On the 9th, Game 2 went down.
With Alonzo Mourning and P.J. Brown out, the Heat took another L. But weirdly enough, the score was tight—91-85, only a six-point win for the Knicks.
Miami's defense was straight-up grimy—they weren't scared of fouls at all. 31 fouls. They basically handed New York 41 free throw attempts, but the Knicks struggled. The Heat's physicality dragged New York's efficiency way down—they shot 28-for-81 (35%) from the field, 4-for-19 (21%) from three, and 22-for-41 (55%) from the stripe.
Zhao Dong? Only 6 assists this game. The Knicks as a team? Just 14 assists total.
He didn't hit a triple-double either. His stat line? 31 points, 11 boards, 13-for-28 from the field, 0-for-3 from deep, 5-for-8 on free throws.
Shooting below 50% wasn't part of the plan. Luckily, the series averages still mattered for his goal, so he had time to bounce back.
After Game 2, Zhao Dong realized something—Miami wasn't gonna roll over.
If this was how the Heat played without Mourning and P.J., then at full strength? The Knicks might be in trouble.
Heading to Miami
On the 10th, the Knicks landed in enemy territory.
More than 3,000 New York fans traveled to Miami with them, but Heat fans were waiting.
"Get Out! Get Out! Get Out!"
"Kill the Knicks! Kill the Knicks!"
"Zhao Dong, you murderer! Get the hell outta Miami!"
It was hostile. The Knicks' team bus got rocked so hard, it almost flipped.
Outside their hotel, a mob of Heat fans blocked the entrance. The team had to get help from local police just to check in safely.
At the media's request, the Knicks held a press conference—and of course, it got messy fast.
"Zhao Dong, the Knicks are up 2-0. You going for the sweep?" asked Thomas from the New York Daily.
"Damn, Thomas, you a traitor now?" Zhao Dong thought.
He answered, "We ain't worried about sweeps. We're only focused on winning the whole thing."
Then, a Miami reporter cut in.
"Zhao Dong, you stomped on P.J. Brown—again—and put him out. How do you explain that?"
Zhao Dong's expression turned cold.
"Look, whether it's me, the Knicks, or the NBA—we all gave a fair explanation," he said. "But let me ask you something. When I went up for a jumper, P.J. Brown straight-up wrestled me to the ground. Y'all just ignoring that? Or are you saying my neck should've snapped on that floor?
Is that what you Miami reporters call 'journalism'? Where's the damn integrity?"
"But he's the one who got injured, not you!" the reporter snapped.
That pissed Zhao Dong off. He stood up and glared at the dude.
"So what, as long as the result is different, the means don't matter? That's what you're saying?
By your logic, if I pull out a gun and shoot you right now, but you dodge it, then I ain't commit a crime, huh?"
The room fell dead silent.
The reporter shut the hell up.
Zhao Dong scoffed. "Y'all are pathetic. No morals. No sense of justice. I ain't wasting my time with this nonsense."
Then, he walked right out.
He knew damn well he didn't stomp Brown on purpose. The media twisting it? That just pissed him off even more.
---
Watching Bulls vs. Hawks
That night, the Knicks kicked back to watch Bulls vs. Hawks, Game 2.
"Bulls should sweep Atlanta, right?" John Starks asked.
"They got the squad for it," Allan Houston said.
Zhao Dong nodded. "If they lose two straight at home, they ain't the Bulls no more."
But as the game played out?
They got slapped in the face.
Final score? Hawks 103, Bulls 95.
Jordan? 12-for-29, 41% shooting, 0-for-6 from three, 3-for-3 from the line, only 27 points.
But—16 rebounds.
Rodman? Injured, exhausted, barely played 25 minutes. 5 rebounds, 2 points, 1 block.
The Bulls didn't even shoot that bad—41% FG, 37% from deep, 27 assists to Atlanta's 13.
But fouls killed them.
27 fouls. Hawks got 34 free throws—Bulls only got 11.
That was the game right there.
"Jordan underestimated them," Zhao Dong said.
