At the New Orleans Arena, the atmosphere was lively but tense. The Knicks arrived riding a 21-ga winning streak, one step away from tying the Rockets' legendary 22-ga run. Across from them stood the Hornets, fighting tooth and nail for playoff position in the West.
Mike Breen's voice carried over the broadcast. "Hello everyone, welco to ESPN. My na is Mike Breen, alongside my partner Mark Jackson, on comntary. Today, we have the Hornets taking on the 21-ga winning streak team, the Knicks."
"Mark, the Hornets are currently sitting seventh in the Western Conference. The Rockets are chasing close behind, only two gas back. A lot of fans are hoping the Knicks can kill two birds with one stone tonight: extend their streak and push the Hornets down a notch. What's your take?"
Mark Jackson chuckled, his tone asured. "Well, in the West, whether you're seventh or eighth doesn't change much. Spurs, Lakers, Mavericks—pick your poison. Whoever you draw, it's tough. From the Knicks' perspective, I don't think they care about helping anyone. The focus tonight is simple: chase history. That streak ans sothing."
The big screen flickered with the starting lineups.
Knicks:
Tyson Chandler
Lin Yi
Danny Green
Lance Stephenson
Chauncey Billups.
Hornets:
Aaron Gray
David West
Trevor Ariza
Willie Green
Chris Paul.
Yu Jia noted the adjustnt. "Interesting look from the Knicks tonight. Rookie Stephenson in the starting five."
"That's D'Antoni for you," Mark replied. "He's never been shy about tweaking the rotation. With the playoffs getting closer, I think he wants the younger guys to taste the pressure. Depth wins you playoff series, not just your big nas."
Mike nodded. "And it's true—this Knicks team is different. We used to say D'Antoni over-relied on his starters, but now? Every ti a sub checks in, they contribute. Like Barkley said on TNT the other day, the Knicks are basically plug-and-play. Confidence is running through that entire roster."
They shifted focus to the frontcourt battle. "Mike, do you think Lin Yi can run circles around Aaron Gray?" Yu Jia teased.
"Haha, that depends," Mike grinned. "Gray's a mountain. He's not quick, but if he gets into position, he's hard to move. But let's be honest—if he has to switch onto Lin Yi on the periter, it's a mismatch. The Hornets don't have too many options there. And you can't exactly start Mbenga, can you?"
Mike laughed. "Funny you say that—one netizen actually suggested West slide to the five and Ariza at the four."
"That fan definitely watches their basketball," Mark agreed. "But I doubt the Hornets' coaching staff has the guts to try it."
The referees stepped in, and the ga tipped off. Lin Yi rose above Gray with ease, winning the jump ball without breaking a sweat.
The Hornets opened with David West matched up with Lin. But on the very first possession, Lin Yi pulled out his fadeaway jumper. Smooth release, perfect arc—bucket.
2–0 Knicks.
"Fans online often say watching Lin Yi's fadeaway is pure enjoynt, never boring," Mike remarked.
"Absolutely," Mark said with approval. "Textbook chanics. From his footwork to his release, it's as close to flawless as you'll see."
Chris Paul took the ball on the other end. With West screening, Lin Yi found himself switched onto CP3.
And nothing irked Paul more than seeing Lin Yi in front of him.
Paul snapped into gear—quick crossover, sudden stop, rise into a mid-range jumper. He wasn't tall, but his timing was impeccable. Lin bit on the fake, his weight shifting just enough for Paul to punish him.
Swish.
2–2.
After sinking it, Paul smirked and mimicked Lin Yi's trademark gunshot celebration.
From the bench, O'Neal burst out laughing. "Ha! I'll bet Lin must've ticked Chris off at dinner yesterday."
The Knicks' players exchanged glances, half amused, half resigned. Sure enough—only a fellow foodie like Paul could understand how easily Lin got under soone's skin.
Back on offense, the Knicks ran a double screen inside. Gray lumbered after the play, his beard bouncing as he struggled to keep up. Lin Yi gave him no chance to recover—stepping behind the arc and letting it fly.
Swish.
5–2 Knicks.
This ti, Lin wiped the corner of his mouth with his hand—a subtle little gesture aid straight at Paul.
Paul's eyes narrowed. He took the inbound, stord across half court, and didn't bother calling a play. One hard crossover later, he burst into the paint and lofted a floater.
It hung for a mont, then dropped softly through the net.
Chinese fans have a special nickna for Paul: The Rhythm Master. It's not hard to see why. He controls the tempo of a ga the way a conductor leads an orchestra. In many ways, he and Iverson are the proof that in a league of giants, height isn't everything. If you're not blessed with a seven-foot fra, you need sothing else—sothing unique—to survive. Paul had that in spades: his vision, his pace, his ability to make the ga dance to his tune.
