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Chapter 152: Knicks vs Hornets
🕑 Added 2025-05-28 15:40:50 +0000 UTCNew Orleans Arena, New Orleans
The Hornets were at home, but it didn’t feel like they had any kind of advantage.
Lin Yi stepped up for the jump ball, and across from him stood Emeka Okafor—the guy who once got mentioned in the same breath as Dwight Howard.
Yeah, not anymore.
Okafor had all the physical tools once—big frame, decent touch—but somewhere along the line, he just... plateaued. Meanwhile, Howard kept rising, and Okafor became just another average big man.
Lin Yi had seen enough tape to know what he was dealing with. In his mind, the Hornets’ front office must’ve been run by Morey-wannabes. All about numbers, no feel for the game.
Sure, on paper, Okafor’s stats might look better than Tyson Chandler’s. But in reality? No contest.
Chandler had the wingspan, the bounce, the timing. He was a defensive anchor and ran the pick-and-roll with Paul like they shared a brain. Chandler made Paul’s job easier—hell, those five assists a night Paul racked up with him weren’t just fanboy talk. It was real synergy.
Okafor? He moved like he was dragging sandbags. Even in a pick-and-roll, there was no threat. No spacing, no speed, no vertical pop. David West, who could shoot and bang inside, was way more effective.
And it wasn’t just Okafor. The Hornets were slipping, and the drop-off in defense was a big part of it. Peja and Thornton were turnstiles on the perimeter, and Okafor couldn’t protect the paint. Meanwhile, Coach Scott’s offense? Stuck in first gear. Conservative, slow, predictable.
Paul and West couldn’t carry that alone. This Hornets team? It wasn’t buzzing—it was dragging.
But what really pissed Paul off was what happened before the game.
Scott had the nerve to assign Okafor to guard Lin Yi.
Paul had tried. He really did.
"Coach, let’s not do that,” Paul had said, trying to keep his cool. “Posey or Songaila would be better. They’ve got some size and won’t get cooked off the dribble. Just keep Lin Yi from getting everyone involved—let him go iso, make him work for every bucket.”
But Scott just waved him off.
“I’m the head coach, Chris. My orders are final.”
Well, okay then. You’re the boss.
Paul didn’t even argue after that. Just gave a blank stare and mentally checked out of that conversation.
...
Tip-off.
Lin Yi barely suppressed a laugh when he saw Okafor lining up across from him.
Wait, they’re really putting this guy on me?
Lin glanced around, as if checking for hidden cameras. This had to be a prank. After playing the Lakers, he was used to teams throwing wings or hybrid forwards at him. Nobody dared stick their center on him anymore. Even the Zen Master had adjusted.
But the Hornets? Hornets were stubborn. Or dumb. Maybe both.
Lin gave a cheeky wink to his teammates and jogged out to the three-point line. Okafor followed reluctantly.
The poor guy looked nervous, like a substitute teacher being asked to cover a class he had no clue about. He'd clearly watched Lin’s highlights. Nobody wants to end up on a mixtape.
Still, Okafor wanted to prove himself. Scott had shown faith in him, and Okafor didn’t want to let him down.
He got into a low stance, spread his arms wide, and tried to look locked in.
But Lin? Lin was a few levels ahead.
With a quick flick of his left hand, then a sudden burst to the right, he was gone. Okafor shuffled hard, trying to stay in front, his sneakers screeching like they were screaming for help.
Come on, almost there! Just keep up!
But just as he thought he had it under control—boom. Lin pulled the ball back with a snatch so smooth it felt like time slowed down.
In that split second, Lin smiled.
The move had connected perfectly.
Okafor lost his balance. His feet tangled. The floor wasn’t ready, but his backside was—boom. Down he went.
Lin rose, cool as ever, like a monarch surveying his court.
He drilled the jumper like it was nothing.
All Okafor could think about as he stared up at the ceiling was Scott’s voice echoing in his head:
"My orders are final!"
