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Chapter 334: 2011 All Star Weekend 2
🕑 Added 2025-09-04 15:51:20 +0000 UTCFebruary 19, 2011.
Staples Center.
The bright lights of Los Angeles once again pulled in half of Hollywood. Everywhere you looked, the stands were dotted with familiar faces—Johnny Depp tipping his cowboy hat like he’d just walked off a Western set, Scarlett Johansson dressed as though she were about to hit the red carpet instead of watch a basketball game, Jack Nicholson sipping a drink while leaning in close to whisper to his date, and Leonardo DiCaprio, Hollywood heart-throb, dressed for the occasion.
It was All-Star Weekend, and for most people in attendance, the real fun had only just begun.
Before the Haier Shooting Stars competition tipped off, Kenny Smith leaned into his mic and grinned. “I was going to tell everyone to just go home… but then I figured that might not sound too polite.”
Charles Barkley didn’t hesitate, swinging a playful kick Kenny’s way. “Forget polite. I hope you go out there and finish dead last!”
Kenny rolled his eyes, still laughing. He was representing Texas in the contest, and although he tried to play it cool, it was obvious he wanted to win badly.
Meanwhile, the camera crews weren’t wasting a second. They knew exactly who the fans came to see tonight. The lens kept drifting back to Lin Yi, sitting courtside, and every few minutes the jumbotron would light up with his face.
Lin, forced to smile under the spotlight, looked like someone who’d been asked to pose for family photos against his will. His expression practically screamed: This grin is hurting me more than you know.
Curry, seated right next to him, nudged him with curiosity. “So… who’s your pick for Shooting Stars?”
Lin shrugged, not even trying to recall who was participating.
“Texas,” he answered casually.
Funnily enough, Barkley’s blessing seemed to have some truth to it. The Texas team stormed through the first round in a blazing 31.8 seconds, only to collapse in the finals when no one could sink the half-court shot. Kenny Smith’s chance to rub it in Barkley’s face evaporated, and the championship instead went to the steady, quiet Atlanta team—Al Horford, Coco Miller, and Steve Smith, who kept their speeches short and humble before walking off with the trophy.
But the audience wasn’t dwelling on that. The moment the Shooting Stars ended, the energy shifted. The Staples Center roared back to life as the Taco Bell Skills Challenge was announced.
Back at the commentary desk, Kenny was still sulking. “If it weren’t for Chuck running his mouth, that trophy would’ve been mine.”
Barkley chuckled, leaning in. “Come on, Kenny. Forget about it. The Taco Bell Skills Challenge is up next—and look, Lin’s about to become the tallest player in history to compete. If he wins? That’s straight into the record books.”
Kenny sighed, then relented. “Yeah, yeah. Lin’s officially listed 7 feet. And don’t get me wrong—he’s one of the most versatile big men we’ve ever seen. But this is still a guard’s game. Speed and quickness matter, and smaller guys have the edge.”
The line-up was stacked with the league’s new blood: Russell Westbrook, Stephen Curry, John Wall, Derrick Rose… and Lin Yi. It was like a roll call for the future of the NBA.
As Lin sat waiting for his turn, he couldn’t help but think about how the league was changing. Big men were no longer just post-bruisers; they were being forced to adapt. Guys like Jokic would one day show passing skills better than most guards. Porzingis, still years away, would grow into the prototype of a modern stretch-big. And now, here was Lin—about to prove that size didn’t mean you couldn’t handle the ball.
“Alright, first up—Stephen Curry,” the host announced.
The crowd buzzed as Curry dribbled out. His run was clean: crisp passes, smooth shooting, almost flawless execution. He even tried to cap it with a dunk, only to switch awkwardly mid-air to a two-handed finish.
The clock stopped at 31.5 seconds. Respectable, and enough to put him in the conversation.
Lin smirked. “Stephen, I say this for your own good—delete the word dunk from your vocabulary.”
Curry winced but pretended not to hear, choosing instead to glance at the stands where Ayesha was cheering.
Rose came next. His speed was electric, but his shooting betrayed him. Every missed attempt added precious seconds, and he limped out with 35.7. Wall followed, equally fast, but his passing imploded. Three botched attempts left him with 39.8.
