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Chapter 392: 2011 Asian Championship End
🕑 Added 2025-10-11 15:37:43 +0000 UTCThe Chinese men’s basketball team’s run this time was almost effortless—easier even than their dominant campaign at the 2005 Asian Championship.
Back then, Yao Ming had led the team to a 44-point blowout against South Korea. The Korean basketball community was so shaken that they claimed Chinese basketball was miles ahead of them.
But there was a key difference now.
Yao Ming scored two points at a time. Lin Yi, on the other hand, was casually dropping threes like they were layups.
In the quarterfinals, China rolled past Lebanon 117–64.
In the semifinals, they annihilated South Korea 144–71—a 73-point win, the largest margin in the history of the matchup.
And that 144-point total? That was because Lin Yi actually played through the first three quarters.
The Koreans had no answer for him. At first, they thought Ha Seung-jin’s size could slow Lin Yi down. Two minutes later, Ha was back on the bench, looking like he’d just faced a natural disaster. Lin’s movement, range, and pace were simply incompatible with a traditional big man.
Lin Yi finished with 60 points in three quarters, including 12 of 16 from deep.
This time, even the Korean media stayed quiet. You can’t blame home-court advantage for a 73-point blowout.
The gap was just too wide—there was no argument to make.
On the 25th, in the final, China beat Jordan 121–78. Iran, as Lin Yi remembered, had been upset by Jordan earlier, but it hardly mattered. By the end of the tournament, every team in Asia was convinced: China was on a completely different level.
Chinese fans around the world were in ecstasy.
Lin Yi averaged 48.7 points per game in the tournament, while playing just over 20 minutes a night. Even he couldn’t help but think that, as long as Team USA wasn’t in their bracket at the next Olympics, China actually had a shot. The FIBA format just suited him perfectly.
Unsurprisingly, Lin Yi was named the Asian Championship MVP. He, Yi Jianlian, and Wang Zhizhi were all selected to the All-Tournament Team.
But beyond the trophies, something more meaningful happened—the younger generation of players, guys like Guo Ailun, Ding Yanyuhang, and Zhou Qi, began to understand the standard. For the Chinese men’s team, winning Asia wasn’t glory—it was a duty.
Lin Yi’s status in China skyrocketed again. By the end of the tournament, his popularity had reached absurd levels.
Entertainment stars were in despair. Movie premieres were postponed. Concert organizers quietly rescheduled their shows. Even pop idols realized they couldn’t compete with Lin Yi for attention when he played—no headline could top “Lin Yi scores 60 in three quarters.”
And just as Yao Ming once predicted, the Basketball Association didn’t dare stir up trouble for him. Offending Lin Yi now would mean offending hundreds of millions of fans.
Lin Yi’s agent, Zhong Muchen, was all smiles. He barely had time to rest, busy sorting through endorsement offers flooding in from every direction.
Around that time, League of Legends launched its Chinese servers. Lin Yi casually posted on Weibo: “Let’s fight, Summoners!”
That single post did more for Tencent’s marketing than any official campaign could have.
After the tournament, Lin Yi took a short break—two quiet days at home in Beijing with his parents—before heading back to the U.S.
The NBA lockout was still dragging on. The players’ union had started to yield, but now the owners were the ones arguing among themselves.
At the center of it all was Clippers owner Donald Sterling, who seemed determined to make things worse.
He’d long been bitter about the growing power and pay of African-American star players, and his stubborn interference derailed what little progress had been made in negotiations.
Commissioner David Stern was exhausted by the chaos. On the very day Lin Yi landed back in the States, several major player agents sent out a collective email, urging their clients to boycott the talks entirely.
Lin Yi told Zhong Muchen not to get involved. He understood where the agents were coming from—lower player salaries meant lower commissions—but joining that movement would only land them on Stern’s blacklist.
Sterling, meanwhile, was digging his own grave. His history of discrimination was becoming clearer by the day, and his meddling during the lockout only deepened the league’s resentment toward him.
By that point, both sides—the players and the owners—had quietly realized they needed each other. Players without paychecks were hurting, and owners without games were bleeding money.
No one was winning.
Years later, during the 2017 negotiations, both sides would remember this mess. Those talks went very smoothly. The league had learned its lesson.
And as for his past life’s shortened season of 2011–12?
Some critics said Miami’s title that year was cheap, but Lin Yi couldn’t agree.
A championship is a championship. You play the games that exist. The lockout wasn’t something the players could control.
If LeBron’s super team was too strong, that wasn’t unfair—it was just dominance.
And deep down, Lin Yi couldn’t help but grin. Because, well… wasn’t he doing the same thing in his own way?
...
The restaurant’s lighting was soft, just enough for the two of them to sit comfortably across from each other, with the hum of quiet jazz in the background.
Elizabeth Olsen twirled her fork lightly through the pasta, her eyes occasionally lifting toward Lin Yi, who was halfway through a steak. They’d been laughing for most of the evening over the events for the past two days—the rollercoaster that nearly made her cry, about the ice cream that melted faster than either of them expected, about the waiter earlier who had gushed over him and asked for an autograph.
“Honestly,” Elizabeth said, leaning slightly on the table, which accentuated her cleavage in her red dinner dress, “these past two days have been some of the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”
Lin Yi smiled, setting his knife and fork down. “Yeah? Even after I made you scream on that rollercoaster yesterday?”
“Hey, don’t act innocent. You were the one laughing while I thought I was going to die.” She shot him a playful glare, then laughed again. “But… I mean it. Thanks, Lin. For everything. The walks, the food, the chaos — all of it.”
Lin Yi’s smile softened. “You’re welcome. I should be the one thanking you. I do not know much about this dating stuff, and my time recently with you has been limited due to basketball.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she stretched her tiny hands trying to cup Lin’s own. “You make me happy.”
“Plus, your awkwardness is kinda fun to watch.”
They both laughed again, and for a while, the conversation just drifted — stories from Lin’s travel to China, Olsen’s school gossip, little things they’d noticed, moments that didn’t need to be deep but somehow still felt meaningful. It wasn’t romantic in the movie sense; it was simple, real — two people just vibing together, enjoying the quiet rhythm of each other’s company.
After dinner, they left the restaurant and drove back to Lin Yi’s villa. The city lights blurred past, the night breeze slipping through the half-open windows.
“I love New York,” Olsen shouted out of the window, enjoying the breeze.
Lin just shook his head.
By the time they reached the villa, the energy had calmed — the laughter now replaced by a kind of peaceful quiet. Lin Yi dropped his keys on the counter and collapsed onto the couch. Elizabeth followed, taking off her shoes and curling her legs up beside him.
“Exhausted?” she asked with a grin.
“Nah,” Lin Yi said.
Elizabeth chuckled, then looked at him for a moment, looking all hungry. “Hey, Lin.”
“Yeah?”
“Go take a bath.”
Lin Yi blinked. “What? You’re kicking me out of my own living room?”
She smiled coquettishly. “No. I… have a little surprise for you. However, you’ll need to freshen up first. I am waiting in the bedroom.”
He looked in her eyes before it dawned on him as he gulped.
“Alright.”