"Man was settling for jumpers all night instead of attacking the paint. Thought he could coast through. That was a mistake."
"We better not make the same mistake," Van Gundy said. "Zhao Dong, I need more drives from you."
"Bet. I got you."
---
Game 3 in Miami
By April 11th, the Knicks were back in Miami's war zone.
The second they got off the team bus?
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Heat fans were banging on the bus, throwing insults, flipping the middle finger left and right.
When they entered the underground parking lot, every single staff member gave them cold looks.
But the worst part?
The visitor's locker room.
The second Knicks GM Ernie Grunfeld walked in, he turned around pissed.
"Yo, what the hell?! It's like 90 degrees in here!"
No AC. No fans. No windows. Just pure, sweaty hell.
A Miami staffer shrugged.
"Sorry, AC's broken. We're working on it."
"Bullshit," Grunfeld snapped. "Where's your GM? You gotta come to New York next, you know that? Y'all wanna play dirty? Just wait."
The Heat staff didn't give a damn.
When the Knicks players walked in?
It was like stepping into a sauna.
Within minutes, everyone was dripping sweat.
"Man, f* the Heat. We need to sweep these clowns,"Starks growled.
"Hold on, y'all," Zhao Dong said. "They want us mad. Stay locked in."
Van Gundy? Dude was struggling.
He was soaked in sweat, ripped off his suit jacket, unbuttoned his shirt—only thing left was his pants.
"This is some straight-up bulls*! We're filing a complaint with the league!"
"Damn it, we can't stay here anymore! Let's hit the hallway!" Oakley barked.
The entire Knicks squad—down to just their shorts— filed out into the corridor. No AC here either, but at least the air was moving.
"Click, click, click..."
Not even two minutes passed before reporters rolled up. The second they saw the squad looking like a damn underwear commercial, cameras started flashing like crazy.
"What's going on?"
"AC broken?"
Reporters threw questions while snapping pics like they hit the jackpot.
"Man, f* these dudes," Zhao Dong muttered, standing front and center like a damn magnet for the cameras. He didn't even bother ducking—he had money. He didn't care. Let 'em film.
"Hey, cut that sh out! No more pictures!" Oakley roared.
The more he yelled, the harder they snapped. Even the Knicks' own team reporter, Thomas, was in on it—dude was snapping away like he worked for TMZ.
"Why y'all out here?" Thomas asked, lowering his camera.
"Man, the Heat shut off our AC!" Zhao Dong snapped. "Locker room's a damn sauna. I wouldn't be surprised if they cranked the damn heater, too!"
Thomas peeked inside, came out shaking his head. "If Miami gets another game in New York, we returning the favor.
Knicks staff chuckled when they heard that.
That's when Zhao Dong snapped.
He turned to the Heat's staff and pointed straight at them. "Y'all got 10 minutes. If that AC ain't back, we're taking over the home locker room!"
"You?"
The Heat staff looked pissed. This was their house—who the hell did this dude think he was?
One guy, realizing shit might actually pop off, ran off to call the higher-ups.
Less than eight minutes later, after Ernie Grunfeld went back and forth with the Heat's management, Miami suddenly "fixed" the AC.
---
Game 3 - Starting Lineups
Knicks: Ewing, Oakley, Zhao Dong, Allan Houston, Charlie Ward
Heat: Isaac Austin, Alonzo Mourning, Jamal Mashburn, Voshon Lenard, Tim Hardaway
On NBC, Marv Albert read the lineups while Matt Goukas broke it down.
"With P.J. Brown out for the season, Miami takes a big hit inside."
"Yeah," Matt Goukas nodded. "But Austin ain't bad—dude just won Most Improved last year. A solid 9.7 points, 5.8 boards a game, got a mid-range shot. They call him the 'Karl Malone of Arizona.'
"Decent on offense," Matt said. "But defense? Weak. Still, Oakley ain't attacking much these days, so his job's easier."
Marv smirked. "I'll be real—Heat should just try to win one. Avoid the sweep."
Matt shook his head. "Nah, if they can hold home court, this series ain't over."