“Fundamentals, gentlemen!” Kenny groaned. “Someone please remind these guards that the basketball isn’t a track event.”
Barkley pounced. “Hey Kenny, why don’t you go out there and show them? Jet still got some fuel left?”
Kenny waved him off. “Save the jokes.”
Then came Westbrook. Energized, fiery, and determined, he blazed through everything. Only his shooting slowed him down, but even then, he posted 31.9. Not quite Curry’s time, but close enough.
That left Lin Yi. The final contestant. The giant among guards.
Before stepping onto the court, Lin was asked for a quick word. He kept it modest. “No bold claims. I’ll let my game talk. This isn’t the only Skills Challenge they’ll hold, anyway. As long as I win one, I’ll be fine.”
The Staples crowd buzzed with anticipation. Even Kobe, O’Neal, Duncan, and Ginobili stood up to watch. David Beckham, seated courtside, leaned forward, curious to see what all the hype was about.
Lin bounced the ball a couple of times, blew into his hands, and set off.
Three long strides—then a soaring dunk to start. The crowd erupted.
He glided through the obstacles with surprising agility, spinning cleanly through two cones and threading a crisp chest pass right on target. His dribbling was fluid, almost elegant for someone his size.
Kenny Smith blurted out, “That’s like poetry in motion. Smooth as a harp string.”
Lin finished strong, gliding in for another dunk that shook the rim. When the timer stopped at 28.7 seconds, Staples Center lost its mind. Lin Yi and Curry advanced to the finals.
Westbrook, who had missed out by just 0.4 seconds, clapped with a sportsman’s grin.
The finals began with Curry. Determined to upstage Lin, he flew through the course, even ending with a clean one-handed dunk this time. 28.2 seconds. Ayesha leapt from her seat, clapping furiously. Curry celebrated with his parents in the back row.
Then it was Lin’s turn.
No theatrics. Just efficiency. A quick layup instead of a dunk. Smooth, conservative dribbling through the cones. Two pinpoint passes. Then, at the shooting point—swish.
By now, the crowd was on its feet. Kobe was leading the cheers.
Lin accelerated down the stretch, finishing with a powerful slam that rattled the building. The buzzer sounded.
“27.4 seconds!”
The Staples Center exploded.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer bellowed, “the tallest champion in Skills Challenge history—Lin Yi!”
The ovation was deafening. On this night, under the bright lights of Hollywood, Lin didn’t just win a contest. He redefined what people thought was possible for a player his size.
...
James sat back in his seat, arms crossed, sunglasses still perched on his nose despite being indoors.
He tilted his head toward Wade and said, “With his skillset, I honestly thought he’d stumble on a few of those outside shots—never mind the ones inside. Didn’t see that coming.”
Wade chuckled, nodding. “Same here. I figured he’d handle himself, maybe even surprise a few people. But to actually win it? That’s different. And look at his time—it’s right up there with the best we’ve ever seen. Deron, Nash… that’s baller company.”
As rivals, neither James nor Wade was shocked anymore by Lin Yi. But hearing the Staples Center crowd roar like that made it clear: this wasn’t just another Skills Challenge. This was a moment.
Because Lin Yi didn’t just win. He was half a step ahead. And that half-step was the difference between admiration and disbelief—the little space where fans caught their breath before screaming.
“He’s redefining the game!” Kenny Smith shouted, unable to hide his excitement.
“A whole new era!” Barkley piled on, his voice booming through the broadcast.
The calls echoed from Los Angeles into living rooms across the United States.
..
And back in Beijing, even the CCTV broadcast couldn’t stay calm. Su Junyang’s voice cracked with excitement: “Lin Yi’s greatness doesn’t need an explanation—just look at Yao Ming’s smile! That’s pride right there.”
Yu Jia added with more measured praise. “Dirk Nowitzki changed the idea of what a big man could do. And now comes Lin Yi—something else entirely. He isn’t a traditional center at all. D’Antoni has already said he can play anywhere from one to five, and tonight’s Skills Challenge proved it. His fundamentals are exceptional.”
..
On the court, Lin Yi was handed the trophy. He gave a short speech, thanking the fans, but saved his biggest tease for the end. “I hope this won’t be the last time I’m up here tonight. I’ve still got a few tricks left for the next contest.”
