"It's tough to say if those two vets can hold up in the Eastern Conference Finals. If even one of them goes down, the Bulls are toast," Marv said, watching the scene unfold.
"Yeah… looks like this might be the last ride for this stacked Bulls squad," Matt Goukas sighed.
Marv laughed, shaking his head. "Media and some players always preach about how Jordan's a team guy. But you look at Ewing and Rodman right now? Man, they look like two old heads hangin' on by a thread."
Goukas added, "The Bulls gambled, no doubt. They even had Ewing on cruise control during the regular season just to save him for the playoffs. And sure, Game 1, he showed up. But if the Bulls want to reach the Finals, Ewing's gotta keep that same energy, game after game. I hope he holds up."
At that moment, Zhao Dong sank the free throw. 7:6. Bulls ball.
Underneath the basket, Rodman leaned in, smirking at Ben Wallace.
"Rookie… what'd you do to make the Knicks sign your sorry ass? You sell your soul or you kiss Zhao Dong's ass?"
Ben's eyes flashed cold. He wanted to drop the Worm right then and there with an elbow, but held himself back.
Rodman kept going. "Yo, kid, I know a dude called Glass—dude got all kinds of tricks. I can hook y'all up. He'll teach you how to satisfy your boss real nice..."
Straight up foul trash talk. Rodman didn't even realize how nasty he was sounding—just spewing whatever came to his head.
"Big Worm?"
Zhao Dong's voice cut through.
"Huh?" Rodman turned his head—and boom.
SMACK!
A clean slap rang out. Rodman spun and crashed to the hardwood.
BEEP!
Ref blew the whistle fast, stopping the game.
"OHHHHH!"
"BOOOOOO!"
Fans lost it. Cheers and boos mixed together in a wild roar.
"Zhao Dong, what the hell was that?!" Jordan stormed over, yelling at him.
"Tell your boy to watch his damn mouth next time!" Zhao Dong snapped back.
"Chill! Chill!" The ref quickly stepped in, trying to break it up before it escalated.
Rodman laid on the court, groaning. His nose was bleeding, and there was a fat red handprint across his whole damn face. Dude looked miserable—snot, blood, tears. He got straight-up humbled.
"Gentlemen! This is our home court!" Phil Jackson barked at the scorers' table. "That kind of behavior can't slide. There needs to be serious punishment..."
Thibodeau, Knicks' assistant coach, shot back: "Man, the Worm straight-up provoked him! He did the same dirty mess last game too. Serial offender!"
"He wasn't even guarding Zhao Dong! How could he provoke him?" Phil Jackson snapped.
"You think Zhao just slapped him for fun? Nah, he ain't crazy. Your dude had it coming!" Thibs yelled back.
On the court, Zhao Dong wasn't done. He stepped up on Jordan again. "You wanna talk trash? Fine. We can talk trash. But cross the damn line again, and I'm throwin' hands. You better let your squad know that."
Jordan turned, not trying to escalate. But he looked down at Rodman. "Dennis, what the hell did you say?"
"Me?" Rodman blinked. "Man… I don't even know."
"Dude asked for it." Oakley said coldly, arms crossed.
He knew the deal. Off the court, Rodman pulled the same stunt and caught a slap from Oakley too. Fool never learns.
Jordan looked frustrated. He told Rodman before—don't mess with Zhao Dong. Dude's got league status now. You mess around, you find out.
Ref's ruling came through: Rodman got hit with a tech, and Zhao Dong with a personal foul.
It was fair. Rodman's talk got way too personal—that's a tech easy. And Zhao Dong put hands on him, so yeah, personal foul checks out.
Knicks got a free throw and possession. Basically a bonus point for them.
Over on the bench, Barkley leaned over to Yao Ming, schooling the young buck.
"Yo, you see this? This is what happens when a role player picks a fight with a damn superstar."
"Couple years ago, Reggie Miller shoved Jordan. Jordan chased his ass down the whole game, got him fouled out. Meanwhile, MJ kept ballin'. That's superstar privilege, bro."
