolation game had evolved.
What a terrifying young man, Pop thought to himself, stroking his chin. He’s only going to get more dangerous. We’ll need a big man who can move his feet quickly, someone who can survive those switches.
For Popovich, a regular-season loss was hardly the end of the world. But this Knicks team was beginning to look less like a novelty and more like a genuine problem. The Spurs weren’t just preparing for tonight—they were preparing for the wars to come.
“The Knicks,” Pop muttered inwardly, “aren’t just the future enemy. They already are.”
What he couldn’t wrap his head around was this: How did Donnie Walsh manage to assemble such a group?
Pop knew the Knicks’ general manager was a shrewd operator in contracts and trades, but tactically? Strategically? Walsh wasn’t exactly renowned for his basketball mind.
And yet, here they were—New York’s roster, full of young talent, anchored by a sophomore who was already giving Duncan headaches.
From there, the game unraveled for San Antonio.
By the end of the third quarter, the scoreboard read 94–117. The Knicks had essentially put the game to bed; their offense was too sharp, and their pace too relentless.
For the Spurs, it was nothing new. Popovich’s sides had long been known for conserving energy in the regular season, prioritizing the long-term grind over short-term results. But for Lin Yi, it was another statement game.
The rookie finished with 37 points on 13-of-19 shooting, including five made threes, a perfect 6-for-6 from the free-throw line, along with 12 rebounds, five assists, and two blocks. It wasn’t just numbers—it was dominance.
Lin himself hadn’t yet realized how much his improved footwork and upgraded finishing moves had elevated his game. But anyone watching could feel it: the kid was unlocking new levels.
Afterward, in the locker room, Tyson spoke to the media.
“I’ve never seen anyone train as hard as Lin. With a star like him setting the example, none of us can afford to slack off,” he said with a grin.
Reporters, of course, had become accustomed to Lin Yi’s peculiar mix of modesty and sly competitiveness. He would downplay his workload, sprinkle in a bit of self-deprecating humour, then go back to the gym when nobody was watching. It was the classic story: the classmate who tells you they didn’t study before the exam, only for them to ace it while their bloodshot eyes give away the truth.
When cornered post-game, Lin tried to laugh it off.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, half-smiling. “I only sleep about six hours a day. The rest of the time I’m on the court. Basketball’s my life. I just want to keep pushing, chasing that version of myself everyone expects me to be.”
The reporters nodded eagerly, pens scribbling. They loved that kind of line—it made headlines.
Sure enough, the next morning, a New York paper ran with the headline: “I’m Going To Chase The Best Me.”
Down in Miami, Pat Riley folded the paper, whistled, and told his squad to get back in the gym.
..
The next morning, Durant was on the phone with Westbrook at dawn, and even rang Harden in the dead of night.
“We’ve got to push harder, guys. Regular season’s one thing, but if we want to win in the playoffs, we’ve got to match his intensity.”
Westbrook, groggy and yawning, eventually nodded along. The man lived for extra workouts anyway—his chiseled frame was the product of endless hours in the gym.
“Kev,” he said with a grin, “let’s do it. I want to see what four a.m. in Oklahoma looks like!”
Durant clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s my brother. You get it!”
James Harden, however, raised a hand sheepishly. “Uh… I’d just like to say… nothing is exciting about seeing four a.m. in Oklahoma. Honestly, I’d rather see four a.m. in Los Angeles.”
....
On the 25th, with the Spring Festival right around the corner, Chinatown in New York was already lit up and bustling with life. Lanterns swung above the streets, vendors were calling out their specials, and the smell of roasted duck and fried dumplings floated in the air. Since Lin Yi had joined the Knicks, the pride of local Chinese fans in the city had been impossible to miss. Mention his name in Chinatown and people would light up, talking about how “our Lin Yi” and “Xiao Yi” was changing the face of basketball in America.
The Knicks were leading the league, and Lin Yi, for the moment, sat on top of the scoring charts and the blocked shots leaderboard. Everyone was already whispering—some loudly—that he could become the first Chinese player to win the NBA’s regular season MVP.
Tijana, since arriving in New York, had grown attached to the city in her own way. She had become especially close with Olson, and the two of them had developed an easy, sisterly friendship that only deepened as they spent more time together.
Lin Yi’s personal chef team, masters of Sichuan and Continental cuisine, had already taken a few days off to head back to California early and celebrate the new year with their families. That left Lin Yi with a craving he couldn’t quite shake. One evening, he blurted it out to Olson and Tijana.
“I want hot pot. A proper spicy one, Sichuan-style. Been thinking about it for days.”
Olson recoiled immediately. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’d rather starve than eat anything that starts with the word Sichuan.” She held her ground with the stubbornness of a veteran defender under the rim.
Tijana giggled but shook her head quickly, her ponytail swishing side to side. “No way. Let’s just order pizza, or I’ll cook something at home. Trust me, we’ll survive without setting our tongues on fire.”
But Lin Yi wasn’t giving in that easily.
An hour later, the three of them were sitting at a hot pot restaurant recommended by his agent, Zhong Muchen, called “Tianfu Mala.”
The table was covered in platters—thin beef slices, mushrooms, lotus root, shrimp balls—all waiting to be dipped into the bubbling, crimson broth in the center.
Olson took a cautious bite of beef, then her eyes widened in surprise. Tijana, who had just done the same, blinked, then broke into a grin.
“This beef is amazing!” they said almost in unison.
Lin Yi leaned back, satisfied, like a general who had just won a small battle.
The next day, on the 26th, Olson and Yuna were both groaning in mock agony, clutching their stomachs after a night of spice overload. Lin Yi, on the other hand, was in high spirits. He packed his training bag, humming to himself, and drove to the Knicks’ practice facility.
“For that flavor, I even asked the owner to add their secret pepper mix,” Lin Yi chuckled, shaking his head at his own little payback on the girls.
…
By the 27th, it was back to business. The Knicks went away from home to face the Atlanta Hawks. Lin Yi wasn’t invincible—no player was—but against Atlanta, it didn’t matter. The Knicks had their number.
Iso Joe Johnson was smothered all night under the defensive schemes, barely able to breathe on the court. Atlanta managed only 74 points, their lowest tally of the season so far, while the Knicks cruised to their eighth straight win.
The streak had fans buzzing. Some in New York were already running the math on whether this team could actually break the Bulls’ hallowed 72–10 record. But inside the locker room, the mood stayed grounded.
“A bunch of guys keeping calm while everyone outside is going crazy about records?” Shaq commented beside Chauncey as they watched the team goof off, “That’s impressive.”
Chauncey Billups agreed, noting that the Knicks weren’t letting the hype distract them.
…
Elsewhere, January battles were raging. Miami had found its stride and was rolling through opponents. Out west, the biggest surprise was Golden State. They’d reeled off a five-game win streak since Ellis’ departure, a move that suddenly looked like a blessing in disguise. The Warriors finally had a balanced look.
…
Then came January 28th. The Knicks returned home to face the Philadelphia 76ers. Before tipoff, Lin Yi found himself chatting casually with Andre Iguodala about investments, posture, and how to avoid blowing money once the career lights dim. The guy knew his stuff.
