Half an hour later, the starting lineup was announced. The two teams gathered at the T-shaped tunnel, turning toward the exit before lining up on either side of the corridor, waiting for their cue to hit the court.
Nobody spoke. The atmosphere was suffocating.
Jordan, usually one to run his mouth, was uncharacteristically silent. His earlier attempt to rattle the Knicks' locker room had backfired, leaving him in a sour mood.
Outside, the arena announcer was calling the visiting team onto the court.
"Shh!"
Charles Oakley stepped out first, immediately greeted by a wall of boos.
"Shhhhh…"
Then came Zhao Dong. The moment he appeared, the crowd erupted in an ear-splitting wave of hatred. Thousands of middle fingers shot into the air.
The United Center in the '90s was the most hostile battleground in the league, and Zhao Dong was experiencing it firsthand. The pressure was suffocating, wrapping around him like a vice.
As he walked through the aisle, fans flanking both sides hurled insults and pointed fingers at him, their eyes burning with animosity. If looks could kill, he'd be dead a thousand times over.
The sheer volume of the noise was overwhelming. His ears buzzed. He couldn't even make out the words being shouted at him, but he knew they weren't anything pleasant. Probably some nasty, racist bullshit.
"Calm down, ignore them…"
On the sidelines, Thibodeau was sweating buckets, shouting at him. Zhao Dong could see his mouth moving but couldn't hear a damn thing.
He scanned the sea of red and black jerseys, feeling the pressure physically pressing down on him. But then, he exhaled—long and deep—letting the weight roll off his shoulders.
He stepped onto the court and started warming up.
CCTV Broadcast
"Phew, Zhao Dong doesn't seem too rattled."
"This atmosphere is insane! I'm nervous just sitting here!"
Sun Zhenping and Zhang Heli, calling the game for CCTV, were feeling the pressure just as much as Zhao Dong.
Fifteen minutes later, the game tipped off.
Tip-Off
"The game begins! Zhao Dong and Luke Longley jump for the ball—Knicks get possession… OH! Zhao Dong suddenly accelerates! He's cutting inside!"
Doug Collins voice boomed over the NBC broadcast.
Zhao Dong sprinted to the right wing, and just as expected, Dennis Rodman locked in on him.
"Rookie..."
Rodman, the ultimate trash talker, opened his mouth to get inside Zhao Dong's head.
But before he could get the words out, Zhao Dong spotted an opening. With an explosive first step, he torched Rodman and cut straight to the basket.
Chris Childs, just arriving at the top of the key, saw the lane open up and instantly reacted.
With both hands, he zipped a pass over Ron Harper's head, threading the needle toward Zhao Dong.
Harper, an 8th overall pick from the 1986 draft, had been a lethal scorer in his early years—averaging nearly 23 points a game as a rookie. Now, with age and Jordan dominating the offense, he had shifted into a defensive role. At 6'6", he had the length to disrupt passing lanes.
But not this time.
The pass was too sharp. Too quick. He had no chance to react.
Zhao Dong Takes Flight
Zhao Dong was already in full stride, cutting into the paint at breakneck speed.
Patrick Ewing had drawn Luke Longley out of the paint, but the moment Zhao Dong made his move, Longley pivoted back toward the rim, trying to recover.
Too late.
The ball met Zhao Dong's hands mid-air.
And then—
BOOM!
A two-handed slam rocked the rim, sending a violent tremor through the basket.
CRASH!
Zhao Dong's momentum carried him forward, colliding head-on with Luke Longley.
At 7'2" and 265 pounds, Longley was a damn mountain of a man. But he hadn't fully braced himself. Zhao Dong's impact sent him toppling to the hardwood.
For a split second, the United Center—once deafening—fell silent.
Chicago had just watched their center get bodied.
---
"Ha, finally quiet."
Zhao Dong hung on the rim, looking down at the crowd, ice-cold.
The announcer scrambled. "That… should've been an offensive foul on No. 46!"
Doug Collins, on NBC, ignored him.
"Nice cut! Zhao Dong's got a nasty off-ball game… wonder why he doesn't use it more?"
Simple—Zhao Dong didn't like not having the rock in his hands. If he cut too much, Van Gundy might make it a habit. But tonight? No holding back.
Rodman needed all the problems.
2-0, Bulls' ball.
---
Harper brought it up, hit Jordan on the right wing.
Jordan, back to the basket, gave Houston a push, then spun off.
Houston recovered.
Jordan stopped on a dime. Pull-up.
Pure.
"SWISH!"
The United Center roared back to life.
"Here we go!" The play-by-play guy hyped it up.
Van Gundy, arms waving. "Tighten up! Double him!"
Phil Jackson? Chillin'. Leaned back, arms crossed, eyes half-closed, like he was meditating.
---
Next possession, Knicks.
Ewing got it on the left block.
Zhao Dong knew the game plan—rebound, control the paint, make Rodman's night hell.
Rodman was a beast on the boards. He wasn't just about size; he read the ball's trajectory like a damn scientist. Positioning, second jumps, elbows—all elite.
Zhao Dong locked in. He didn't care about winning the position battle. He wanted to stay between Rodman and the basket.
Height? Edge, Zhao Dong. Strength? Edge, Zhao Dong. But Rodman had tricks.
They wrestled under the rim. Zhao Dong used his left arm to feel Rodman's movement while keeping his eyes on the ball.
Ewing went for a hook. Clanked.
The ball bounced high. Right above them.
Zhao Dong leaped first—
WHISTLE!
Rodman went flying, screaming like he got shot.
Offensive foul.
"Man, get the fuck outta here!"
Rodman flopped like a pro.
Zhao Dong glared at the ref. "That's some bullshit."
Rodman, smirking, got up. "Welcome to the NBA, rookie."
Zhao Dong started laughing. Big, wide grin. Rodman looked uneasy.
Then the smile disappeared. Ice in his voice.
"Olajuwon dunked on me and said the same shit. Next game? I blocked his ass twice, stole one, and threw down on him.
So, Big Worm don't fuck with me. That's advice."
Rodman chuckled but didn't say shit back.
Game on.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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