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Chapter 373: Interlude 3
🕑 Added 2025-10-02 13:06:48 +0000 UTCThe biggest regret Lin Yi had on this trip to Dallas for the Finals wasn’t losing sleep or the endless media attention—it was the food.
Not that he wasn’t disciplined. Ever since parting ways with Chris Paul’s fried chicken back in the season, Lin Yi had forced himself into a strict routine of balanced, nutrition-packed meals from his chefs. For most people, food was a source of joy. For him, it had become more of a chore.
Still, he told himself, if that’s what it takes to chase a dream, then so be it.
During halftime of the Finals between the Mavericks and the Knicks, ESPN reporter Steve Smalling broke a piece of news that caught everyone off guard.
According to him, the Cavaliers were surprisingly confident they could convince Carmelo Anthony to extend with them after the trade with Denver.
Lin Yi knew Steve well—well enough that he could call him while chewing his joyless chicken breast.
“Come on, Steve,” Lin Yi said with a half-laugh. “Melo didn’t like Denver. What makes you think he’d be happy in Cleveland?”
“I’m not guessing here, Lin. I can’t share the details, but it’s solid. Someone there managed to get through to him,” Steve replied smoothly. And then, as always, he tried to flip it back. “By the way, got anything spicy for me about the Finals?”
That was the thing about Steve—he was professional to the bone. No matter how friendly you were, he’d never give away the real source.
Lin Yi didn’t give him anything either. Truth was, he only called because he was fighting against his cravings, and he needed a distraction.
But when he hung up, he found himself staring at the wall, lost in thought.
If Anthony really ended up in Cleveland, that meant history had shifted again. Would the Cavs still land the No. 1 pick? And if Melo joined LeBron later… what did that even mean for the league?
It was a mess. A complete mess.
He felt like a player who’d gone from max-level back to rookie overnight—no control, just chaos.
One thing was clear, though: the Knicks couldn’t afford to waste this draft. They had to gamble big, build the skeleton of the future right now, no hesitations.
After finishing his dinner, Lin Yi went back to his room, pulled out the videotapes Dan D’Antoni had prepared, and took notes. Every possession, every detail—what shots he should’ve taken, which ones he shouldn’t have forced.
He didn’t even remember when he’d started enjoying this kind of grind. But somewhere along the line, reflecting, analyzing, and refining had become as addictive as the game itself.
…
Meanwhile, in San Antonio, Kawhi Leonard was finishing his private workout with the Spurs. He glanced at his uncle, Dennis Robertson, with a frown.
“Uncle… are you sure about this?” Leonard asked. He couldn’t understand why Dennis insisted he only work out for the Spurs, but then secretly sent all his real data and videos to someone else.
Dennis, calm as always, placed a hand on Kawhi’s shoulder. “Kawhi, listen. This is a business. You focus on playing basketball. Let me handle the rest. We can’t put everything on one roll of the dice in San Antonio.”
Kawhi didn’t argue. His uncle had been there since his father’s death, holding the family together. If Dennis said this was the way, Kawhi would trust him.
But Leonard’s official agent, Mitch Frankel, wasn’t nearly as comfortable.
“Dennis, are you out of your mind? The Spurs already have a deal lined up with Indiana for Kawhi. If they find out about this, we’ll be making an enemy of Popovich!”
Dennis replied. “Relax. We never signed a contract. They only asked that Kawhi not try out with other teams, and he hasn’t. All I did was send his info as insurance. You think Pop always keeps his promises? I’m making sure Kawhi has options.”
Mitch rubbed his forehead, exasperated. “Fine. But if you’re going to play this game, keep it quiet. San Antonio can’t know.”
“Of course,” Dennis said with certainty. “No one will ever find out.”
The workout itself was smooth. Popovich watched carefully and afterward asked Kawhi a casual question.
“Have you been following the Finals?”
“Yes, Coach,” Kawhi said without hesitation. “The Knicks are amazing. Honestly… I’m a Lin Yi fan.”
Popovich chuckled, patted him on the shoulder, and said in perfect Mandarin, “Kawhi, you’re going to be San Antonio’s Lin Yi.”
Kawhi nodded shyly, but his eyes lit up. For someone like him, who rarely showed emotion, that was as close to excitement as it got.
...
June 7, 2011
The American Airlines Center, Dallas.
The place was a furnace of noise, every seat filled, every camera lens fixed on the floor.
Game 4 of the NBA Finals was about to tip off.
On the Mavericks’ sideline, Rick Carlisle’s usual calm, almost robotic composure cracked the moment he saw the Knicks’ starting five announced on the scoreboard.
He had prepared, of course. He’d studied New York’s small-ball lineup over and over, drilled rotations and help coverages, and mapped out ways to deal with their mismatches. It was all in the plan.
But tonight… the Knicks threw the playbook straight into the fire.
Because Shaquille O’Neal was in the starting lineup.
Chauncey Billups, the veteran floor general, was on the bench. Instead, Mike D’Antoni rolled out a starting five of O’Neal, Tyson Chandler at power forward, Gallinari, Wilson Chandler, and Lin Yi at the point of attack.
Big from the opening tip. No disguises, no cat-and-mouse games—just size, strength, and a blunt statement: we’re coming straight at you.
It was like Dallas had just laid down a pair of threes in poker, and New York slammed the table with a royal flush.
Carlisle had assumed the Knicks would ease in, maybe open with a traditional look and then slip into the Death five later, like they did in Game 3. But no—the Knicks were skipping the setup and going straight for the knockout.
And the early rhythm confirmed it: the game began not with a Dallas surge, but with a New York avalanche.
For Lin Yi, there was no option other than winning this one. Game 4 wasn’t just another Finals matchup—it was a hinge game, the one that could swing the series.
A victory tonight meant the Knicks would shove Dallas’s veteran core—Kidd, Nowitzki, Terry—right up against the cliff’s edge.