The arena erupted again. Los Angeles fans had bought their tickets expecting fireworks in the Slam Dunk Contest, but they’d already been treated to a show in the Skills Challenge.
Derrick Rose and John Wall kept their heads down, visibly embarrassed that a 7-footer had outshone the guards in their own event. Westbrook, though, wasn’t bothered. With his trademark big grin, he hugged Lin Yi at midcourt.
Curry looked a touch disappointed—his plan to snipe Lin in the Skills Challenge had backfired. But he shrugged it off. The three-point contest was still to come.
After a lively cheerleader performance, the court staff rolled out the racks of balls. The three-point contest was next.
The rules were simple: five racks, five balls each. Four regular worth one point, one colored money ball worth two. Maximum score: 30. Sixty seconds to shoot.
The field was stacked: defending champ Paul Pierce, the legendary Ray Allen, sharpshooter James Jones, rising star Curry, Lin Yi, and Durant.
First up: Kevin Durant.
Durant wanted to make a statement. But his form betrayed him—too quick, too jittery.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The rims seemed to reject everything. By the time he finished, he had only six points. Staples Center groaned. Fans who had expected smooth jumpers were left grimacing.
“Whew,” Barkley snorted, “Kevin must be paying tribute to MJ tonight—remember Mike’s five-point disaster back in the day?”
The camera caught Westbrook patting Durant on the back as he trudged to the bench. “Don’t sweat it, Kev. At least you’re not the worst in history.”
Durant forced a smile, but inside, every cheer for Lin Yi felt like an arrow through the chest.
Lin Yi was next. The ovation that followed him to the rack made Durant sink even lower in his seat.
Lin started calmly. First rack: 3 of 5. Then, at the wing—his sweet spot—he buried two regulars and the money ball for four points. At the top of the arc, he slowed his release, drilling three of four plus the bonus: five more points.
By the time he reached the final rack, Lin was in rhythm. Swish, swish, swish. He swept it clean for a total of 21 points. Staples Center loved it. His shooting stroke looked effortless, almost artistic.
James Jones followed but struggled under the spotlight, finishing with just 16 points. Then came Curry.
From the first shot, you could see he was locked in. At the arc and wing racks, he drilled ten straight. The crowd exploded, sensing history.
By the end, Curry had 24 points—just one shy of Jason Kapono’s record. He couldn’t help himself. He sprinted over to Lin Yi, chest-bumped him, then immediately remembered they were rivals tonight and playfully turned away, running to embrace Ayesha in the front row.
“Now that’s the Curry we know,” Barkley laughed. “Ray Allen and Pierce better be ready.”
Ray Allen stepped up next, his calm veteran demeanor hiding the nerves. But even he faltered at the last two racks, finishing with 20. Pierce, defending champion, barely managed 12.
The finals were set: Lin Yi, Curry, and Ray Allen.
Allen shot first, but pressure got to him again—16 points. Respectable, but not enough.
Lin Yi went second. He wasn’t flashy, just steady. His form looked smooth, his rhythm unshakable. Rack by rack, the points added up. When the buzzer sounded, he had 23.
“Good lord,” Barkley exclaimed, “Lin might sweep this whole night!”
Kenny Smith shook his head, smiling. “Don’t count Steph out. He’s been lights out all evening.”
Curry jogged to the line last, shoulders loose, grin wide. And he delivered—another scorching streak, draining 12 straight in the middle racks. The crowd rose to its feet as the scoreboard flashed: 25 points.
He had tied the record. Staples Center was shaking.
Lin Yi laughed as Curry raised the trophy. They had traded blows all night—Lin taking the Skills Challenge, Curry stealing the three-point crown. A rivalry and friendship was brewing in real time.
Meanwhile, Ray Allen sat stiffly at the side, frustrated at being eclipsed by a rookie and a kid barely into his second season. Lin Yi didn’t think much of Allen’s earlier digs, but whether Allen could let it go was another matter.
Curry, meanwhile, was over the moon. Between this and his performance in the Rising Stars Game, his name was now firmly on the map.
But even as the three-point contest wrapped, Staples Center was already buzzing for what came next. The main event.
Lin Yi versus Blake Griffin.
