Mark Price dished the rock to Joe Smith, who snagged it clean, but Zhao Dong was right there, locking him up. Smith had the size and strength, but Zhao Dong's power was on another level. Still, Smith was quicker. He hit a couple of jab steps, shaking Zhao Dong just enough, then slid into the paint.
Zhao Dong barely hesitated before recovering, sticking right on his hip.
Smith shielded with his left arm while gathering the ball in his right. One hard stomp, and he exploded up for the dunk.
But Zhao Dong was already on it. He read the move, launched himself, and smacked the ball backward just as Smith was about to hammer it down.
"Fuck!" Smith barked as he landed, pure frustration on his face. But nobody cared. The ball ricocheted off the backboard, landing right in Oakley's hands just below the free-throw line. Knicks were off to the races.
"Whoa! Zhao Dong just sent Joe Smith's dunk packin'! Man, he got up there!" the commentator yelled.
Zhao Dong trailed behind, sprinting to catch up. Ewing was right there with him.
Charlie Ward pushed the break, Mark Price breathing down his neck. No clean lane for a layup, so he pulled it back. Alan Houston was on the left wing, hand up, but his defender was all over him. Oakley was chilling on the right wing, Mullin right next to him. Zhao Dong? Already past the top of the arc, his man, Smith, two steps behind, still trying to recover.
Charlie Ward fed the ball to Zhao Dong. One grab, and Zhao Dong took a power step toward the free-throw line. He rose like a damn dragon, ball cocked back in his right hand, eyes locked on the rim.
"BOOM!"
A tomahawk slam shook the hoop so hard the backboard rattled. The whole damn arena went dead silent—except for the heavy breathing of dudes who just got baptized.
"Yo, that was insane! Zhao Dong just punched one in from beyond the free-throw line!" the commentator lost it.
"Did y'all see that?!" Zhao Dong ran straight to the baseline, grabbed the CCTV camera, and yelled into it, pure hype.
His teammates weren't far behind. Houston, Oakley, even Ewing—they all mobbed the camera, hyping it up.
"Zhao Dong! That's really you!" Zhang Lili shouted from the sidelines. Cameras flashed non-stop, catching every second of the moment.
The Warriors came back down the floor. Their center, Todd Fuller, wasn't doing much offensively, especially with Ewing in his grill. Joe Smith was the main scoring option outside of Latrell Sprewell, taking most of the inside shots.
He caught it in the low post, right wing, and went to work. A couple of fakes, then he spun for a turnaround jumper.
Zhao Dong's interior D wasn't top-tier—solid, but not elite. He wasn't smothering Smith but still had a hand up, reacting just half a step slow. He leaped with everything he had.
"Damn, that Chinese dude got bounce!" someone in the crowd hollered.
"Read it!" Zhao Dong's fingertips barely grazed the ball, tweaking its path mid-air.
"Clang!" The shot bricked off the rim. Zhao Dong hit the ground and instantly spun, arms out, pinning Smith behind him. The rebound bounced just right—perfect position.
"Shit!" Smith muttered, lunging for the board.
"Get the hell outta here!" Zhao Dong snatched the rebound, clutching it tight to his chest. Quick as hell, he turned and swung his elbows, clearing space.
"Man, damn rookie!" Smith flinched as an elbow nearly clipped his nose. He backed off, cursing under his breath.
Zhao Dong cleared the defenders, then zipped the ball to Charlie Ward.
"That's a vet move on that rebound," Knicks assistant Tom Thibodeau nodded.
"Yeah, but he needs to keep it high. No need to get stripped or pick up a dumb foul," Van Gundy replied.
Zhao Dong sprinted up the court, spotting Ewing and Oakley already packed into the paint. No space inside, so he stopped outside the right-wing three-point line.
Charlie Ward dumped it into Ewing. The big man turned, fired over Todd Fuller—clank. Oakley hustled for the board, but his defender had him locked up. No low-post moves? No problem. He kicked it out.
Zhao Dong lost Joe Smith on a sneaky counter-move behind the arc. Oakley fired the pass his way. Zhao Dong caught it in rhythm, feet set. Without hesitation, he pulled up.
"NO!" Van Gundy near lost his mind on the sideline.
"I got this," Zhao Dong muttered, already knowing it was money. The second the ball left his fingers, he threw up an OK sign. Swish.
"YEAAAH!" Zhao Dong roared, sweat dripping off his lean frame, body radiating pure energy. He usually stuck to post play—more efficient, but man, he had range too.
"Three-ball! Cold-blooded!" someone yelled from the bench.
"Three for three, seven points, two blocks, one board!" Zhang Lili hyped him up from the sidelines.
Van Gundy wasn't as excited. If it went in, fine. If he missed? He'd get yanked so fast his head would spin.
"Zhao! Quit chuckin' threes! Get inside and play your game!" Van Gundy barked.
Warriors weren't slowing down. Sprewell sprinted the left wing, pulled up—cash. Ewing answered back with a mid-range J. The Warriors kept running, pushing the tempo.
Sprewell tried another quick three—off. Joe Smith, still pissed from the last block, beat Zhao Dong down the floor, grabbed the board, and rose for a tomahawk.
Zhao Dong wasn't having it.
From behind, he launched himself into the air. Just as Smith cocked back to hammer it home, Zhao Dong met him at the rim—BAM! Another monster rejection, sending the ball flying outta bounds.
"Blocked again?! Joe Smith just got stuffed AGAIN! Rough night for him!" the commentator hollered.
"Yo, three blocks already? You're killin' 'em tonight!" Oakley ran up, hyped as hell.
"Gotta do my job right, or they'll ship me outta here," Zhao Dong grinned.
"Ship you out? Nah, hell no, you stayin' right here," Oakley clapped him on the back.
"Jeff, sign him now. Don't even wait," Ernie Grunfeld hollered at Van Gundy.
Van Gundy nodded. "Ernie, I'm on board. This kid's a keeper."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Do you want to read Advanced Chapters?
Visit this link:
Påtreon.com/Fanficlord03