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Chapter 342: Knicks vs Hornets
🕑 Added 2025-09-10 12:40:40 +0000 UTCAt the New Orleans Arena, the atmosphere was lively but tense. The Knicks arrived riding a 21-game winning streak, one step away from tying the Rockets’ legendary 22-game 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, welcome to ESPN. My name is Mike Breen, alongside my partner Mark Jackson, on commentary. Today, we have the Hornets taking on the 21-game winning streak team, the Knicks.”
“Mark, the Hornets are currently sitting seventh in the Western Conference. The Rockets are chasing close behind, only two games 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 measured. “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 means something.”
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 adjustment. “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 names.”
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 time 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 perimeter, 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 game 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 enjoyment, never boring,” Mike remarked.
“Absolutely,” Mark said with approval. “Textbook mechanics. 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 someone’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 time, Lin wiped the corner of his mouth with his hand—a subtle little gesture aimed straight at Paul.
Paul’s eyes narrowed. He took the inbound, stormed 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 moment, then dropped softly through the net.
Chinese fans have a special nickname for Paul: The Rhythm Master. It’s not hard to see why. He controls the tempo of a game 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 frame, you need something else—something unique—to survive. Paul had that in spades: his vision, his pace, his ability to make the game dance to his tune.
Billups, meanwhile, 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 me 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 immediately.
But Billups wasn’t the type to chase ghosts. He wasn’t going to turn the next possession into some 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 perimeter 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 time 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 game with eight straight points. He was in rhythm, and when he got that way, it was dangerous. Paul, sensing the momentum tilting, called for an early timeout.
The Hornets regrouped and brought in Jason Smith. At 213 centimeters, 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 something 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—something 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 something a lot of players could learn from. Confidence matters. Even if I miss, I’ll take the shot. And this time?
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. Some 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, remembering 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 game 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 becomes 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 game, Lin Yi already had 10 points. During the next stoppage, D’Antoni pulled Billups aside. The message 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 mentality. This wasn’t about ego. It was about riding the hot hand.
Of course, the scoring title still loomed large. Durant might have withdrawn from the chase, but there was still Melo 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 something much bigger.
