"Bang! Bang!"
Dribbling hard, Mourning backed Ewing down toward the hoop.
Ewing, still dealing with that nagging knee injury, played it smart—he wasn't putting too much force into his defense. Instead, he absorbed the contact and subtly retreated, keeping himself in position. He knew Zhao Dong was lurking behind him, ready to help. Zhao had been handling a lot of the Knicks' interior defense, making life a bit easier for the big man.
Mourning took two easy steps, just one away from the basket. Knowing the three-second violation was creeping up, he made his move—quick spin, explode up for a dunk.
As he rose, both Ewing and Zhao Dong jumped to contest the shot.
"Bang!"
Zhao Dong, with fresher legs than the aging Ewing, got up higher and had a better read on the play. His hand met the ball mid-air, sending it flying.
"Beautiful block by Zhao Dong!" the commentator roared over the arena noise.
As the three crashed back down to the floor, Ewing recovered the ball, and the Knicks pushed the pace for a fast break.
Zhao Dong was ready to sprint, but PJ Brown slid into his path, cutting off his lane. The opportunity vanished.
Ewing set up shop on the right block.
Knowing Ewing's jumper wasn't reliable tonight, Zhao Dong instinctively moved to the paint, prepping for the rebound battle.
PJ Brown was there too, but Zhao had the strength advantage. He established prime position under the basket, sealing Brown off.
Ewing turned, let it fly…
Brick.
Zhao Dong snatched the offensive rebound.
But before he could react—
A hand jabbed him from behind, right in the worst possible spot.
His entire body stiffened. The sudden, uncomfortable shock made him blurt out some bird-language curse.
In that split second of distraction, a big hand smacked the ball out of his grip.
"Oh! Zhao Dong fumbles it! PJ Brown with the sneaky steal, and the Heat are running!" the commentator shouted.
"Motherf—"
Zhao Dong didn't even finish cursing before he was already chasing down PJ Brown, face burning with frustration.
"Hey, Zhao Dong looks a little off—his running form is awkward, and his speed ain't there," Doug Collins noted on the TNT broadcast.
"Yeah, I see it too," Marv Albert added, intrigued.
On the break, Mourning sprinted ahead of Ewing, caught a dime from Tim Hardaway, and slammed it home.
2-4, Heat. Knicks' ball.
"Yo, what the hell just happened?" Ewing jogged up next to Zhao Dong, puzzled.
Zhao Dong's face was red, and he shook his head. "Nothing, man. That bastard tried some dirty shit."
Oakley, always one for physical play, smirked and leaned in. "Watch out for PJ. He's got some nasty habits. Sometimes he'll… uh… tap your jewels a little too much."
A chill ran up Zhao Dong's spine. Goosebumps.
Possession switched. Zhao Dong set up in the low post on the right wing and called for it.
Charlie Ward glanced at Ewing, but the big man didn't demand the ball, so he fed Zhao Dong instead.
A few games ago, Ward might've hesitated to give Zhao Dong the rock, preferring to swing it to Allan Houston. But after Zhao's monster battle with Shawn Kemp and his earlier bullying of Mourning in the paint, Ward knew the young buck was for real.
PJ Brown, feeling cocky from his last play, didn't body up immediately. He wanted to play it slick again, bait Zhao Dong into a mistake.
As the ball came in—
Pop!
Brown's hand found its way to the same damn spot again.
"Son of a—!"
Zhao Dong's temper snapped.
With the ball secured, he exploded backward, slamming his weight into Brown.
PJ wasn't ready. He stumbled back hard, barely keeping his balance.
Zhao Dong wasted no time—quick spin, drive to the rack.
Unfortunately for Brown, Zhao Dong's next step landed squarely between his legs.
Crunch.
"AAAAHHHHH!"
Brown collapsed instantly, screaming in agony.
Zhao Dong, caught off guard, actually jumped from the sheer horror of the sound.
Beeeeep!
The ref's whistle shrieked.
"Ohhh, damn! I need a doctor! A doctor!" PJ Brown rolled on the floor, drenched in sweat, clutching his lower half like his life depended on it.
"Trainer! Get out here!" the ref signaled to the Heat bench.
Oakley jogged over, smirking. "Zhao Dong, you good? Did he get you again?"
Zhao Dong, face stone cold, shook his head. "Nope." No way in hell he was admitting to that.
The Heat's medical team rushed in.
They peeled down Brown's shorts and immediately flinched.
His junk was swelling up. Testicles? Unknown status.
The trainer wiped his forehead and waved for a stretcher.
Oakley glanced at Zhao Dong with a smirk. "You sure you're not enjoying this? Maybe PJ's freaky little moves got you feelin' some type of way."
"Man, shut the hell up."
Zhao Dong flipped Oakley the middle finger.
Oakley burst out laughing. "Hahaha! Man, this game is wild."
"Look up," Ewing said, pointing at the jumbotron.
The arena's big screen was playing the replay—backwards.
Zhao Dong's expression turned pitch-black.
"Why the hell they playin' it in reverse?!"
The crowd erupted, some fans laughing, others roasting PJ Brown.
Doug Collins couldn't contain himself. "Oh, man! PJ Brown got cooked! Zhao Dong wasn't playin' with that one!"
Marv Albert was barely holding in his laughter. "If this were the playoffs, PJ might've had the mental edge. But now? He just pissed off Zhao Dong, and that might backfire bad."
As the fans enjoyed the chaos, Brown was stretchered off.
The ref finally approached Zhao Dong.
Offensive foul.
Zhao Dong barely reacted. He was too annoyed to care.
"Zhao Dong, you wanna sit for a bit?" Van Gundy yelled from the bench.
"Nope."
He'd started the game with a foul, lost the ball twice, and got hit with some of the dirtiest defense imaginable. He wasn't coming out.
Pat Riley, on the Heat bench, shook his head in frustration. "Dumbass! If you were gonna pull that crap, at least save it for the playoffs! Now Zhao Dong's seen it, and he'll adjust. Waste of a move."
He turned to his backup center, Isaac Austin.
"Austin! Stretch the floor, keep Zhao Dong away from the paint. Defensively, don't let him get deep position. You hear me?"
"Yes, Coach!"
"And slow his ass down in transition!" Riley barked.
Austin nodded nervously. "Got it, Coach!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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