Billups, anwhile, could only shake his head and let out a sigh.
If I were just a year or two younger… Paul wouldn't be getting past so easily.
He knew it. Age wasn't cruel all at once—it was a slow erosion. The feet didn't slide quite as quickly, the recovery steps weren't as sharp, and Paul, of all players, noticed the gaps imdiately.
But Billups wasn't the type to chase ghosts. He wasn't going to turn the next possession into so one-on-one duel just to prove a point. He understood the bigger picture. The Knicks had a weapon in Lin Yi that few teams could match right now, and Billups was smart enough to lean into that.
Over on the Hornets' bench, Monty Williams was massaging his temples. Watching Gray try to chase Lin Yi around the periter was giving him a headache. Monty knew that if things didn't change soon, he'd have no choice but to pull Gray. But this was the NBA of the late 2000s—most coaches weren't gamblers. Bold substitutions weren't the norm. They were cautious by nature.
And then—bang. Lin Yi drilled another three right in front of Gray. The poor big man barely had ti to raise a hand. He could only stand there, helpless, as the net snapped.
Gray himself knew the truth. He'd thought about slimming down, about reshaping his body for this faster league. But thinking and doing were two different things. If he'd really had that kind of discipline, maybe he'd have landed the kind of long-term deal he'd always wanted. Instead, here he was, watching Lin Yi torch him.
Lin Yi opened the ga with eight straight points. He was in rhythm, and when he got that way, it was dangerous. Paul, sensing the montum tilting, called for an early tiout.
The Hornets regrouped and brought in Jason Smith. At 213 centiters, Smith matched Gray in height, but that was where the similarities ended. He weighed a good deal less, moved lighter on his feet, and had that stretch big label that coaches were beginning to value more. He wasn't the rim protector Gray was supposed to be, but at least he could get out and move.
Plus, Smith had sothing Gray didn't: a clean-cut look that earned him plenty of cheers from the crowd. Of course, good looks didn't block shots. Monty's substitution was less a solution and more a bandage—sothing to stop the bleeding, at least temporarily.
Back on the floor, Paul went to work again. He sold Billups with a textbook pump fake, slid into the lane, and forced Danny Green to rotate over. Paul paused, reading the floor for just a second before firing a pass to the corner. Waiting there was Ariza—the man Knicks fans half-jokingly called the Assist destroyer.
Now, say what you want about Ariza, but the man never hesitated. That was sothing a lot of players could learn from. Confidence matters. Even if I miss, I'll take the shot. And this ti?
Swish.
Pure.
Scoreboard read 8–7. The Hornets weren't going away, not with Paul locked in. Nights like this, the whole team's fate rested on his shoulders. This wasn't just fan bias; it was reality. His supporters would say the old line—"the team lost, but Paul didn't"—but if you watched closely, you knew the truth. So nights, Paul's brilliance just wasn't enough to drag everyone with him.
Still, a loss was a loss. Lin Yi knew that feeling all too well, rembering how the Celtics sent his team packing last year. It stung, but the league doesn't wait for sympathy. You move on.
After a couple of empty trips from both sides, Lin Yi found himself a step beyond the arc, staring down David West. With a subtle fake, he got West to bite. Even Tyson Chandler, who was ready to crash the glass, was convinced that Lin was actually letting it fly. That was how convincing the move was.
West had a dilemma. With Lin Yi's range, you couldn't just let him rise and shoot. Contest late, and you'd be picking the ball out of the net. So he lunged, and Lin Yi slipped past.
Funny how the ga humbles you. West, once famous for punishing traditional bigs with his deadly mid-range, now found himself on the wrong side of evolution. The hunter becos the hunted.
Lin Yi sliced into the paint. Smith lingered, clearly torn. Help too early and you leave the corner open; help too late and you risk a highlight reel dunk. And maybe—just maybe—Smith didn't want to be the guy on YouTube getting posterized. After all, the man had a reputation to protect. Female fans don't forget those clips.
So Smith hesitated, and Lin Yi floated in for a smooth two-handed layup. His glide, the way he hung in the air—it was Jordan-esque. The crowd murmured in appreciation.
Barely four minutes into the ga, Lin Yi already had 10 points. During the next stoppage, D'Antoni pulled Billups aside. The ssage was simple, though it didn't need to be spoken: when Lin Yi's cooking, you keep feeding him until the stove runs cold.
The Knicks, as a unit, had adopted that ntality. This wasn't about ego. It was about riding the hot hand.
Of course, the scoring title still lood large. Durant might have withdrawn from the chase, but there was still lo in Denver—never one to back down from a scoring duel.
D'Antoni had every intention of pushing Lin Yi into that conversation. What he didn't expect was that Lin Yi, once again, was threatening to turn the night into sothing much bigger.
...
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