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Chapter 311: The Streak Ends In Dallas
🕑 Added 2025-08-21 12:37:29 +0000 UTCBefore tip-off, the general sentiment among fans and pundits was simple: Dirk Nowitzki and his Mavericks didn’t stand a chance against the Knicks’ bruising style, led by the relentless Lin Yi.
But basketball, as always, has a way of humbling expectations.
The Knicks was stunned at the American Airlines Centre, ending the Knicks’ winning streak with a 108–97 victory. For the first time in 35 days, the Knicks walked off the court with a loss.
For coach Mike D’Antoni, the timing couldn’t have been better. In the locker room afterward, he made sure to gather his players and address the loss.
“Look,” D’Antoni said, pacing slowly across the room, “we’ve had a long stretch of games, we’ve flown across the country, and we’re coming off one of the toughest schedules in the league. Fatigue is part of the game, but we can’t lose our focus. We’re not the champions yet—we’re still challengers. That’s the mindset we have to carry.”
He reminded his team that losses in January are often blessings in disguise. “If we’re going to make it to the end of this marathon, we need more than just a champion’s heart. We need perspective. Tonight should remind us that the Heat, the Bulls, the Celtics—sure, they’re our rivals. But the West? The West is full of teams that can take your head off if you look away for one second.”
The Mavericks provided a textbook example of that. Their bench was the difference-maker: 67 points from the reserves compared to New York’s 35. Monta Ellis torched the Knicks with 24 points in just 28 minutes off the bench, hitting big shots whenever New York tried to claw back momentum. Dirk, steady as always, chipped in 19 points and 8 rebounds, proving again why he’s one of the league’s most reliable stars.
“Over seven games?” D’Antoni muttered later to reporters. “That team would wear anyone down.”
Rick Carlisle, meanwhile, looked like a man who had just been handed a glass of cold water in the desert.
“The Knicks are a championship-level squad, no doubt,” he said, “but don’t write us off
Naturally, the media swarmed Lin Yi afterward. What was his reaction to finally losing after more than a month of dominance?
When one reporter pressed him about whether he was brushing off the loss too lightly, Lin shrugged.
“We’re all adults here,” he said. “Why wear a bad result on your face all week just to make everyone else happy that you’re upset? Losses happen. What matters is how you respond.”
The press, hoping for a dramatic soundbite or a bold guarantee, came away slightly disappointed. Lin gave them no fuel for sensational headlines—only a clear reminder that he wasn’t losing sleep over one defeat.
“The Mavericks are good, no question,” Lin added as he stood up to leave. “But unbeatable? No such thing. They’re strong, and they exposed some of our flaws. But the next time we play them… let’s just say the story might be different.”
…
Two nights later, the Knicks were back in New York. Exhausted from the cross-country grind, they barely touched down before learning that their next opponent—the Lakers—had already arrived in the city hours earlier.
“Only in this league,” muttered Lou on the team bus. “We’re dragging ourselves off a red-eye while the visitors are eating room service.”
Lin Yi chuckled. The scheduling quirks were just part of the grind. “Welcome to Stern’s NBA,” he said.
But instead of heading straight home, Lin pulled on a hoodie and slipped into a quiet Manhattan restaurant, where Kobe Bryant and Shaquille O’Neal were already seated at a table.
Kobe, looking sharp in a tailored suit and his trademark shades, raised an eyebrow as Lin sat down. “Shaq tells me you’ve been ducking workouts lately?”
Shaq didn’t miss his cue. With a grin, he cut in: “Yeah, Kobe—better hurry up and pass Havlicek on that scoring list before you slow down for good.”
Lin could only sigh. He had been hoping for a peaceful dinner, but watching these two snipe at each other was like being caught between two storms. He tried to steer the conversation back, telling Kobe that maybe it was time to ease off the throttle a bit—let his body recover.
Kobe just gave him that cold, unflinching stare. “I don’t run from battles.”
O’Neal nearly spat out his drink laughing. “See? You’re wasting your breath. If Kobe ever listened to advice, we wouldn’t be sitting here today.”
Lin smiled wryly, knowing Shaq was right. Still, he couldn’t shake the thought that if Kobe and the Lakers could just put their pieces together, they might be the very team to challenge Dallas in the playoffs.
The Knicks’ defeat in Dallas had been a reminder: no road to the title would be straightforward.
From a purely basketball perspective, Lin Yi felt that if the Knicks could somehow meet the Lakers in the Finals instead of Dallas, their odds of winning the championship would jump by at least thirty percent.
It wasn’t that the Lakers were weak. Far from it. But stylistically, they posed fewer matchup nightmares than Dirk and the Mavericks. Even if Los Angeles couldn’t finish the job and knock out Dallas themselves, Lin Yi figured a deep series between the two would soften the Mavericks up, which was just as valuable to New York.
