"Defense! Defense! Defense!"
The United Center was shaking, and Joakim Noah was playing like a man who refused to die.
Lin Yi originally wanted to help Noah plant some humility in his heart, but it felt more like solid concrete—nothing was taking root.
With the full scoring mode activated, Lin Yi showed every tool in his bag right from the tip. Drives, pull-ups, turnarounds, post fades—he was putting on a solo performance.
To Lin Yi's fans, anyone daring to challenge him tonight was basically signing up to get cooked.
But—
In reality, Noah was having one of his best defensive games of the season.
He played like a relentless pit bull, glued to Lin Yi from the moment he touched the ball. Every catch came with a hit, every dribble with a bump, and Lin Yi had to adjust his attack almost every possession.
What stood out even more was Noah's refusal to fold. The more Lin scored, the more locked-in he became. He kept pushing the edge of the referees' tolerance, trying everything short of a wrestling takedown to throw Lin Yi off rhythm.
If Lin stripped off his jersey right now, his back would probably look like he'd gone hiking through a forest of elbows.
The NBA had toned down dirty plays in recent years, but basketball was still a physical sport, no matter the era.
For Noah, stopping Lin Yi wasn't the priority. Making him uncomfortable was.
So after each bucket Lin Yi poured in, Noah didn't sulk. He slapped his chest, hyped himself up, muttering, "Come on, Joakim. A little more. Just a little more, you can crack him."
He was the emotional engine of this Bulls squad.
And just like that, the energy in the building—initially smothered by Lin Yi—started to flicker back to life on Noah's effort.
Midway through the first quarter, the Knicks held a 15–13 lead. Apart from Paul's early layup, every other point came from Lin Yi.
"Chris, we should probably say something to him," Tyson Chandler whispered. "Not because he's getting hurt—though that's part of it—but I'm worried he won't have much left by the fourth."
Paul didn't agree. "Tyson, Lin isn't reckless. He knows exactly what he's doing. We just back him."
He paused, then added, "He's our ace."
Chandler blinked. This didn't sound like the stubborn CP3 he'd gotten used to. But if Paul was this confident, Tyson felt he had to trust Lin Yi too.
Over on the bench, assistant coach Dann leaned toward D'Antoni. "Mike, should Lin sit for a bit?"
D'Antoni shook his head. "Let him play. He rarely forces things. Kobe might be his idol, but he doesn't copy the reckless parts."
Though privately, D'Antoni couldn't help wondering if Lin and Noah had some kind of personal feud going on.
The Bulls bricked a shot, and on the next Knicks possession, Noah was already draped on Lin Yi again—close enough that Lin felt he could count the pores on his face.
Paul tossed another lob in his direction. Noah hammered him mid-air, but Lin Yi caught it cleanly.
This time, Lin Yi chose to back him down. Noah braced himself, face twisting from the force as he leaned with everything he had.
Thibodeau watched from the sideline, already thinking he might owe Noah two dinners after the game. This wasn't hustling—this was playing on pure will.
"Let's go, Joakim!" he shouted before realizing he'd said it out loud.
Bang!
Even the sideline photographers flinched as the players' bodies collided.
Noah's chest throbbed from the impact, but he refused to step back.
He grinned, breath heavy. "C'mon, big guy. You call that NBA strength? Your granny could do better."
Lin Yi smirked, shifted his weight—
Bang!
This time, Noah finally budged.
Lin Yi had been holding back earlier, so when he suddenly stepped on the gas, Noah had no time to react.
He knocked Noah off balance with a strong bump, spun left, and although Noah scrambled back to latch onto him again—messing with Lin Yi's elevation—the space to the rim was already there.
Slam!
Using every inch of his wingspan, Lin Yi hammered home a turning dunk.
17–13.
"Damn it!" Noah barked, smacking the ball against his own forehead. But the frustration lasted all of three seconds.
Then he puffed out his chest, slapped it twice, and roared himself back into shape. "I need more!"
Lin Yi watched him and almost laughed. Is this guy actually enjoying getting punished?
But he also knew this couldn't drag on forever.
The truth was simple: the Bulls had mapped out a detailed defensive scheme for this game. Right now, Lin Yi was the Knicks' most dependable option, and he didn't want to dump pressure onto his teammates. If someone had to take the hits, he'd take them.
The isolation-heavy approach was exhausting, but he could manage it, and honestly, he was treating it like a live-fire training session—because come playoff time, touches wouldn't be this easy.
Noah couldn't guard him one-on-one, but in terms of wearing him down and disrupting his catches? He was doing a phenomenal job. Perfect opponent for a stress test.
When the Bulls called a timeout, Lin Yi casually strolled toward their bench.
Thibodeau immediately snapped his tactics board shut, thinking Lin Yi was trying to sneak a peek. The Bulls players glared at him as if to say, Scram back to your side.
Lin Yi lifted both hands in mock surrender and looked straight at Thibodeau.
"Coach, quick question: what's the scoring record in this arena?"
"Huh?" Thibodeau blinked.
Why on earth was Lin Yi asking that now?
A Bulls assistant leaned over and whispered the answer: the United Center record was 57 points—set on April 3, 2001, when Starks dropped 57 on the Bulls as a Piston.
Michael Jordan had once scored 64, but that was at the old Chicago Stadium, not this building.
Fifty-seven, then.
"Thanks," Lin Yi said politely to the assistant coach, then turned and walked back to his own bench without another word.
Thibodeau stared after him, confused.
Why did he ask that?
Then a thought struck him—one he really didn't want to consider.
"Wait… he's not actually thinking of breaking the United Center scoring record, is he?"
Thibodeau suddenly felt a headache coming on.
...
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