The ref blew the whistle, halting the game. He rushed over but didn't dare to step between Zhao Dong and Karl Malone. Instead, he barked from the sideline,
"Cool it! You guys throw hands, and you're both gone. No second chances. This is the Finals—no fights allowed!"
Zhao Dong smirked coldly and stared Malone down.
"I'll give you a shot, Malone. After the season, let's go one-on-one. No refs, no cameras. You pick the rules or the location—I'll handle the other. Deal?"
Without hesitation, Malone growled back, "Deal. I'll set the rules."
In his mind, Malone was already scheming.
He knew he couldn't take Zhao Dong in a street fight, but if he made it a boxing match—no legs, just fists—he had a real chance. With his iron fists, he was confident he could put Zhao Dong on his ass.
But Zhao Dong had his own edge—his ridiculous injury resistance. The dude could take hits like a damn tank.
The two locked eyes, sealing their agreement before separating.
The ref exhaled in relief, pretending he hadn't overheard their not-so-subtle challenge.
Seeing the situation defuse, Zhang Heli sighed and called out,
"Good! No fight. The Knicks are still in control. If Zhao Dong gets ejected, it's game over."
The game resumed.
Charlie Ward got called for a defensive foul, sending Stockton to the line.
Two free throws—both good.
Knicks ball.
Zhao Dong took over point guard duties, bringing the ball up from the backcourt.
The Jazz switched tactics, running a half-court defense.
They didn't press Zhao Dong early but set a trap just past the three-point line.
Once he crossed half-court, Malone match up with him, and Stockton doubled from the outside.
The moment he drove into the paint, the Jazz swarmed him with non-stop double teams.
Pushing the ball into the frontcourt, Zhao Dong squared up near the top of the arc.
Malone pressed up on him while Stockton snuck away from Ward and crashed in for the double-team.
The Jazz defense scrambled, switching quickly.
The Knicks, meanwhile, slashed inside relentlessly, cutting through any gaps, defenders be damned.
The court turned into controlled chaos.
While Zhao Dong had Stockton's playmaking instincts, he still lacked the refined experience of a true point guard.
Basketball was a game of feel and flow, and Zhao Dong was still learning on the fly.
He missed a few small passing windows—opportunities that a seasoned guard would've exploited.
But it didn't matter—he had another weapon.
His freakish mismatch advantage.
As Stockton pressed him, Zhao Dong suddenly spun away, shaking off the double-team and blowing by Malone from the weak side.
With one slick move, he slashed toward the left elbow.
The Jazz defense collapsed around him.
With four defenders crowding the paint, Zhao Dong abruptly pulled up for a quick-stop jumper.
Swish!
Nothing but net.
"Wow! What a smooth crossover! Zhao Dong just left Malone in the dust," Matt Goukas exclaimed.
"And that quick-stop jumper? Deadly. The defense couldn't react in time."
"Exactly. The play started with Malone getting cooked. He's too slow for Zhao Dong's handles," Marv Albert chimed in.
"If the Jazz keep putting Malone on him outside, they're asking for trouble."
The Jazz quickly adjusted their defense.
Malone dropped back to the low post, while Bryon Russell was tasked with guarding Zhao Dong on the perimeter.
On the next possession, Zhao Dong jogged to the left wing with the ball.
Malone stayed low, ready to rotate, but far from the action.
With Russell defending him, Zhao Dong grinned and launched into trash talk.
"You got 'HIT ME' stamped on your left cheek, and 'FREE BUCKETS' on your right. You really want this work?"
Russell, face flushing red, fired back,
"Bring it, tough guy. Let's see what you've got!"
Zhao Dong chuckled darkly.
"Heh… you really don't know when to quit, huh?"
He suddenly accelerated.
The rubber of his sneakers screeched as he cut hard to the left, driving past Russell with ease.
"Oh! Zhao Dong making a move!" Marv Albert called out.
Russell slid over to cut him off, but Zhao Dong intentionally bumped him mid-drive.
The contact threw Russell off balance, and Zhao Dong blew past him effortlessly.
"… He's gone! Russell's out of position—here comes Karl Malone on the help defense!" Goukas shouted.
Two steps into the paint, the Jazz defense swarmed.
Malone squared up, bracing for impact.
Jeff Hornacek closed in from the weak side for a double-team.
But Zhao Dong slowed his pace.
Seeing this, Malone anticipated a pull-up jumper and lunged forward.
Except, it was a feint.
At the last second, Zhao Dong exploded again, accelerating with a lightning-quick crossover behind his back.
He blew by Malone and slipped past Hornacek in one move, breaking into the paint.
"Beautiful move! Zhao Dong with the fast-slow combo—just cooked Malone!" Marv Albert shouted.
At the rim, Greg Ostertag rotated over, taking a step out from under the basket.
But Zhao Dong was ready.
He suddenly veered upward with a vicious direction change.