"Sure, the league suspended Jordan a game afterward—but you get the point. This ain't no fair fight out here."
"And this? This is the Eastern Conference Finals. Two signature superstars goin' at it. The league ain't gonna mess up ratings over a slap. Ain't no way Zhao Dong gets suspended now. Too much money on the line if this series gets one-sided."
Yao nodded, eyes wide. He had been worried Zhao Dong was gonna get tossed, but now he got it.
Zhao Dong wasn't just some rising star. He was that dude. He could get away with things most players couldn't.
Meanwhile, the Bulls benched Rodman to get his nose looked at.
"Bridge ain't broken. You got lucky," the team doc told him.
Rodman grumbled, "Dude's a damn psycho. Hope Mike Tyson whoops his ass in the offseason..."
Phil Jackson wasn't having it. "I told you not to poke the bear. You forget already? Get cleaned up, you're goin' back in soon."
"I didn't even think he'd snap like that... I just said it casually..." Rodman muttered, head hanging low.
Zhao Dong was way more gangster than he thought—even more than Jordan. Hell, not even MJ threw hands like that.
By the time Rodman got back on the floor, the first quarter was already halfway gone.
18:13. Knicks up by 5 in enemy territory.
As Rodman re-entered, Zhao Dong shouted to Big Ben, "Ben! If that clown runs his mouth again, knock his damn teeth out. Both of y'all can go down together, I don't care!"
"Got it, boss!" Ben Wallace yelled, hyped as hell.
"Let me do it next time," Oakley said, cracking his knuckles. "I'll lay him out properly."
"These New York goons are worse than Laimbeer's crew back in the day," Rodman muttered, sweating buckets. He stood extra cautious near Wallace, not wanting smoke.
Knicks had the rock.
Zhao Dong took it at the left-wing three. Jordan guarding him one-on-one, while the rest of the Knicks started moving—cutting, screening, pulling defenders out of their comfort zones.
At this point, Zhao Dong saw the opening. Oakley set the screen up high to take McGrady out of the picture, and the Bulls had no chance to throw a double-team on the wing.
Without hesitation, Zhao Dong pulled out a slick shot fake, then exploded forward. Jordan bit on the fake just enough—Zhao Dong took that step and left him in the dust.
"Damn it!"
MJ was pissed. Getting cooked again had him fuming. He turned to chase, but the years were catching up with him. His legs just didn't have that same burst anymore. Honestly, even at his peak, that first step might've still been too much to keep up with.
Zhao Dong slashed into the wing, and without a double coming, he barreled into the paint with zero hesitation, shifting gears like a damn sports car.
Ewing and Rodman scrambled to cover the basket, but the moment Zhao Dong went airborne, they both flinched. That freakish momentum? That power? Man, that chill you feel when a train's about to crash into you? That's what they felt.
"BANG!"
Zhao Dong threw down a thunderous dunk right in their faces. Ewing and Rodman backed the hell off—nobody was trying to be on a poster tonight.
"Rookie, what the hell were you doing out there?" Jordan barked at McGrady, who looked like a deer in headlights.
"Tracy, forget Oakley! What's your main assignment? Huh?" Phil Jackson dropped the whole Zen act and snapped from the sidelines.
McGrady nodded like he just remembered he had homework due. His main job wasn't to chase Oakley—it was to help tag Zhao Dong after MJ got beat. Provide that second layer of defense. He and Jordan were supposed to collapse on Zhao Dong from both sides and wall off the paint.
Zhao Dong walked past MJ and coldly said, "Don't waste your energy, old man. You can't stop me. A rookie? Come on now."
Then he turned that death glare toward McGrady. The dude was shaking. Eyes wide. Couldn't even look Zhao Dong in the face.
After one quarter, the Knicks were up by 6, 30 to 24.
That lead came purely off Zhao Dong's relentless assault on the Bulls' interior. Their defense? It just couldn't hold. Just like in Game 1, the dude was on fire: 7-of-8 from the field, 6-for-6 at the line, four and-ones. Twenty points in just one quarter.
