Spring Festival Showdown
On February 3rd, the Knicks were set to face the Rockets on the road—a Spring Festival matchup that carried more weight than an ordinary regular-season game.
For Lin Yi, though, the night before had been rough. He hadn't slept much on New Year's Eve, not that it was unusual. Life as a professional athlete didn't come with fireworks and banquets. Training dragged on day after day, meals were bland fuel rather than enjoyment, and the endless travel schedule made real rest a luxury. People saw the seven-figure salaries, but few understood the toll. Still, with talent, it was a price many were willing to pay.
…
The Toyota Center hummed with energy. Celebrities filled the courtside seats. For Yao Ming, this was normal. His influence went far beyond basketball. Compared to him, Lin was still climbing—though at Madison Square Garden, his own magnetism often rivaled Hollywood itself.
During warmups, Yao and Lin embraced with wide grins. Their easy laughter was shown on the big screen through the arena, a moment that fans back home cherished. With both men heading to the Los Angeles All-Star Game, Chinese basketball felt like it had entered a golden chapter.
Even the uniforms were part of the story—special Chinese-themed jerseys that honored the Spring Festival, drawing cameras from every corner.
But Lin's mind flickered elsewhere. He'd studied the standings. The West was merciless. Houston's record was solid, over .500, but every rung on the ladder was crowded. Yao, now averaging 13.5 points, 7.6 rebounds, and even 1.5 threes per game, wasn't the dominant tower of his prime, but he'd adapted. Watching him now, Lin couldn't help but think: If he'd played like this three years earlier, would his career have been twice as long?
On the sideline, Coach Rick Adelman looked uneasy. Yao was too efficient to limit, but Alexander, the owner, treated Yao like his crown jewel. Push him too hard and risk injury, and you'd answer not just to fans but to management itself.
Lin smirked inwardly. If Yao had stayed healthier and Alexander hadn't sold… would Harden have ever ended up here? Probably not. Houston's nightclubs would've staged a protest.
Up at the TNT desk, Kenny Smith leaned toward Barkley with his iPhone.
"Chuck, you saw those clips Lin sent me?"
Barkley rolled his eyes. "Man, this kid's been showing off. What's new?"
Lin had stirred the pot earlier in the week, sending practice dunk tapes to the crew—a nod to Vince Carter's pre-2000 routine. But unlike Carter, who stayed silent, Lin had teased just enough to bait them.
Kenny chuckled. "I'm telling you, Charles, I'm not betting against him. Sorry to Blake Griffin, but Lin might as well have his name engraved on the trophy already."
Barkley grunted, trying to play it cool, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. The commentary escalated fast—soon they had Lin Yi soaring into 360s from the floor during warmups. Fans knew the hype game well; James White once wore that crown before freezing under the bright lights. Dunk contests weren't just vertical leaps—they were theater, composure, the ability to command a global stage.
And pressure? Pressure had broken plenty of stars. Just like singers who lip-synced under the spotlight, some players found the stage heavier than any rim.
When the lights dimmed for introductions, Houston sent out Yao Ming, Chuck Hayes, Chase Budinger, Courtney Lee, and Kyle Lowry.
The Knicks countered with Tyson Chandler, Lin Yi, Danilo Gallinari, Wilson Chandler, and Chauncey Billups.
Lin spotted it immediately—Adelman wasn't about to repeat last time's mistake by throwing Scola at him. He glanced at the bench, only to see Scola already sealed off from the world, headphones in, eyes fixed on the floor.
Lin smirked. Even when you're not playing, you won't let me use you as a backdrop?
On the floor, Hayes stepped up. Both men wore the number 44, but the similarity ended there. The twenty centimeters Lin held over him loomed large.
At tip-off, Yao outleaped Chandler, feeding Houston the first possession. The crowd erupted. Lin couldn't deny it—sometimes even the opening bounce carried its own drama.
Lowry ran the first set, sharp as ever. He threaded the ball back to Yao after a quick pick. Hayes laid a bruising screen, but then Yao surprised everyone. A behind-the-back dribble, two long strides, and suddenly he was laying it in like a guard.