Ostertag, caught off balance, shuffled back toward the rim.
Too late.
Zhao Dong exploded off the floor, soaring over Ostertag.
"BANG!"
The rim shook violently as Zhao Dong threw down a monster dunk.
Ostertag collapsed under the impact, hitting the floor hard.
"YEAH!!"
MSG erupted into chaos.
The entire arena was on its feet, roaring.
"FUCK!"
Seeing his teammate get posterized, Karl Malone cursed furiously.
"Woooaahhh!"
Marv Albert screamed into the mic, his voice nearly cracking.
"Zhao Dong just ripped through Russell, torched Malone, and slammed over Ostertag. He's DESTROYING the Jazz defense by himself!"
"Russell can't guard him. Malone can't keep up. The Jazz are cooked," Matt Goukas added.
"Zhao Dong is breaking them down, one by one. He's turning this into his personal highlight reel!"
On the sidelines, Jerry Sloan was sweating bullets, but he had no answers.
No matter how sharp the tactics, they still relied on execution—and Sloan simply didn't have anyone who could match up with Zhao Dong.
At the end of the day, basketball tactics had one purpose: creating open looks or mismatches for your players.
But against Zhao Dong, it didn't matter. Whether he was in the low post or on the perimeter, he was a walking mismatch—a goddamn bug in the system.
The Jazz couldn't stop him inside during the first half.
In the second half, they got cooked by his outside scoring and playmaking.
All night long, the Jazz were playing from behind.
Zhao Dong's relentless scoring and surgical passing shredded their defense.
When the final buzzer sounded, the Knicks walked away with a 100-79 win, crushing the Jazz by 21 points.
"Nobody could've predicted this blowout," Matt Goukas said, still in shock.
"When Zhao Dong started dominating the low post, the Jazz looked finished. But when he took it outside, they were even more helpless."
Marv Albert shook his head, still processing the performance.
"Zhao Dong played 42 minutes, shot 19-of-27, made 8-of-10 free throws, and dropped a ridiculous 46 points. That's Finals-level greatness right there."
Matt nodded,
"Yeah, 46 points in the Finals? That's elite. If he keeps this up, he'll cement himself as one of the all-time greats."
Marv added,
"Absolutely. Tonight, Zhao Dong showcased his dominance and unstoppable force in the post. He literally carried the Knicks—even with their depleted frontcourt—toward their potential third championship."
Meanwhile, on CCTV, Zhang Heli was practically shouting in excitement,
"46 points, 15 rebounds, 10 assists, 2 steals, 6 blocks, 2 turnovers, and 4 fouls!
Zhao Dong just made history in the Finals with his seventh triple-double—setting new playoff and Finals scoring records. What a performance!"
---
After the game, Zhao Dong was swarmed by the media.
"Zhao Dong, where the hell did that low-post game come from? I've been covering you all year—how'd I miss that?"
Thomas, the Knicks team reporter, asked excitedly.
Zhao Dong grinned.
"You know me—I put in the extra work. I've seen New York at 4 AM more times than I can count."
"Oooooh!"
Some local reporters gasped in surprise.
Thomas grinned and shot back,
"I've been there before you, man. Seen New York at 1 or 2 AM plenty of times."
Zhao Dong chuckled and clapped back,
"Then you better get your kidneys and prostate checked.
When I hit the bed, I'm out cold till morning—no late-night bathroom breaks for me."
The whole media crew burst out laughing.
"You just dropped 46 in the Finals, your career-high in the playoffs. What's running through your mind right now?"
A New York Times reporter asked.
Zhao Dong flashed a cocky grin.
"The Jazz were way too generous. Felt like they weren't even guarding me. I could barely see a defender out there."
"Haha!"
The room exploded with laughter again.
---
After the interview, Zhao Dong escorted Lindsay out.
The tunnel from the arena to the underground parking lot was nearly empty. The long corridor was dead silent.
Zhao Dong glanced at Lindsay, concerned that she might feel uneasy.
"You really wanna fight him privately?" Lindsay asked, surprised.
"It's not a street fight. More like a boxing, grappling, or wrestling match," Zhao Dong explained casually.
Her eyes widened with worry.
"You know how to do all that?"
Zhao Dong smirked.
"That makes two of us. He doesn't know how to fight either. We'll just see who can take more hits."
But seeing the concern on Lindsay's face, he softened his tone.
"Don't stress. I can take a beating better than him. You saw it—I took an elbow to the back of the head and didn't even flinch.
My brother and I used to brawl all over the neighborhood. No one in the alleys could touch us."
Lindsay shook her head and gently warned him,
"Mom always says, 'Porcelain shouldn't clash with clay pots.' Don't fight him."
Zhao Dong smiled.
"We already set the date. No backing out now. It's a one-time thing."
"...Okay," Lindsay muttered reluctantly, still worried.
After seeing Lindsay off, Zhao Dong jogged back to the locker room, hit the showers, then headed to the post-game press conference.
