Howard was furious.
Lin Yi's opening sequence, the post move, the block, the transition finish, had put him on the back foot immediately. He could feel the crowd shifting. That bothered him more than the scoreboard.
Give me the ball.
Let me answer.
His eyes said those words as they burned with frustration, but Kobe Bryant never even looked his way.
Catch.
Shoulder fake.
One hard step.
Rise.
Lean.
Release.
Pure fadeaway.
Swish.
4–2.
The DJ's voice exploded through the Staples Center. "KOBE!"
With the crowd responding, "BRYANT!"
The arena settled. Order restored, at least for a moment.
Howard jogged back with a tight smile. He wanted the ball. He wanted control. But Kobe had stared down bigger storms than that. He had taken heat from Shaquille O'Neal in his prime. A frustrated glare from Howard was not going to change his shot selection.
24 versus 44 was all that mattered. He wasn't on that level yet.
On the next Knicks possession, Paul crossed half court, and Kobe nudged Ron Artest with his elbow towards Lin. Artest understood immediately and stepped into Lin Yi's path with that heavy, familiar forearm.
Even after renaming himself Metta World Peace, Artest still played like a street enforcer.
Lin Yi extended a hand for the ball.
Artest leaned in.
Whistle.
Hand check.
Artest looked surprised, as if the rule change after 2005 had slipped his mind.
Lin Yi had spent the offseason studying league tendencies with James Harden.
"Three free throws," Xiao An said on the Taiwanese stream. "That's a costly foul."
"Lin Yi knew exactly what he was doing," Xu Jinzhe added. "That was calculated. Ron needs to get his A-game on. He can't be costing such fouls."
At the line, Lin Yi bounced the ball twice, then closed his eyes for the first attempt.
Swish.
Kobe, with a steely gaze, hands on hips, gave a small smile.
It was in the memory of Michael Jordan doing the same thing years ago.
Howard felt singled out anyway.
Second free throw.
Third free throw.
7–2.
Seven points in under a minute.
.
On the Lakers bench, head coach Mike Brown rubbed his scalp and frowned. Defense was his specialty. He had built systems around stars before, most notably around LeBron James. But this felt different. His schemes were being picked apart early.
Brown's strength had always been structure and preparation. His in-game adjustments were less sharp. Later in his career, as a defensive assistant under Steve Kerr, he would thrive again. But tonight he looked unsettled.
Lin Yi noticed.
.
On the next Lakers trip, Kobe gestured for a pick-and-roll.
Howard hesitated. He wanted a post touch instead.
Howard planted himself on the block.
Kobe waved him off.
Gasol stepped up and set the screen.
Kobe rose for three.
Good.
But a whistle cut through the celebration.
Offensive three seconds on Howard.
Kobe turned sharply toward the official, palms out, trying to convince otherwise.
No change.
Howard grinned awkwardly.
"Hey, I had position," he said lightly, as if it were harmless.
Kobe said nothing. He walked back on defense.
Howard clenched his jaw. One day, he told himself, this would be his team.
From the TNT desk, Shaq leaned forward slightly, watching more closely now.
Back on the court, the Knicks kept attacking. Lin Yi missed one attempt after Artest's arm brushed across his body. The contact was subtle, timed just outside the referee's line of sight.
Xiao An spoke up. "Some say the defense is softer now, but the clips I've seen show Lin Yi taking heavy contact. Some of those would be flagrant fouls."
Xu Jinzhe smiled. "Every era protects its own story. And right now, Lin Yi is the biggest story since LeBron."
Artest's elbows were well disguised. Lin Yi did not complain. Complaining rarely changed anything.
The next time down, Kobe missed long.
Paul pushed the ball up and found Lin Yi on the move.
This time Lin Yi drove with his own shoulder leading. Artest tried to recover, but he was half a step late. He reached, then hesitated. Lin Yi slipped past him with a sharp change of direction and finished through contact.
9–2.
"So smooth," Xiao An said softly. "The Grim Reaper is an enjoyment to watch. He and Paul's connection is almost telepathic."
Less than two minutes in, the Lakers called a timeout.
Mike Brown had no choice. Losing on Christmas was one thing. Getting run off your own floor was another.
On the bench, Kobe stayed quiet.
He asked for ice and pressed it against his right Achilles. The soreness had been lingering lately. Some days it was nothing. Some days it felt like a warning.
He glanced up at the sixteen championship banners hanging from the rafters.
For the first time, a thought crept in.
Maybe this climb would be different.
Across the court, the Knicks had not even shown everything yet.
"Kobe. Kobe."
It was Steve Nash calling his name. Twice.
Kobe blinked.