Kenny Smith exploded. "Oh, my goodness! What is going on with centers these days? That's The Great Wall Yao—BIG Yao!"
Even O'Neal on the sideline let out a belly laugh, shaking his head. The big man had trimmed down, moved like he had fresh legs, and even his coast-to-coast attempts no longer looked clumsy.
Adelman, though, sat on the bench with a knot in his stomach. Yao looked great, but the Olympics were looming—his last dream. And Alexander's patience had limits. Every extra minute felt like a gamble.
On the Knicks' next possession, Lin Yi found himself face-to-face with Hayes. The Rockets forward crouched low, legs like coiled springs, ready to fight for every inch. Lin considered backing him down, but he hadn't yet polished his new post moves.
So instead, he rose calmly, releasing a jumper right over Hayes' outstretched arms.
The shot cut clean through the air—swish.
The net snapped, crisp and sharp, as Lin jogged back on defense with the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips.
New York may not be freezing at four in the morning, but Lin Yi's jumper had that same kind of chill to it.
"Lin Yi and Yao Ming kicking things off—this is a real Chinese derby!" Yu Jia's voice carried through CCTV's broadcast, full of energy.
For fans back home, it didn't matter how many times they'd seen these matchups. A head-to-head duel between two Chinese giants on the NBA stage—it was the sort of thing you never got tired of.
Somewhere in living rooms across China, passionate young men were smacking their 'girls' on the shoulder, grinning: "I'm heading to the courts after this!"
And in the next breath, many of those same guys probably sighed, realizing they didn't even have a girlfriend to leave behind in the first place.
Back on the hardwood, Yao Ming was already at work. Posting up in the low block, he reminded everyone just how different it was dealing with him compared to someone like Dwight Howard. Even Tyson Chandler, who prided himself on defensive toughness, found himself struggling.
Yao had slimmed down since his early years, but that didn't mean his inside game had dulled. If anything, in an era where the league was tilting toward lighter, more mobile bigs, Yao's size and skill set still made him devastating.
Chandler bit on a feint, and in an instant, Yao spun into a smooth, almost balletic hook shot—bucket.
His height was only part of it. At 226 cm, Yao still had the agility and soft hands of a player half his size. With that combination, he rattled off five quick points, forcing even the stars sitting courtside at Toyota Center to rise and applaud.
The roar of the crowd didn't let up, but the Knicks weren't just here to watch. Billups set up a high pick-and-roll with Lin Yi. After drawing in the Rockets' defense, Billups whipped the ball back to Lin. In one motion, Lin Yi flicked his wrist and disguised his intent perfectly.
The defense thought the ball was headed toward Gallinari on the wing—only for it to zip inside to Chandler.
Pistol pass!
The timing was so sharp that Chandler barely had to do anything except rise and hammer it home. The rim rattled.
Two possessions, two different kinds of artistry. First Yao with his graceful footwork, then Lin Yi threading the needle with a pass that looked impossible until it was already there.
Kenny Smith on the broadcast couldn't help but laugh. "Seriously, the CBA wished their bigs were built like this. Monsters, both of them."
Shaq nodded, though he still had that conflicted look. He admired Lin Yi's creativity, but part of him still thought the kid's style bent the game in ways he wasn't ready to embrace. He even admitted once that if he hadn't been alert on a possession earlier in the season, Lin's sneaky pistol pass might've fooled him—and fooled his own teammates too.
Meanwhile, Yao was buzzing. He hadn't looked this engaged in a while. Kyle Lowry was making life difficult for Billups, Courtney Lee kept knifing to the basket, and the Knicks' famously tough defense suddenly looked like it was pressing against air.
But the Knicks had an answer of their own. Gallinari was hot from beyond the arc, splashing triples to keep the scoreline close. Still, as good as he looked, everyone knew Gallo's biggest hurdle was consistency. If he could sustain this rhythm night after night, there'd be no doubt about him cracking the Eastern Conference All-Star lineup.
At the end of the first quarter, the scoreboard told the story: Knicks 25, Rockets 25. The game was perfectly balanced, suspense dripping into the Toyota Center like a storm cloud waiting to burst.
But no one could have predicted what was about to unfold in the second quarter…
...
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