The problem, though, was Kobe. Persuading Bryant to change course was like trying to argue with a brick wall. His stubbornness was legendary. Shaq, sitting across from Lin Yi at dinner, rolled his eyes as he retold story after story from their old Lakers locker room.
“Listen,” O’Neal chuckled, pointing his fork for emphasis, “every time Kobe saw Ray Allen, he just had to prove something. Didn’t matter what the game plan was—suddenly it’s one-on-one hero ball.”
Kobe, cool in his tailored suit, shot back without missing a beat. “At least I didn’t spend every night before a game sneaking off somewhere. We all knew when you came back tired.”
The table shook with laughter, though Lin Yi quickly realized this wasn’t just casual banter. This was the infamous Shaq-and-Kobe dynamic in full swing: competitive, petty, but strangely affectionate underneath.
It escalated, as it always did.
“You should’ve stayed in school a few more years,” Shaq sneered, leaning back with that trademark smirk.
Kobe slowly raised a hand and spread out five fingers, then showed a picture with his championship rings flashing in the camera lights. “Reading books doesn’t put these on your hand.”
That might have ended the exchange, but Shaq wasn’t finished. He leaned forward, lowering his voice said something which Lin didn’t hear.
The air froze. Lin Yi nearly dropped his utensils. Kobe’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly. For a moment, Lin thought Kobe might take a swing at the big man right there.
Sensing the danger, Lin stepped in with a joke, but Kobe had already redirected his attention. He leaned toward Lin, deliberately ignoring Shaq, and shifted the conversation back to basketball.
O’Neal sat back, smirking, muttering little jabs under his breath just loud enough for Kobe to hear. The tension was so thick that by the time dinner wrapped up, the mood had soured completely.
Kobe refused Lin Yi’s offer of a ride back to his hotel. He called a car instead, disappearing into the New York night.
Shaq, watching him leave, turned to Lin with a knowing grin. “Get ready, big fella. Tomorrow, he’s coming out gunning. That’s just how he is.”
Lin frowned. “You think he’s that petty?”
Shaq laughed, shaking his head. “You’re just his fan. I’ve lived with him as a teammate. Trust me, no one knows Kobe better than me.”
And Lin Yi believed him. As much as Shaq played the clown, there was a depth to his understanding of his old running mate. Shaq, born under Pisces, always calculating beneath the jokes. Kobe, a mix of Leo pride and Virgo perfectionism—childish at times, domineering always, and utterly incapable of letting go of a grudge.
That paradox defined Kobe: sometimes generous and visionary, inviting Lin into business ventures or sharing wisdom about the game; at other times, impossibly stubborn, cutting people out, and obsessed with slights, real or imagined. Without that streak, he wouldn’t be Kobe. With it, he was infuriating and—strangely—endearing.
…
For the Knicks, the matchup with the Lakers was framed as the last great trial before a much-needed break. After this game, they’d finally enjoy four straight days off. The loss in Dallas had reminded everyone how exhausting the grind could be—and how badly they still wanted to prove themselves.
At Madison Square Garden, Lin Yi felt the difference immediately during warm-ups. The atmosphere wasn’t just competitive; it was charged. The Lakers carried themselves with a seriousness that told him Kobe had already set the tone.
“See what I told you?” Shaq leaned over from courtside, patting Lin on the shoulder. “He’s still mad.”
Lin yawned, trying to downplay it. “Fine, Shaq. You were right.”
On the sideline, Mike D’Antoni looked worn out. Two heavyweight matchups back-to-back—Mavericks, then Lakers—had left the coach fuming about the league schedule. He’d probably cursed the NBA office a hundred times the night before.
The Garden crowd, however, was electric. Every seat filled, the air buzzing with anticipation.
“This place is unreal,” Barkley said on the broadcast. “New York has been waiting a long time for nights like this.”
Kenny Smith chuckled. “When the Knicks are winning, there’s nothing like the Garden. It’s been too long, man.”
On the other side, Phil Jackson played his usual mind games. The Zen Master talked up Pau Gasol, Lamar Odom, Ron Artest, Kobe, and Derek Fisher as the pillars of his lineup, subtly downplaying Andrew Bynum’s absence. The message was clear: even without their young center, the Lakers were dangerous enough.
The Knicks countered with Tyson Chandler, Lin Yi, Danilo Gallinari, Tony Allen, and Chauncey Billups.
Lin noticed immediately that Kobe wasn’t joking around tonight. He locked eyes with Tony Allen during warmups, staring him down like a hunter. Tony, normally unflappable, looked uneasy.
And just before tip-off, Lin caught Ron Artest—ever the wildcard—loosening his elbow with suspicious enthusiasm.
The ball went up, and the battle was on.
As for who would win?
Well, in the NBA, sometimes you find out not by who scores first… but by who throws the sharpest elbow.