Right then, Marv laughed.
"Yo, I just got word—Knicks been in the hallway half-naked 'cause Miami killed their AC. Media's eating it up. Expect some wild headlines tomorrow!"
"Pfft! Hahaha!" Matt burst out laughing.
---
At center court, as the teams squared up, Zhao Dong locked eyes with Mourning.
"Yo, Alonzo, this how y'all operate? Dirty tricks?"
Mourning's brow furrowed. "The hell you talkin' about?"
Zhao Dong scoffed. "Man, don't play dumb. We both know. But hey, do what you gotta do—just know, I got my own sh too."
He turned and led the Knicks toward the bench.
"Man, f* that dude," Mourning muttered under his breath.
Truth be told, he had nothing to do with the locker room stunt—but now the Knicks were pinning it on him. That pissed him off.
---
Hostile Territory
When the Knicks hit the court, Miami's arena turned into a damn warzone.
Fans were raining boos—middle fingers were flying everywhere.
New York's traveling fans? Drowned out.
"Y'all ain't sweeping sh!"
"Alonzo gonna cook y'all tonight!"
"Go back to China, Zhao Dong! You a damn murderer!"
Both sides of the tunnel were packed with Heat fans screaming abuse.
Zhao Dong glanced at the sea of middle fingers and chuckled.
"Damn, what y'all think this is—Six Meridians Divine Sword? Get that weak shit outta here."
Oakley patted him on the back. "Yo, ignore these clowns. Let's hoop."
---
Pre-Game Drama
During warm-ups, Allan Houston's ball rolled over to Miami's side. When he went to grab it—Mashburn booted it into the stands.
"Yo, f* this dude," Zhao Dong muttered.
He didn't say much—just hurled the ball in his hands.
BANG!
Right off Mashburn's face.
Dude stumbled back, stunned.
"BOOOO!"
Miami fans lost it. The arena exploded in rage.
Mourning stormed over, fists clenched. "Yo, you wanna fight?!"
Zhao Dong stepped up. "I swear, don't try me, Zo. I ain't scared of your ass."
But before he could say another word—
BOOM!
Larry Johnson BULLDOZED Mourning!
"FINALLY!" Johnson roared. "Been waiting for this! Let's go!"
Dude had been itching for a brawl. Boxing training wasn't gonna waste itself.
Next thing you know?
Both squads were shoving—shoulders, chest bumps, all that.
The refs and security swarmed in fast.
"Sh! We throwing hands before tip-off?"** Marv Albert blurted out on NBC.
"NBA Playoffs, baby!" Matt Goukas laughed.
Marv shook his head. "The Heat are dumb as hell for this. Y'all ain't winning—why poke the bear? Still, a pre-game brawl might help 'em vent some steam."
"Man, f* venting," Matt chuckled. "This just means they gonna get whooped worse!"
---
Back in Beijing
At home, Zhao Dong's mom was watching.
"Oh no! Dongdong, don't fight! Let the young guys go first!"
Her son, Zhao Dacheng, laughed. "Ma, don't worry. Next time bro comes home, I'll toughen him up."
"You? Toughen him up?"
She scoffed. "Boy, your Turtle Fist ain't doing sh. You'd get rocked."
Zhao Dacheng's face twitched. "I ain't using Turtle Fist, Ma! I'm a professional Sanda fighter!"
"Tch!"
She slapped him upside the head. "Shut up! Don't talk back!"
Dacheng grumbled. "Man, I swear I wasn't adopted, but damn, Ma..."
---
Back at the Arena
Pat Riley, red as hell, barked at security. "Yo, separate them!"
Finally, the refs pulled the teams apart.
Zhao Dong pointed at Mourning. "Try some dirty shit today. I DARE you. Meet me in the tunnel after."
Larry Johnson nodded. "Yeah! Whoever runs is a b**!"
Zhao Dong laughed. "Wait, hold up—that don't sound right..."
A moment of silence.
"...We all born from women, bro."
The Knicks cracked up. The Heat? Not amused.
Game time.
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