Zhao Dong posted up on the left block, muscling his way into position despite Mourning's tight defense.
The moment he caught the rock, Mourning tried some dirty shit—grabbing a handful of his waist from behind, twisting the skin like he was tryna rip it off. Zhao Dong winced at the sting but didn't hesitate. He snapped his body around, driving an elbow back into Mourning's ribs before stepping away, bouncing the ball to the side, and gliding toward the baseline.
At the zero-degree angle, he rose up smooth and let it fly.
Mourning froze, stuck in no man's land, forced to just watch the shot go up.
"Swish!"
Water. Pure. The net barely moved. Another bucket for Zhao Dong.
"Damn, this Level 90 Gold Medal Skill is OP!" He grinned, feeling the confidence surge through him.
That whole sequence? He just cooked Mourning—shook him off completely. At that point, the only thing that could stop him was a bad touch.
Next possession, Mourning tried to get revenge, backing Zhao Dong down in the post.
But Zhao Dong wasn't moving. He was just as big, just as strong, and wasn't letting Mourning bully him. After a few failed attempts to move him, Mourning gave up and spun into a hook shot.
Zhao Dong smirked. Nah, that ain't it.
He knew Mourning wasn't built like that. His post game was mid at best. He was already locked in on the move, waiting for the turnaround hook.
"Bang!"
Zhao Dong timed it perfectly, taking half a step forward before exploding up—smacking the ball straight off Mourning's chest and out of bounds.
"Damn!"
The crowd erupted. The commentators went crazy.
"Brutal volleyball block! Mourning just got his sixth block of the game—four of them straight-up gifted to him by Zhao Dong!"
Zhao Dong turned to Mourning, still hyped, eyes blazing. "Man, you ain't on the level of the top four centers. Don't even try that weak shit on me. Go work on your bag first!"
Mourning snapped. "You motherf— You wanna throw hands?!"
Zhao Dong stepped right up, forehead pressing against Mourning's. "Then do it! What's up?! You ain't bout it!"
The ref was already on top of it. "Back up! Back up!"
Play resumed, and Zhao Dong kept going at Mourning in the post.
Mourning had clamps, no doubt, but he wasn't built to handle Zhao Dong's Level 90 Gold Medal footwork and offensive arsenal. Zhao Dong had too many moves, and every time he switched it up, Mourning was left scrambling, looking helpless.
In the fourth quarter alone, Zhao Dong put up 11 points on his head, going 4-for-7 from the field and 3-for-4 at the line.
Dude got cooked.
And the wildest part? Zhao Dong wasn't even dunking like crazy—just smooth footwork, elite shot-making, and efficiency. Mourning had no clue how to stop it. Every choice he made on defense felt wrong, and that doubt was eating him alive.
Pat Riley tried everything. Called two timeouts. Adjusted schemes. But still, he refused to double-team Zhao Dong, leaving Mourning out there to get torched.
By the 9-minute mark in the fourth, the Knicks had cut the Heat's lead to 85-82, only down three.
Then Van Gundy called timeout.
Zhao Dong walked to the bench, confused as hell. "Wait, why NOW? We got them on the ropes!"
Doug Collins broke it down. "Knicks within three. Van Gundy's making a move. Is he putting in Ewing?"
Marv Albert nodded. "At crunch time, superstars decide games."
Sure enough, Van Gundy subbed in Ewing.
Zhao Dong blinked. "The fuck...?"
Bro, I just dropped 11 points in the quarter! Now you're taking me out of the paint for Ewing?
Van Gundy must've sensed the frustration. "Zhao, listen. They're gonna start double-teaming you. Ewing can pull some attention and give us space."
Zhao Dong sighed and nodded. "Okay… Makes sense… But who's actually attacking inside?"
Van Gundy hesitated. He wasn't sure. His coaching instincts were still green.
After a moment, he said, "Ewing takes the ball, draws the defense, kicks it to the weak side—"
Zhao Dong shut his eyes. "…We're cooked."
Bro, you think Ewing's passing?
This man is a superstar center in his 30s. You're a rookie head coach. You really think he's about to follow orders?
Ain't no way.
Play resumed.
Ewing got the rock, defended by Mourning.
Okay, Van Gundy wasn't wrong about one thing—having Ewing out there did pull the Heat's best inside defender away from Zhao Dong.
Zhao Dong cleared out, pointing for Ewing to pass. "Yo, swing it!"
Ewing didn't even look at him.
Turnaround jumper.
Swish.
Knicks fans cheered.
Next play, Dan Majerle drilled a three. 88-84, Heat up four.
Back down the floor, Ewing got the ball again.
Zhao Dong called for it.
Ewing ignored him.
Another jumper. Brick.
Mourning snagged the rebound. The Heat pushed the tempo.
Fast break. Hardaway. Layup.
90-84. Heat up six.
Another Knicks possession.
Ewing again.
Brick.
Heat board.
Hardaway pulled up for two. Splash.
92-84. Knicks down eight. 85 seconds left.
Zhao Dong snapped. "Ewing, you old-ass bum! You still shooting?! Your shot is ass, pass the damn ball! I NEED MY REWARD!"
He wasn't even being selfish. It wasn't about him vs. Ewing.
He just couldn't stand losing like this.
Final timeout.
Van Gundy pulled out the whiteboard. "Zhao, pull out to clear space for Ewing—"
Zhao Dong clenched his teeth. "BRO, WHY?! HE'S TAKING MID-RANGE SHOTS ANYWAY!"
If Zhao Dong left the paint, who was grabbing rebounds?
Van Gundy wasn't done. "Oakley, crash the boards and kick it out to Zhao Dong."
Zhao Dong damn near lost it. "Why Oakley?! I'm bigger, stronger, longer wingspan, better hops, better hands—I should be inside!"
Then Van Gundy hit him with the worst line ever. "Don't overthink it. Trust the vets."
Zhao Dong leaned back. "Man… You're cooked."
No wonder when you had Yao Ming, your only game plan was 'pass it inside and pray.'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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