The crowd in New Orleans lost it. Gasps, cheers, even a few groans. Lin Yi had just turned Okafor into a viral clip.
And Paul?
Paul didn’t even look surprised.
He just shook his head.
“Lin Yi’s hands are way too slick—just slipped right past him!” Zhang Weiping shouted excitedly on CCTV, practically leaping out of his chair. He was having the time of his life.
Beside him, Yu Jia shook his head with a helpless smile. “I don’t get it. The Hornets actually put Okafor on Lin Yi? Okafor’s too slow laterally—that’s Lin Yi’s favorite matchup.”
Back on the court, Chris Paul was fuming. He glared toward the sideline, eyes locked on Coach Scott.
What the hell was that, Coach? Are you trying to get Okafor killed out here?
Everyone knew Lin Yi thrived against slow-footed bigs. Everyone except Scott, apparently.
Paul didn’t even have a close relationship with Okafor, but still—he couldn’t just watch his teammate get embarrassed. He jogged over and offered Emeka a hand.
“Sorry, Chris,” Okafor muttered, shaking his head in frustration. “He’s just… too quick. I couldn’t keep up.”
There was no confidence left in his voice. Not anymore. The years had worn down the pride that came with being a former top pick. He wasn’t Dwight Howard. He wasn’t Lin Yi. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t trying his damn best.
Paul patted him on the back. “Don’t beat yourself up, man. It’s not on you.”
But even as he comforted Okafor, Paul’s eyes were still burning holes into Scott.
This wasn’t just poor coaching. This was stubbornness. Stupidity. He knew damn well the media would clown Okafor for this after the game—and all because Scott didn’t want to admit he was wrong.
Why should Emeka take the heat for your mess, Coach?
Lin Yi, watching from a distance, couldn’t help but shake his head.
Coach Scott really was the definition of headstrong with low emotional intelligence.
He wasn’t just a bad tactician—he was the type to double down when everyone else could see he was wrong.
Lin had read about the drama from Scott’s Nets days. The falling out with Jason Kidd was infamous. Scott had even once told reporters he and Kidd were still on good terms. Kidd’s response?
“I just waved at him.”
Yeah. That said it all.
Since the Hornets were clearly this chaotic, Lin Yi wasn’t going to show mercy.
This was the NBA. You feel bad for your opponent? You lose. Simple as that.
Scott called a timeout just under three minutes into the game. The Hornets were down 5-4, but Lin Yi had gotten whatever he wanted on every possession.
It wasn’t even about the score—it was about the energy. The Hornets looked lost.
But Lin Yi didn’t know that Scott hadn’t called the timeout to fix the defense or stop the bleeding.
Nope. He had a bone to pick with Chris Paul.
“Chris!” Scott barked the moment they hit the bench. “Why aren’t you running the offense like I said? I told you—slow it down! Move the ball! Work through your teammates!”
Here we go again.
Scott grabbed the clipboard, ready to draw up another useless set.
But Paul had had enough.
He snatched the clipboard from Scott’s hands and smashed it to the floor.
“Enough with your garbage plays!” Paul roared, chest heaving. “You seriously still want Emeka guarding Lin Yi? Are you insane?”
Scott, arms crossed, barely flinched. “Why not? Emeka’s a center. Lin Yi’s a center. Centers should—”
“Oh my God.” Paul turned away, pacing. “You’re a damn murderer. I can’t play for you. Not even another minute.”
He wasn’t yelling now. He was dead serious.
The Hornets’ front office staff quickly stepped in to cool things down, but Paul was already gone—mentally, emotionally. Done.
Meanwhile, Scott stood there, genuinely confused.
“What did I do wrong? I’m the head coach! Why are you looking at me like I'm the problem? He should be following my instructions!”
One exec whispered under his breath, “We’re screwed. This thing’s about to implode…”
And on the other end of the floor, Lin Yi laced up tighter, smiled to himself, and thought: If this is what we’re up against tonight... this might get ugly.