For a split second, the present blurred with the past. Old alley-oops. Old rivalries. Old arguments that had once felt like the center of the universe.
. . .
At the TNT desk, Shaq stopped smiling.
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"Something's coming," he muttered under his breath, voice low and serious.
For once, there was no joke in it.
After the timeout, the Lakers brought it up.
The ball crossed half court, took a glance at the floor, and was swung to Kobe Bryant. That part felt automatic. When a person wears the jersey, you trust the guy in number 24 to decide how the possession ends.
Dwight tried to carve out space on the block, waving for the entry pass. Nothing opened up. Standing out at the arc doing nothing was not his style either, so he jogged up and set a high screen.
"Use it," he muttered to Kobe, clapping once.
Kobe came off tight, Danny Green trailing over the top. For a split second, it looked like he might turn the corner, but he planted, rose, and let it go from deep.
Green's hand was right there.
Did not matter.
Net.
9 to 5.
Kobe did not celebrate. He just turned and jogged back, face blank, like this was routine.
At the TNT desk, Shaquille O'Neal leaned forward.
"When he gets like that," Shaq said, "you're either about to witness something special or something stubborn."
Everyone who had played with Kobe knew the look. Once he flipped that switch, the game narrowed. The reads got simpler. The margin for error got thinner because that Mamba stare was coming.
Back the other way, the Knicks set up quickly.
Lin Yi came up and set a double screen for Paul near the top. Artest and Gasol hesitated for just a beat, unsure who was taking what. That was enough.
Paul slipped into the lane.
I got clipped by two big bodies fighting through and stumbled toward the baseline cameras.
"Appreciate the help, guys," I muttered as I regained my balance.
Inside, Dwight exploded off two feet, ready to send Paul's shot into the seats.
Paul never even looked at the rim.
Midair, he wrapped the ball behind his back and dropped it off to Lin Yi, cutting down the middle.
Boom
11 to 5.
Dwight landed and looked around, palms up.
"Fuck!! That's on me," he shouted, shaking his head.
The Knicks' spacing was clean and sharp. Against this Lakers lineup, every hesitation showed.
On paper, Howard, Gasol, Artest, Kobe, and Nash looked imposing. In practice, the fit was uneven.
Artest was 33, still strong, still physical, but chasing Lin Yi through screens all night was a tough ask.
Gasol's instincts were elite, though his foot speed was not what it used to be. And no one on that floor was telling Kobe to slow down.
Next trip, Kobe isolated again.
One hard dribble.
Rise.
Green got a piece of his wrist this time.
Whistle.
At the line, Kobe bounced the ball once and stared at the rim.
Swish.
Swish.
11 to 7.
The score stayed close, but the rhythm felt different. The Knicks were flowing whilst the Lakers were grinding.
Paul and Lin Yi went right back to the pick and roll. Milicic stepped up late. Lin Yi glided past him for a soft finish.
13 to 7.
On television, the split-screen graphic said it all.
All Lakers points, Kobe.
All Knicks points, Lin Yi.
Kobe answered again.
Fadeaway from the right elbow.
Pure.
13 to 10.
MVP chants were heard all around the Staples Center. When Kobe was in the mood, it was a treat to watch.
People liked to say that late-career Kobe settled for jumpers. The truth was simpler. He had always trusted that shot. Earlier in his career, he could blow by you after missing three in a row. Now, the jumper carried more weight.
This season felt different. Urgent. Stripped of ego battles and narratives. Just a veteran chasing the standard he had set for himself.
Above him, the championship banners hung in silence.
Artest picked up his second foul a few minutes later and headed to the bench.
"Sit down," Coach told him calmly. "We need you in the second half."
Artest nodded. "I'm good. I'll adjust."
The Knicks countered with Klay Thompson off the bench.
First touch, catch, and shoot.
Good.
Second trip, same spot.
Good again.
By the time he hit his fifth straight three, the building had gone from tense to stunned.
At the end of the first quarter, Kobe had 18.
The scoreboard read 49 to 26.
Kobe sat at the end of the bench, towel over his shoulders. Dwight leaned toward him.
"We'll chip away," Dwight said quietly.
Kobe gave a short nod.
Across the country in New Orleans, Stephen Curry was already lighting it up from deep in his own Christmas game. The league was shifting. Shooting was stretching the floor in ways that felt almost reckless.
Second quarter.
Lin Yi stayed in.
Kobe stayed in.
Possession after possession, jumpers kept falling.
From the TNT desk, Shaq folded his arms and watched.
"This can be a blowout," he said. "
What no one expected was that Klay, the quiet kid from Southern California, would be the one to tilt the night completely.
He did not talk. He did not gesture.
He just kept shooting.
. . .
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