The Slam Dunk Contest.
...
The finale was always the best.
As the lights in Staples Center dimmed and the banners above swayed faintly in the rafters, the crowd leaned forward as one. The slam dunk contest—long the jewel of All-Star Saturday—was about to begin.
This year’s twist was different. Each competitor had chosen a personal coach, adding a layer of theater before the dunks even began.
Kenny Smith was the first to bask in the spotlight, his shiny forehead catching the glow like a beacon. And behind him, announced with a roar that shook the building, came the hometown favorite.
“He’s powerful, he’s explosive, he’s Los Angeles’ own—give it up for Blake Griffin!”
The ovation was deafening. Even the All-Stars lounging along the sideline—LeBron, Wade, Dwight, and the rest—stood to applaud. In that moment, Griffin felt like the lead actor in a blockbuster.
Serge Ibaka followed as the second contestant, with Kevin Durant striding proudly beside him. Ibaka’s sheer size commanded respect.
Then came JaVale McGee, lanky arms dangling like cranes, led out by Chris Webber. His goofy grin couldn’t hide the fact that the man had athletic gifts that bordered on unfair.
But then—suddenly—the noise stopped. The way an ocean stills before a wave. Nearly 20,000 fans fell silent, as if they sensed what was coming.
“Oh my god!” Barkley shouted, springing to his feet at the broadcast table.
All eyes snapped to the tunnel.
Lin Yi was walking onto the floor, Kobe Bryant riding walking out beside him.
And Staples Center erupted.
“M-V-P! M-V-P! M-V-P!”
It didn’t even matter who the chant was for—Kobe, the city’s true king, or Lin, the Knicks star walking with him. What mattered was the noise, the frenzy, the goosebumps on every arm in the building.
Griffin blinked in disbelief. Wait—so the introduction can be played like this?
Yes. Yes, it could.
Lin Yi had pulled out the trump card. In Los Angeles, bringing Kobe onto the floor was sacrilege to some, genius to others. Either way, it guaranteed that no one in the building would forget the moment.
On the sideline, Shaquille O’Neal laughed and muttered curses under his breath, half-annoyed and half-impressed.
Even Shaq found himself wondering if he should team up with Lin for his next entrance gag.
The stage was set. The judges—Chris Webber, Julius Erving, Hakeem Olajuwon, Dominique Wilkins, and Patrick Ewing —settled in, each of them legends in their own right, their presence elevating the night further.
It was also worth noting: for the first time in dunk contest history, every participant was a big man. No guards, no small forwards.
DeMar DeRozan, who had originally been slated to compete, had withdrawn. “Why fight for a trophy you can’t win?” he’d told reporters with a shrug. His honesty only made Lin’s reputation grow heavier.
.
The contest began with Ibaka, sprinting from the baseline and soaring from the free-throw line in homage to Michael Jordan. The crowd respected it but didn’t gasp. The move had been recycled too often in recent years. He earned 45 points.
“Hard to get a fifty with that now,” Kenny Smith remarked from the booth, half-apologetic.
“Yeah,” Barkley added. “After Lin shows up, you’ll know what a real fifty looks like.”
McGee was next. And from the moment an extra hoop was wheeled onto the floor, people knew they were about to witness something wild. He attempted the two-ball dunk, fumbling through a few tries before nailing it dramatically—throwing one off the backboard, slamming it left-handed, then catching the rebound with his right and hammering it in again.
The crowd roared.
But the judges held back. Dr. J and Webber each flashed a 9. Final score: 48.
The arena booed, sensing politics at play. When pressed, Dr. J explained, “Creativity-wise, Lin’s mascot dunk last year was tougher. Until he shows us something tonight, this doesn’t deserve perfection.”
McGee, shoulders slumped, jogged back to the bench, shaking his head.
Then it was Griffin’s turn. He tried for a two-hand 360, missed once, and on his second attempt landed something closer to a 270 tomahawk. The violence impressed, but the finish was sloppy. Score: 49.
Boos again.
“This crowd’s not buying it,” Barkley said bluntly. “But look, JaVale and Blake both had dunks that would’ve scored 50 in other years. Tonight, the bar’s just higher.”
And then—it was Lin Yi’s turn.