Under that brutal attack, both Ewing and Rodman racked up two fouls each. Jordan and McGrady added one apiece. The Knicks did some real damage out there.
Still, they only led by 6 because the rest of the squad was brickin'. Couldn't even finish layups clean.
Jordan went off too. He torched John Starks, dropping 14 in the first with 5-of-10 shooting and a perfect 4-of-4 from the stripe.
One other reason the Bulls were down? Ewing couldn't buy a bucket against Zhao Dong. Man shot 1-of-5, just 2 points before checking out with knee soreness after eight minutes.
During the intermission, Matt Goukas broke it down: "The Knicks didn't bring in Danny Fortson this game. Probably 'cause the coaching staff finally had enough of his bonehead fouls and sloppy play. Dude's been a walking turnover. His win-loss impact's at the bottom of the roster. The negatives just outweigh the hustle."
"In Game 2's third quarter, he racked up two fouls and a tech in two minutes just fighting for boards," Marv Albert added. "Too many red flags."
"Shame, really," Goukas sighed. "They trained him all season. If they trade him, they better get something decent back. He's still a lottery pick—eighth overall, I think?"
Second quarter rolls in, and Fortson actually gets subbed in again. Six minutes later, he's back on the bench—grabbed two boards and fouled out.
On the sideline, Jerry Krause made his move. Walked over to the Knicks' bench and started chatting up Ernie Grunfeld.
"Ernie, y'all definitely tryna dump that rookie, right?" Krause smirked.
Grunfeld didn't flinch. "Nope. He's part of the plan. Future rebounding beast. Next Rodman, no question."
He leaned in, adding, "We've had Zhao Dong working with him, training him all season. We're not giving up now. His temper's cooled too. You've seen that."
Krause raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? But he fouls like a madman. Can't stay on the floor. Whole lotta nothing."
"Next season's gonna be different," Grunfeld replied with a grin. "We're still gonna give him chances."
Krause shrugged, ending the convo. But he wasn't fooled.
From that whole exchange, it was crystal clear—the Knicks were shopping Fortson. Gassing him up was just sales talk. All flash, no substance.
Still, Krause saw potential. The Bulls were looking to hit the reset button. Rebuild time.
Jordan wasn't going anywhere, and Krause planned to build around him.
The vision? Jordan as the main weapon, Kidd as the engine, McGrady as a beefed-up version of Pippen with more offensive firepower. Sprinkle in some solid role guys, and boom—that's the first stage of the rebuild.
If they could snag Fortson? All the better. Yeah, he had some bad habits on the boards, but those could be coached out. The Bulls could mold him into a Rodman 2.0—maybe even better.
Come offseason, Ewing's getting shipped out. Ideally for one or two solid lottery picks. Gotta build up that future core.
Rodman? Maybe he sticks around. If Krause can get him to mentor Fortson, they might just have something there.
And when Jordan finally ages out, the next phase kicks in. McGrady, Kidd, Fortson—if they all grow into it, the rebuild's done.
The real trick? Using Jordan like a cultural anchor. As long as he's in a Bulls jersey, the team stays relevant. Even if the record tanks, the money's still rolling, and the spotlight never fades.
Only wild card left? Jordan's attitude.
Krause already got the green light from ownership. All that's left is to get Jordan on board.
But make no mistake—he's going through with this plan, one way or another.
If he doesn't, once Jordan retires, the Bulls are gonna fall into a dark-ass hole. A long, cold rebuild with no end in sight.
In the second and third quarters, Zhao Dong kept it chill—just like Game 1. He burned too much energy in the first quarter trying to bully his way through, so he switched gears and locked in on defense and playmaking instead.
Problem was, his teammates were gassed and couldn't buy a bucket. By the end of the third, the Knicks were down 70–75, trailing by five.
Over those two quarters, Zhao kept feeding his squad, throwing dimes left and right, but only racked up 5 assists 'cause nobody was knocking down shots.
