The history of the NBA, in many ways, is a long and sometimes painful tug-of-war with big men.
From Wilt Chamberlain to Shaquille O'Neal, Tim Duncan, and Yao Ming, dominant interior players have always drawn extra attention from the league and its rulebook.
O'Neal once openly complained that there wasn't a single rule in the NBA designed to help big men.
Yao Ming echoed a similar view.
"If you look back," he once said, "you'll see that the rules have always limited what interior players can do. The ones who survive aren't the strongest—they're the ones who adapt. You have to learn how to live with the rules."
To rein in dominant centers, the NBA introduced rule after rule. Ironically, it wasn't until after O'Neal retired that the league finally addressed the Hack-a-Shaq strategy. Because when Shaq was at his peak, what else could you really do besides foul him?
And for players like DeAndre Jordan or Clint Capela, without some level of protection, how exactly were they supposed to survive in the league?
After O'Neal and Yao, the idea of the traditional center slowly faded. Big men had no choice but to evolve if they wanted to stay relevant.
That evolution gave rise to players like Joel Embiid, Nikola Jokic, and DeMarcus Cousins—bigs who could handle the ball, pass, and score from everywhere. In many ways, they represented the big man's response to a league that was constantly changing the rules around them.
At the same time, the NBA adjusted its rules to encourage perimeter play. Guards flourished, scoring exploded, and the center position began to feel like it had lost a generation.
Then Lin Yi arrived.
A seven-footer who could attack like a wing, handle like a guard, and still punish you inside. That combination forced everyone to take notice.
Around the league, when he arrived, teams were saying, "We're not scared."
Lin Yi's response was simple silence—and results.
Back to the game itself: Lin Yi clearly changed his approach tonight. Instead of settling, he repeatedly scored off pick-and-roll dives and deep post-ups. The Heat had prepared extensively for him, but the plan started unraveling almost immediately.
At Madison Square Garden, fans felt like they'd been transported back to the 1990s—the era of dominant centers, when the paint belonged to giants.
Of course, history also shows that the "old masters" won more than their share of championships.
To slow Lin Yi down, Miami mixed man-to-man with zone looks. LeBron James took turns bodying him on drives, while Chris Bosh and Udonis Haslem focused on protecting the rim.
If Lin Yi faded away, Miami lived with it and contested hard. No shooter stays hot forever.
But when Lin Yi decided to go straight into the paint, Haslem simply couldn't hold his ground.
The Heat adjusted quickly. Double him. Every time. As soon as he touched the ball.
They didn't have much choice. Over the past two years, teams have traded away traditional bruisers just to keep up with the modern game. And now, when they needed size again, Lin Yi was already attacking the rim, mismatch after mismatch.
That's what true mismatches look like.
By the end of the first quarter, Miami was still searching for answers. The Heat had 23 points. The Knicks had 40.
It was Lin Yi's most efficient quarter ever against Miami. He went 7-for-8 from the field, all inside, scored 18 points, and added four free throws without a miss.
One of the biggest beneficiaries of Lin Yi's new approach was Paul. The Point God fed him four times in the first quarter alone, and when combined with his passes to everyone else, Paul already had seven assists.
When Paul played as a true facilitator, the Knicks flowed better. He could still score, still defend, but the offense moved with purpose.
As long as Lin Yi stayed disciplined—unlike last season—Paul's path to another assist title looked wide open.
In the second quarter, down 17, Miami was still adjusting when the Knicks' bench made things worse.
Paul and Lin Yi sat. The second unit came in, led by Yao Ming, alongside Draymond Green, Marcus Morris, Klay Thompson, and Shaun Livingston.
The pace slowed. Yao and Livingston worked in the post. Klay ran off screens. Morris cut hard. Green spaced the floor and stayed active.
Miami didn't know much about Green yet, but by now, anyone wearing a Knicks jersey was assumed to be a shooter.