The building hushed. Even NBA stars sprawled on the hardwood, lying flat to get the best angle.
Before stepping to the baseline, Lin wandered over to the booth and pointed at Kenny Smith.
“Hey, Kenny—you said if I gave you a dunk that blew you away, you’d give me a new nickname. You sticking to that?”
Kenny laughed nervously, torn between loyalty to Griffin and admiration for Lin. “Of course! You give me something legendary, I’ll crown you myself.”
Griffin stared at the exchange, mouth open. Wait. You even stole my coach?
Lin dribbled to the baseline, tossed the ball forward, and took off.
He glided—smooth, effortless. Midair, he wrapped the ball under and around his legs whilst doing a 180°, into a two-handed reverse dunk.
The crowd lost its mind.
Kenny Smith sprinted to the judges’ table, flipping their cards himself: all tens. Then he turned to the crowd, arms spread wide, and screamed, “Go home! It’s over! Lin Yi is the Terminator! He ends everything!”
Lin high-fived Kobe, Curry, Shaq, and even Harden before glancing up at the big screen to watch the replay. His form was clean, his extension graceful. The dunk was art in motion.
Fifty. Unanimous.
“This,” Dr. J said into his microphone, “is my standard for tonight.”
The second round brought more theatrics.
Ibaka tried a prop dunk, snagging a toy with his mouth mid-flight before slamming one-handed. Fun, but gimmicky. He scored 45 again and was eliminated.
McGee pulled out a new stunt, attempting three balls at once. Against all odds, he succeeded—but the crowd didn’t know how to react. The judges gave him 49, clearly saving room for Griffin.
Poor JaVale. His combined score of 97 should have guaranteed a spot in the finals, but the script wanted Lin vs. Blake.
Griffin, sweating now, delivered a violent tomahawk off the glass, a nod to Vince Carter. It got him 49, just enough to edge into the finals with 98 total.
The boos rained heavier. Even Stern shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Lin Yi’s second dunk was straight from the streetball courts. He sprinted, twisted midair, tucked both legs, and sent the ball beneath them before slamming down. Smooth, sharp, perfect.
The crowd screamed.
Kenny Smith, losing his mind, yelled, “The king doesn’t beg for sympathy! That’s fifty, no debate!”
And fifty it was.
On the sideline, stars piled on Lin in celebration—Ginóbili slack-jawed, Wade tugging LeBron, Shaq dancing, Curry and Harden rushing in like kids at a playground.
Even the judges cracked. Olajuwon hurled his scorecard to the floor and shouted, “There’s nothing left to say. It’s a fifty!”
Griffin, watching through the chaos, felt a chill. He had saved his big move for the finale. But staring at Lin Yi now, he realized—this wasn’t just competition. This was survival.
“Don’t worry,” Griffin muttered under his breath. “I’ve still got my ace.”
JaVale McGee sat on the sideline, his eyes fixed on the court.
Even if I come up with a clever idea later, there’s no way it’ll match what he’s doing out there, he thought.
The thought, oddly enough, made him relax. He leaned back and quietly waited for Lin Yi’s next act.
The whole of Los Angeles felt like it had been thrown into frenzy.
McGee’s earlier improvisation and Blake Griffin’s crowd-friendly dunks had lit up the preliminaries, but they all seemed to be setting the stage for Lin Yi’s coronation.
As the final round approached, Griffin himself began to waver. Could his creativity really rival Lin’s? He had intended to save his biggest trick for the finals, but McGee’s boldness forced his hand early. With Baron Davis tossing him the assist, Griffin twisted in midair and hammered down a dunk. It was clean, powerful, and earned him respect from the home crowd.
Lin Yi, watching from the baseline, recalled that in another timeline Griffin had stumbled on this attempt. Tonight, with the added push, Griffin nailed it.
It was proof of how much mentality shapes performance under the lights.
Staples Center roared its approval, but even commissioner David Stern, sitting courtside, had a furrowed brow. He knew the contest’s voting system needed work—home players enjoyed too much of an advantage.
Lin was up second. For his first dunk in the finals.
Tossing the ball from the baseline, he launched, switching the ball from his right hand to his left under his legs before flushing it down. It looked effortless.
