The Heat came out swinging, and Tim Hardaway pulled up from deep—cash. 5-4, Miami takes the lead.
Zhao Dong wasted no time, setting up in the low post on the right wing, working to establish position. Austin was big—6'10", 255 pounds—built like a damn truck. But Zhao Dong had him beat on speed. One quick spin and he cut inside, leaving the defender on his heels.
But Charlie Ward hesitated on the pass, missing the window. By the time Zhao Dong cleared the paint and Ewing got the rock, the chance was gone. Ewing went into his bag, hit a turnaround jumper—but bricked again.
Zhao Dong was too late for the board. Mourning boxed out, snagged the rebound, and Miami pushed the pace.
Back on offense, Mourning wanted to eat. He hadn't put up a single bucket yet, but he was hungry. Calling for the rock, he tried to bully Ewing down low. Instead of powering up for a dunk, he spun into a hook shot.
Ewing wasn't having it. The big man threw his hand in Mourning's face, messing with his vision. The shot clanked off the rim.
Zhao Dong had already shoved Austin out of the paint and timed his move perfectly. The second Mourning let go of the ball, Zhao Dong crashed the glass and snatched the defensive board.
As he pushed up the floor, Austin stepped in to slow him down, cutting off a fast break.
Coming up the court, Zhao Dong played it smart. First, he pulled out to the perimeter. The second Austin bit, he made his move—blowing by him with a quick cut inside.
This time, Ward saw it. The pass was on point. Zhao Dong caught it in stride, right at the edge of the paint. One step, one-handed gather—he was already in the air.
"Boy, you're dead!"
Mourning read the play, pushing off Ewing to meet him at the rim. The big man exploded, hand coming down like a damn hammer.
Mid-air, Zhao Dong adjusted. A twist of the waist, a flick of the wrist—he avoided Mourning's block and brought the house down.
BANG!
The rim rattled, the backboard shook, and the whole arena erupted.
BANG!
Almost at the same time, Mourning hammered Zhao Dong on the shoulder, knocking him back mid-air. He stumbled, but caught himself after two steps.
"Mourning, you can't stop me," Zhao Dong barked, eyes lit with energy. "You can't do what you wanna do!"
Mourning's face turned dark. "You—"
"Ohhh! A monster dunk! Zhao Dong just bodied Alonzo Mourning! One of the league's top rim protectors just got put on a poster by the Golden Tyrant!"
The arena commentator lost his mind as the crowd exploded.
Whistle.
Foul on Mourning. And-one for Zhao Dong.
He dapped up Oakley, then turned back to Mourning, grinning. "I'm telling you right now—I'm dunking on you again. You better get used to it. Just like you got used to being under Shaq."
Mourning snapped. "You motherf—"
Austin held him back before things got ugly.
The ref shook his head, walking up to Zhao Dong. "Don't push it too far, kid. You want a tech?"
"Nah, ref. Just some friendly conversation. No hands, no punches—only words. I'm a peaceful guy, you know? My friends call me Gentleman Zhao." Zhao Dong flashed a cocky grin.
Ewing and the rest of the squad cracked up.
"Peaceful my ass," Mourning gritted his teeth. "You deserve to get put on your ass by P.J. Brown."
Van Gundy groaned from the sidelines. "Zhao! Cut the damn trash talk!"
Zhao Dong knocked down the free throw. 7-4, Knicks take the lead.
But Ewing was ice cold. Dude was 1-for-7, clanking everything. Zhao Dong did what he could, snagging offensive boards and getting second-chance points, but it wasn't enough. By the 7-minute mark, the Heat were up 19-15.
Ewing checked out, and Herb Williams subbed in. With the big man struggling, Zhao Dong took over the paint.
Low post, right wing—Zhao Dong got the ball. Austin was already sweating. Last time, Zhao Dong shook him clean. He couldn't let that happen again—Pat Riley's wrath was waiting on the sidelines.
Zhao Dong read him like a book. He faked high, then spun low, blowing past Austin like he wasn't even there. One dribble, two steps—BOOM! Tomahawk slam.
The crowd lost it.
"Oh my! The footwork, the power! Zhao Dong's post game is leveling up!"
Doug Collins was hyped on the NBC broadcast.
Marv Albert nodded. "If Pat Riley doesn't send a double soon, this might get ugly."
Riley stood still, arms crossed, eyes locked onto Zhao Dong. Nobody knew what he was thinking.
Back on defense, Hardaway pulled up—clank. Zhao Dong crashed the boards, grabbed the rebound, and pushed the tempo.
Low post, right wing—same spot. He got the ball again.
Austin was shook. He knew he couldn't get cooked again.
"Kill him!" Riley barked from the sideline.
Zhao Dong smirked. "Relax, #8. Just play your role."
Then he hit him with a hesitation, baiting Austin into a backpedal—too fast. The dude lost balance and sat his ass down on the hardwood.
Zhao Dong stopped, looked down at him, then calmly rose up—swish.
The Garden erupted.
"Oh, that was disrespectful!"
The commentator was loving it.
Zhao Dong turned back as he jogged up the court. "Face it, man. Your defense is useless."
Austin slammed the floor in frustration. Bad idea—dude hurt his own hand.
19-19. Heat ball.
Mourning wanted revenge. He got position in the low post, Herb Williams behind him.
This time, he wasn't settling for weak stuff. No more jumpers. He was going straight to the rack.
One bump, two bumps—Mourning bulldozed into the paint and took flight.
He got high. Head level with the rim, arm cocked back—he was going for a murder dunk.
Zhao Dong wasn't backing down. He launched himself up, arm fully extended.
But he was 6'8" with a 7'2" wingspan—Mourning had 4 inches on him.
In that split second, Zhao Dong cursed himself for not picking Shawn Kemp's bounce over Kobe's.
His fingertips barely clipped the bottom of the ball.
Mourning powered through, bringing the hammer down—
CLANK!
The ball rimmed out.
Mourning froze, eyes wide.
"Oh my God! Mourning missed it! No—Zhao Dong got a piece of it!"
The announcer's voice cracked from excitement.
Mourning yanked on the rim in frustration, then dropped down, fuming.
Zhao Dong grinned. "Nice try, old man. Maybe next time. Or maybe just go home and drink some milk."
"Get the hell outta here!" Mourning snapped, fists clenched.
The ball bounced out of bounds. Knicks ball. The block didn't count, but Zhao Dong got the last laugh.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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