Before the fourth got underway, Marv broke it down on NBC: "Zhao Dong's been doing work on defense, especially on Ewing. Ewing's only got 11 points and 5 boards in three quarters.
But even with Zhao Dong basically chillin' for two quarters, and with the Knicks shooting a rough 33% overall—including Zhao's own numbers—the Bulls are only up five. That tells you all you need to know. These so-called 'Super Bulls' ain't as untouchable as people say."
Matt Goukas chimed in: "Zhao dropped 20 in the first quarter and 10 across the next two, so he's sitting at 30 points, 14 rebounds, 6 assists, 2 steals, 5 blocks, 2 turnovers, and 3 fouls. Jordan's got 31 points, 6 boards, 2 assists, 2 steals, 1 block, 1 turnover, and 2 fouls. If you're talking pure impact, Zhao's carrying more weight. This one's gonna be a dogfight all the way to the final buzzer."
Fourth quarter tips off.
The Knicks roll out Ben Wallace, Zhao Dong, Oakley, Hu Weidong, and Allan Houston. The Bulls keep their starting five.
Zhang Heli called it like it was: "The Knicks been struggling tonight. John Starks is 1-for-8, Allan Houston's 2-for-9, and Hu Weidong is 1-for-5. If not for their beast mode rebounding and tight paint defense, they'd be toast by now."
Bulls on the attack. Kidd slices through the defense, draws the double after getting into the paint, and kicks it out to Jordan. MJ pulls up over Oakley and drills the mid-range J.
70–77. Knicks' ball.
Zhao Dong signals Hu Weidong to bring it up while he and Houston provide support on the wing.
Zhao's got that brute strength when he drives, but he's a heavy dude. Unlike light guards like Iverson, every move drains him more. So now, he's conserving energy where he can.
As they cross half-court, Zhao moves to the left wing three-point line. Jordan slides over, eyes locked on him. The ball finds Zhao.
Everybody knows what's about to go down—players, fans, even the popcorn guy in the stands. Dude rested two quarters. He's coming for blood.
Zhao catches with one hand, swings it back like an eagle spreading wings.
Then—boom—he steps forward.
Jordan reacts instantly, turning to run, but then it hits him—damn, he got faked. Zhao didn't drive.
MJ hits the brakes hard. His upper body tilts, hand hits the floor just in time to stop a full-on fall.
Zhao pulls his foot back, gives Jordan a quick death stare, then rises up and nails the three.
Swish.
Nothing but net.
"Yo Jordan, I'm shooting 44% from deep this season. What about you?" Zhao throws out the trash talk on the way back to play D.
"Shit…" Jordan mutters, pissed off after getting smoked and clowned on live TV.
73–77. Bulls still up 4. Their possession.
Kidd again attacks, using McGrady's screen. He dishes it to Jordan, who rises for another mid-range jumper—miss.
Zhao grabs the board and pushes the rock.
Back to the left wing. Zhao vs. Jordan. Again.
As soon as Zhao touches the ball, United Center starts booing like crazy.
"Take a guess, Mike. I'm either pullin' this three, or I'm breakin' your ankles," Zhao says, palming the ball and flexin' that trash talk.
Jordan steps up tight and throws an elbow into Zhao's chest trying to strip him. Dirty, but expected.
It barely fazes Zhao. Dude's a tank.
He spins past MJ, dribbles left, shields with his right, and powers his way down the wing.
Ewing from the low post and McGrady from the top rotate over to trap him.
Zhao shifts down, slips through the double, and jets into the paint.
BOOM!
He takes flight and hammers it home. United Center goes dead silent.
"We're down two!" Zhang Heli shouts, hyped.
Bulls come back.
Kidd holds up this time. Jordan cuts, gets the rock, and tries to slash into the paint—but Zhao, Oakley, and Big Ben got it locked up tighter than Fort Knox.
No lane. So MJ pulls up again from mid-range.
Bucket.
75–79. Knicks' ball.
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