From a pure aesthetic standpoint, it outshone Griffin’s effort. If it had been left to the judges, Lin would already be ahead. But with the fan vote looming, he was saving something bigger for the last dunk.
The crowd’s anticipation tightened with each passing moment.
For his second attempt, Griffin called for props. The choir rolled in, a Kia was parked beneath the hoop, and Baron Davis positioned himself in the driver’s seat. On the cue, Davis lofted the ball through the sunroof, and Griffin soared over the bonnet, catching and slamming it home.
It was theatrical, spectacular, and made for highlight reels. But Griffin himself didn’t feel right about it. He had once envisioned flying over a convertible, something sleeker, something bolder. League regulations forced him to settle for a Kia sedan. The applause masked his disappointment.
Lin, however, noticed the shift in Griffin’s demeanor. The self-belief had dulled. This wasn’t the brash rookie dunker anymore—this was a man realizing that tonight wasn’t his to win.
When Lin stepped up for his final dunk, the Staples Center rose in unison. Johnny Depp, Jack Nicholson, Beckham, Scarlett Johansson—Hollywood royalty and global stars stood shoulder to shoulder with fans, phones raised to capture the moment.
Curry, Harden, and DeRozan stretched their arms high from the front row, as though channeling energy into Lin. To anyone watching, the three looked like human Wi-Fi towers, broadcasting belief.
Even Kobe and Shaq found themselves standing together again, their eyes locked on the baseline where Lin Yi bounced the ball in preparation.
Kenny Smith leaned forward in commentary, his voice rising. “Wait a second—he’s backing up all the way to the opposite baseline. Don’t tell me… free-throw line?”
Su Junyang’s eyes widened. “It can’t just be that. Not with the way he’s been switching hands all night.”
And he was right.
Lin sprinted down the court, ball in one hand, his long strides eating up space. His right foot hit the free-throw line—Michael Jordan’s launching pad in 1988. As he rose, time seemed to slow. The ball passed under his legs, switching hands mid-flight, before his outstretched arm thundered it through the rim.
A free-throw line dunk. With a hand switch beneath the leg.
Staples exploded.
Commentators around the globe shouted in disbelief, their voices rising above one another. Photographers cursed their shutters, wishing they had been quicker.
On the sidelines, Kobe and Shaq grabbed Lin’s arms, raising them like victorious boxers. The crowd poured noise into the rafters, shaking the building.
“Game over!” Barkley shouted on TNT, laughing as he clapped his hands. “That’s it, that’s all she wrote!”
Even Kenny Smith, often critical, was nearly speechless. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just seen something… something that’s going to live forever.”
At courtside, Stern couldn’t stop the inevitable. Fan voting came in: 93 percent for Lin Yi.
..
“The sea has no end, the mountain no peak—tonight, Lin Yi is at the summit!” Yu Jia declared on CCTV, his voice cracking with excitement.
Su Junyang took off his glasses, dabbing at his eyes. “Asians really can fly. What a moment… what a night.”
..
For Griffin, the outcome had been clear even before Lin’s final dunk. He knew then why DeRozan had withdrawn, and he understood—sometimes raw power isn’t enough. Inspiration matters. Creativity matters.
McGee embraced Lin at midcourt, shaking his head in admiration. “You’ve got me, man. You’ve really got me.”
Online, the dunk was instantly immortalized. Within minutes, GIFs and clips were trending worldwide. YouTube is filled with highlight videos, fans looping Lin’s dunks into endless montages. Even Justin Bieber, prepping for a new single, had to wait—this was the story.
And Lin knew it was enough. Defending the title was all he needed. Another year might block the path for LaVine, Gordon, and future artists of the rim. He wanted to see what others would create.
Trophy in hand, he addressed the crowd. “Dunking, to me, is about challenging yourself. The joy is in beating your own limits again and again. Only when you defeat yourself can you truly reach new peaks.”
His words, simple yet resonant, spread like wildfire. On the sidelines, LeBron, Wade, and Bosh nodded gravely. Not about dunking, but about their own battles with the Knicks.
Staples Center stayed buzzing long after the lights dimmed. Two dunk titles, back-to-back, in Dallas and now Los Angeles. Lin Yi’s legend had grown roots.
