The national team had been solid in recent years, and they showed out in this year's Olympics. This squad was known as the '96 Golden Generation.
Thinking about Team China, and then about the Bullets, Zhao Dong's mind drifted back to the 1970s. That era? That was when Chinese basketball was at its absolute peak—Mu Tiezhu's era. Even stronger than Yao Ming's time.
Back in August 1979, China played against the reigning NBA champion Washington Bullets. That squad had two future Hall of Famers, yet China—led by Mu Tiezhu—only trailed by one point at halftime and ended up losing by just 11 points.
"Coach Zhang, you played with Mu Tiezhu on the national team, right?" Zhao Dong asked.
Zhang Heli looked surprised for a second, then nodded. "Yeah, I was his teammate. Dude was a beast. Seven-foot-six, 350 pounds. He was heavier than Shaq. And honestly? Under the rim? I don't even think Shaq was more dominant than him."
Zhao Dong raised an eyebrow. "For real?"
Zhang Heli chuckled. "Yeah, and his passing? Insane. I'd say no NBA center—past or present—has better vision than him."
"That good?"
"He was so damn tall he could literally look down on the whole court. When he held the ball high, no one could touch him. He passed to whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted."
Zhao Dong nodded, impressed.
Half an hour later, it was game time.
Right before the jump ball, Zhao Dong glanced at the opposing center. Then he turned back to Ewing. "Pat, you wanna take this one?"
"Nah, Zhao, this one's all you." Ewing shook his head.
"Alright, bet." Zhao Dong grinned.
Lining up against him was Gheorghe Mureșan, one of the tallest players in NBA history. Seven-foot-seven. Same height as Manute Bol. This dude, nicknamed 'Big George,' weighed in at 300 pounds—same as young Shaq.
Ewing leaned in. "Yo, you know how Jordan and Penny used to play against this dude?"
"How?" Zhao Dong asked.
"They used him as a damn screen. He's so big, you can literally make him block his own teammates."
Zhao Dong paused, then grinned. "Oh, that's dirty."
"Exactly," Ewing smirked.
The ref tossed the ball up. Zhao Dong leaped, but Big George's massive frame bumped him mid-air. He lost balance, and Mureșan tipped it back to the Bullets.
On the other end, Big George lumbered down the floor. Ewing didn't even bother fronting him—he knew that was useless. Instead, he played front denial defense.
But once Mureșan got position under the rim, the point guard lobbed it up. Easy catch. Easy bucket.
"Damn," the commentator groaned. "That's just unfair. He's shooting over the basket. You can't even block that—you'd have to steal it."
The Knicks pushed the tempo on offense, trying to outrun Mureșan, but Ewing? He wasn't sprinting. He was saving energy for the playoffs. So instead of a five-on-four fast break, they ended up running a half-court set.
Still, Ewing took the first shot.
Catching it on the block, Big George draped all over him, Ewing didn't even try to back him down—just turned and pulled up for a jumper.
Miss.
Zhao Dong crashed the boards against Chris Webber.
Webber was 6'9, 245 pounds—same size and strength as Zhao Dong. Neither had the edge physically.
Same height. Same weight. Same speed.
But attitude?
That's where Zhao Dong had the edge.
He wanted this more.
Zhao Dong fought for position like his job depended on it—because in his mind? It did. He was trying to take over the Knicks, and to do that, he had to dominate guys like Webber.
He outworked him, grabbed the board.
As soon as he landed, Webber pushed him from behind. Zhao Dong spun—but didn't drive.
Instead, he jumped.
Webber, expecting a drive, slid over to cut him off.
Wrong move.
Zhao Dong wasn't driving.
He was hooking it up.
Soft touch. Bounce. In.
"Man, that was smooth," the sideline commentator said. "Zhao Dong's post game is getting real polished. Seamless footwork. If you guess wrong, he doesn't even give you a second chance."
Bullets' possession.
Webber pulled Zhao Dong away from the paint, leaving Big George one-on-one against Ewing.
Ewing stayed in front, making entry passes tough. Oakley and the guards tightened passing lanes, so the ball never got inside.
With no post feed, Mureșan left the paint.
Instead, Webber got the rock.
Top of the key.
One quick read—pull-up jumper.
Zhao Dong lunged, but Webber's high-release fadeaway was too tough.
Swish.
4-2. Bullets up.
"Rookie, body him up!" Oakley barked.
"I got it," Zhao Dong shot back.
Knicks' turn.
Ewing pulled up again.
Another miss.
This time, Zhao Dong couldn't grab the board.
Bullets ball.
They tried to feed Big George inside, but the Knicks denied him again.
Webber, forced outside, caught it on the right wing.
Backing down, he pushed into the paint, but Zhao Dong cut him off.
Webber turned, jumped, and hooked.
That was his signature move.
But Zhao Dong anticipated it.
He stayed chest-to-chest, didn't give an inch.
The contest was perfect.
Brick.
Zhao Dong snagged the board.
Knicks ran it back.
Same spot—right block.
Zhao Dong took it inside, bumping Webber twice, forcing his way into the paint.
Then, suddenly—he froze.
Webber thought he was jumping.
He wasn't.
Webber bit, left his feet—too late.
Zhao Dong kept his dribble, slipped behind him.
Wide open.
Bang!
Two-hand jam.
Webber shook his head. "Damn, this rookie's got footwork."
The commentator lost it.
"Ohhh, Zhao Dong just shook Webber and slammed it home! That was silky smooth. Look, he's putting on a clinic in the post. Reinman couldn't stop him. Mourning couldn't stop him. And now? Webber can't stop him either!"
Zhang Heli, hyped as hell, grinned at the camera.
"This is the best low-post game I've ever seen from a Chinese player. And honestly? Even in the NBA or worldwide, Zhao Dong's post skills are elite. Maybe even top-tier."
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