As Riley's mouthpiece on the bench, Spoelstra passed along his mentor's instructions during halftime with calm precision.
"If he wants to attack the rim, we won't waste LeBron on him right away," Spoelstra said evenly.
"Make him work through our size first. Save LeBron's legs."
"Udonis and Chris rotate on him. If he tries to back down, we send help immediately."
In Riley's eyes, Lin Yi's shift in style was annoying—but not unsolvable. Adjustments could be made.
The Heat were down 21 at the half, and the gap wasn't just about defense. Their offense simply hadn't found any rhythm.
Twenty-one points was a tall mountain to climb, but win or lose, Riley wanted answers. Every possession mattered. Every read was data.
...
Back at the court of Madison Square Garden, some fans were still in the concourse, grabbing popcorn or cola, unaware that the teams were already lining up. The noise rose again as the third quarter tipped off.
Miami had the ball.
LeBron James brought it up, eyes scanning the floor. Marcus Morris, still in his second year, crouched low in front of him.
James gave a subtle fake—nothing flashy, nothing wasted. That was always his way.
One quick change of pace was all it took. Morris lost half a step. Chandler slid over from the paint, but it didn't matter. LeBron lowered his shoulder and powered through contact for a strong layup.
46–65.
After the bucket, LeBron glanced at referee Joey Crawford, then thought better of it and jogged back on defense.
Some refs swallowed whistles. Crawford wasn't one of them.
On the next possession, the Knicks came down calmly. Lin Yi took a quick look and immediately noticed the shift in Miami's coverage. He raised his hand—five fingers.
Everyone knew what that meant.
One finger: isolation.
Two: attack for a quick two.
Three: pull-up from deep.
Four: pick and roll.
Five?
Move out of the way. I've got this.
The post-heavy approach from earlier wasn't the full story. Lin Yi had leaned into it early on for a reason—to force Miami to adjust.
And now that they had, he switched gears.
Haslem stepped up to meet him. Lin Yi caught the pass from Paul, smiled faintly, and started dribbling.
The crossover came back—clean, sharp, familiar.
No noise. No rush.
Haslem tried to slide, tried to brace—
Too late.
His feet tangled, and he went down hard on the Garden floor.
The crowd exploded.
Lin Yi calmly took two steps back behind the arc and waved his hand to Haslem to chill, waited a heartbeat longer than necessary, and rose.
Swish.
Practice speed. Practice confidence.
46–68.
It was Lin Yi's first three of the night—and his 27th point overall.
"MVP! MVP!"
The chant rolled through the arena.
Tyson Chandler ran over and shoved Lin Yi in the chest, half-laughing, half-shouting.
"Man, look what you just did!"
The Knicks' bench lost it. Klay whipped his towel like a man possessed, almost aiming to shatter some imaginary towel-waving record. Paul jogged over and gave Lin Yi a quick punch to the chest.
That was new. That was nasty.
Haslem, meanwhile, picked himself up with Wade's help, his expression stiff.
"My bad, Dwyane," he muttered.
Wade exhaled slowly. He knew this wasn't about effort or positioning. And somewhere behind the scenes, Riley already understood it too.
Lin Yi had shown his hand.
And now the real chess match was starting.
"So he's forcing us to put bigs on him… and once we do, he just isolates?"
Even Riley rarely felt this boxed in.
Lin Yi was hunting mismatches all night, and once he found one, it was basically automatic—he might as well have been shooting seventy percent against anyone they threw at him.
If the Heat wanted to make a run, could they really keep LeBron on Lin Yi?
The answer was obvious.
LeBron could do a lot of things, but asking him to carry the offense and chase Lin Yi defensively for forty-eight minutes was asking too much—even for him.
The Heat did try to adjust. At a critical moment, Bosh stepped up. He wasn't as physical as Haslem, but his positioning and length were clearly better.
Still, the timing was off.
By the time the Heat found their counter, the game had already slipped away. LeBron struggled badly from deep, finishing the night 0-for-7 from three, and Miami quietly accepted the reality of opening night.
Final score: Knicks 117, Heat 96.
Several analysts who had confidently picked Miami winning slimly beforehand suddenly found their predictions aging poorly.
Lin Yi played 35 minutes and put together a dominant line:
17-of-24 from the field, 3-of-6 from three, a perfect 7-of-7 at the line.
44 points, 13 rebounds, 5 assists, 2 blocks.
Once Lin Yi stopped missing the occasional easy look, everything opened up. Chris Paul took full advantage, finishing with 19 points and 17 assists on efficient shooting.
Klay Thompson, now starting to be labeled the Knicks' second scoring option, added 28 points in just 29 minutes, knocking down six threes with confidence and ease.
LeBron ended with 25 points and 10 rebounds—solid on paper, hollow in context. Wade chipped in 20, but it never truly felt like Miami was within striking distance.
The memory of last season's Eastern Conference Finals still lingered for LeBron, but this game drove home an uncomfortable realization:
The Knicks looked stronger.
And more complete.
More troubling still, Miami now had to rethink how to defend this new version of Lin Yi.
If LeBron guarded him, where would the offense come from?
If he didn't, who could survive the matchup?
Ray Allen and Rashard Lewis, both brought in for spacing and experience, struggled to make an impact. How to integrate them properly was already becoming a pressing question.
Clearly frustrated, LeBron skipped the postgame interviews and headed straight to the locker room.
While Miami wrestled with problems, New York was celebrating. The Knicks didn't just win—they made a statement. The bench had been loose, loud, and confident all night.
After the game, Yao Ming wore an awkward smile as the cameras caught him and Tracy McGrady enthusiastically waving towels.
What could convince the legendary Yao–McGrady duo to play hype men on the bench?
Fans later joked online that the Knicks' opening-night win came courtesy of elite bench production—60 towel waves and 20 water deliveries from the Yao-Mac duo.
Meanwhile, reporters swarmed Lin Yi.
Ever since Media Day, when his tone and attitude had clearly shifted, everyone sensed something was different. And now, after a performance like this, they had far too many questions to let him walk away quietly.
. . .
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