Doc Rivers' brand of mental warfare had worked for years, and in Game 2, his Celtics veterans dug deep, finding sparks of the old fire. But he quickly realized that the Knicks' new MVP wasn't just lifting his own play—Lin Yi was raising the energy of the entire Garden.
Before tip-off, Lin addressed the crowd again, with the MVP trophy at center court. He didn't just thank the team, he read every name—the trainers, the doctors, the staff who set up the arena night after night.
Charles Barkley shook his head on the TNT broadcast and chuckled. "If a guy doesn't win MVP, the league's doing something wrong."
The Garden roared, and the Knicks played like a group that knew it. Last year's champions suddenly looked year's challengers. Garnett and the Celtics' veteran defense couldn't keep Lin out of the lane; possession after possession, he found gaps, bullied through contact, and made the rim his own.
When the final buzzer sounded—Celtics 98, Knicks 107—the home crowd exploded. New York was up 2–0 and heading to Boston with control of the series.
Lin's stat line: 38 points on 14-for-27 shooting, 3-for-7 from deep, a perfect 7-for-7 at the line, plus 17 rebounds, 5 assists, and 2 blocks.
After the game, the reporters crowded in, eager for a quote.
"What's the team's goal now?" one asked.
Lin grinned, a little tired but still buzzing. He pointed towards the two banners hanging from the rafters. "That's the goal."
A murmur went through the room; a few reporters even wiped their eyes. Finally, something bold enough to fill tomorrow's back pages.
He knew there was no point in downplaying expectations anymore. The Knicks had become a headline team whether they wanted it or not. Saying it out loud only strengthened the locker room and gave their fans a rallying cry.
A Boston reporter, clearly irritated, pushed forward. "Lin, do you really think you can beat the Celtics? No doubt at all?"
Lin tilted his head, pretending to think it over. "You know, I've been wrestling with a question I saw on the net recently. You want to hear it?" he said, eyes locking on the reporter.
The man frowned. "What question?"
"God's all-powerful, right?"
The reporter answered cautiously. "Yes… of course."
Lin's smile widened just enough. "Then can He make a rock so heavy even He can't move it? I want an answer the next time I see you."
He let the question hang in the air, then turned and walked away before anyone could respond.
The press room buzzed, half laughing, half grumbling.
"Heavens help me, Lin, you will need a trophy cabinet soon ." Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by novel·fire.net
Zhong Muchen stood in the middle of Lin Yi's living room, staring at the gleaming MVP trophy that Lin had just set—almost carelessly—beside the flat-screen TV.
Lin only shrugged, palms up. "Feels heavy when you first lift it," he said, "but after the speech? Honestly, I felt lighter. Now it's just another step."
He flashed a quick grin. "Besides, if I stop at one trophy, how am I supposed to collect more?"
Zhong shook his head, half-amused, half-pained. "I'll handle it. But when you finally move into that bigger mansion—and you will—we're building a proper display room. No argument."
"These are all honors," Zhong added softly, as if reminding himself.
Lin bit into a banana and gestured toward him. "Speaking of handling things, how's the list coming?"
"All done," Zhong replied, straightening. "Every name you gave me has signed with our agency. Your profile is off the charts right now. Young players are lining up just to be connected to you."
"That's why I picked you," Lin said with a small nod. "Better to grow a big-name agent than chase one later."
The two shared a look of quiet understanding. After two years side by side, Lin trusted Zhong's loyalty—and he knew these partnerships with promising players would pay off far beyond endorsement money. In this league, strength in numbers mattered.
His thoughts drifted for a moment: Olsen was back at school finishing her thesis, but the pets, Sakazuki and Wiggles, were inseparable. Lin's career was taking off in every direction. He caught himself staring into the middle distance.
"I want to end this series in Boston," he said at last, voice low but certain.
Zhong didn't need to answer. They both knew the stakes. Across the bracket, the Heat and Bulls were tied 1–1, Miami already sniffing out Chicago's weaknesses. The Knicks needed rest, and a sweep of Boston would give them precious days to prepare.
For Celtics fans, Game 3 was a shock to the system. May 6, TD Garden pulsed with green, but the crowd's nerves were tight. Doc Rivers once again tweaked his lineup, trying to wring one more miracle out of his veterans.
He leaned in to Kosta Perović before tip-off, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're our last barrier. See those banners? They're yours too. Time to prove it."
Perović managed a nod, though inside he wanted to be anywhere else. His playoff minutes had already felt like punishment. The Knicks weren't just attacking; they were relentless, a firing squad of drives and kick-outs. Guard one option, and three more appeared.
The opening quarter told the story. Lou Williams started for New York to crank the pace early. By the first break, the Knicks led 27–22, a modest gap that hid the Celtics' mounting fatigue. Garnett's steps grew heavier; every defensive rotation looked a half-beat late.
Second quarter, Lin spearheaded a furious bench run. Perović exhaled when Rivers finally subbed him out—only to feel his coach's eyes on him again minutes later. Jermaine O'Neal had picked up a third foul. Back in you go.
If he hadn't known O'Neal's professionalism, Perović might have suspected sabotage. Still, he soldiered on, committing to every contest until—inevitably—whistle number three. The Knicks' pressure made clean defense almost impossible; to stop them, you had to be physical, and physical meant fouls.
Halftime: Knicks 55, Celtics 51. The score was close, but Lin could see the cracks. Garnett's breath came heavy, and Ray Allen's smooth stroke clanged off the rim again and again. Truth be told, Paul Pierce—The Truth himself—looked every bit the veteran whose legs had carried too many wars.
The third quarter finished the job. Boston's shots flattened, their rotations slowed to a crawl. By the final horn, the Garden scoreboard read Knicks 117, Celtics 96.
"Are the Celtics about to be swept?" one commentator muttered, almost in disbelief.
In the stands, a pocket of Knicks fans was already chanting, "See you in the Eastern Finals!"
History backed their confidence—no team had ever climbed out of a 0–3 hole.
Just a year ago, the Celtics had gone blow-for-blow with the Lakers in the Finals. Now, a season later, New York's young core had come for revenge and was one win away from making it official.
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