James led Miami's second unit, but his drives didn't have the same impact. Marcus Morris defended him honestly, and even when James got by, Yao was waiting in the paint.
Miami couldn't even foul Yao comfortably. The Knicks were happy letting rookie Green absorb that physical responsibility.
Back in training camp in the Bahamas, Yao had already noticed Green's defensive instincts. He was bigger and stronger than Chuck Hayes, and though still raw, his energy never dipped. In the future, that kind of player would anchor elite small-ball lineups.
For now, it gave the Knicks' bench life.
As the sequence played out, fans in the building felt like the game had slowed down—each possession controlled, deliberate, and completely in New York's hands.
Even at a slower pace, the Knicks' second unit always carried a quiet threat. As long as Klay was on the floor, a scoring run was never far away.
Tonight, the second-year guard found himself matched up with Ray Allen. Klay's profile had risen sharply this season, and though he'd never said it out loud to Lin Yi, his goals were clear. Sixth Man of the Year was nice—but he wanted more. He wanted an All-Star spot.
After the introduction of the Lin Yi and Rose clauses, everyone agreed that the Lin Yi Clause was untouchable. That was Lin Yi's territory alone. The Rose Clause, though? That was reachable. Two All-Star selections on a rookie deal—that was the path.
Klay understood that path perfectly.
So Klay locked in.
On the court, that focus showed. He hounded Ray Allen relentlessly. Off-ball movement was Ray's specialty, but Klay was younger, fresher, and willing to run all night. On both ends, he made life uncomfortable.
Every made three came with a quick celebration. Nothing over the top—just enough to let the crowd know. Ray watched it happen again and again right in front of him. Ray kept his composure, but his rushed shots on the other end told the real story.
To make matters worse, Klay had picked up a turnaround fadeaway from Lin Yi over the summer. Watching it unfold, Lin Yi couldn't help but think Ray Allen probably made the right call turning down the Knicks. There simply wasn't much room left.
We're really strong, Lin Yi thought, sitting calmly on the bench and sipping his sports drink.
Miami was clearly getting outplayed, but more than that, the Knicks' energy and execution in their first game of the season filled Lin Yi with confidence.
. . .
At halftime in the locker room, LeBron James felt suffocated.
The chalk toss before tip-off. Lin Yi's relentless interior scoring in the first quarter. And now the scoreboard: Knicks 65, Heat 44.
A 21-point hole.
Was all that work this summer for nothing?
James stared up at the ceiling, teary-eyed. If there were gods, he felt like he must've crossed them somewhere along the way. They gave him everything—size, speed, skill—and yet kept holding the one thing he wanted most just out of reach.
This was already year three of the super team.
Back in Cleveland, it had been three years, then another three. How many more seasons would it take before the O'Brien Trophy was finally his?
For once, James lost control. His fist slammed into a locker, leaving a dent in the metal.
The Heat locker room fell even more silent, if that was possible.
A few veterans quietly replayed their first-half mistakes in their heads. No one spoke.
Then James exhaled, forcing himself to reset. He turned to the room and said, "My bad. Lost my temper."
Wade stepped in immediately, giving him a light punch to the chest before wrapping an arm around him. "I know you're frustrated, man. We all are."
James nodded. "It's fine. If anything, this just lights a fire."
He didn't want to wait anymore.
This year, the Heat had to win it all.
. . .
Across the hallway, the mood was different—but no less serious.
In the Knicks' locker room, Lin Yi wasn't joking around. Klay, unusually quiet, sat at the front as the rest of the team listened.
"Don't get comfortable," Lin Yi said calmly. "This team can come back on anyone. We've seen it. Give them an opening, and they'll take it. Remember last year's Eastern Conference Finals."
Paul nodded beside him. No smiles. No jokes.
The Fried Chicken Brothers were done waiting, too.
This season, the Knicks weren't aiming for anything less.
They were aiming for the Finals.
. . .
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