The two press conferences were held next to each other, and when Zhao Dong arrived, he ran into the Jazz.
Karl Malone, still fuming from the loss, locked eyes with Zhao Dong and asked coldly,
"Boy, you serious about what you said?"
Zhao Dong smirked,
"You think I'm gonna back down?"
Malone glanced at the Jazz management around him.
Obviously, this wasn't a conversation for management ears.
With a subtle gesture, he motioned for Zhao Dong to step aside.
The two walked off together.
"What the hell are they up to?" Ernie Grunfeld asked Charles Oakley, suspicious.
Oakley shrugged casually,
"No clue."
But in reality, he knew damn well.
He had heard the exchange on the court—but he wasn't about to snitch.
Deep down, he kinda wanted to see Zhao Dong and Malone throw hands.
Hell, he wouldn't mind getting a crack at Malone himself.
Grunfeld asked a few others, but everyone played dumb.
Frustrated, he knew they were keeping something from him.
On the Jazz side, Jerry Sloan turned to John Stockton.
"John?"
Stockton hesitated.
He knew the whole thing—he was closest to Zhao Dong and Malone during the game.
But he wasn't sure if he should spill it.
Fortunately, before Stockton had to answer, Zhao Dong and Malone returned, silent and stone-faced, sparing him the awkwardness.
They had already come to an agreement:
Malone got to pick the boxing rules, while Zhao Dong would set the date—sometime before mid-July.
---
Game 1 was in the books, and with the time difference, it was already daytime in China.
The media was losing its mind over the game.
Zhao Dong was being hailed as China's best basketball player, and his 46-point Finals performance sparked a frenzy.
Thousands of Beijing fans flooded government offices, demanding that Zhao Dong be recruited to the national team.
Over at the Basketball Department of the Sports Commission, the atmosphere was chaotic.
The department was already in shambles due to an internal power struggle over the upcoming establishment of the Basketball Management Center.
Now, this Zhao Dong situation had thrown fuel on the fire.
Nobody knew how to handle it—they could only push it up to higher authorities.
Meanwhile, Director Liu Yumin was on the brink of being completely sidelined.
She had caught wind that she wouldn't have a place in the soon-to-be Basketball Management Center.
Even her CBA position was at risk.
She was devastated.
Considering her experience and achievements, she had been a clear candidate for the director position.
But now, she was being squeezed out—her chances of making a comeback were slim.
The situation was a gut punch.
Her only hope?
Capitalize on the Zhao Dong hype.
If she could ride the wave of fan pressure to get Zhao Dong on the national team, maybe she could regain some influence.
So, when fans mobbed the offices, she did the only thing she could:
She pushed the issue to the Sports Federation.
At the same time, she formally submitted another proposal to her superiors, demanding Zhao Dong's immediate recruitment to the national team.
But deep down, she knew this was her last gasp.
Even if the higher-ups approved it, she was likely still out.
The sports association was undergoing a generational shift.
Young and middle-aged executives were taking over—it was inevitable.
Her resistance was probably futile.
---
The Jazz's Game 1 loss sent shockwaves through the league.
The media was on fire.
On June 3rd, headlines were brutal:
"Mailman Malone gets destroyed by Zhao Dong on both ends!"
The New York Times ran a front-page spread:
"Malone only scored 18 points the whole game—half of which came when Zhao Dong was on the bench.
Meanwhile, on defense, Zhao Dong torched him for 46.
The Mailman got delivered straight to hell!"
The New York Sports Times praised Zhao Dong's dominance:
"A textbook low-post clinic.
Zhao Dong's offensive firepower is unmatched in the league!
Scoring 46 in his Finals debut—he's officially the league's most dominant superstar."
New York TV stations were all over it.
They flooded their broadcasts with Zhao Dong's G1 highlights, replaying them on a loop.
His performance and newfound stardom had New York buzzing.
Zhao Dong's popularity skyrocketed—surpassing even Lawrence Taylor, the former NFL star and New York Giants legend.
Even though Taylor had cemented himself as an NFL Hall of Famer with two Super Bowl titles, he was now taking a backseat.
After multiple scandals, including two arrests for supporting separatist movements, his reputation was in the gutter.
Meanwhile, Zhao Dong was in his prime.
He wasn't just a defensive powerhouse—he was a walking highlight reel, an offensive juggernaut.
46 points in Game 1 had made him New York's new king.
---
Over at NBA headquarters in New York, David Stern was already in his office early, eager to see the Finals ratings from Game 1.
Without Michael Jordan, he didn't have high hopes.
He figured 12 or 13 million viewers would be solid.
Hell, he was mentally prepared for it to drop to 10 million.
Thinking back to the Eastern Conference Finals, where the Bulls drew a whopping 19 million viewers, made him wince.
The drop-off was gonna cost the league big money.
It wasn't just the TV ratings that stung—it was the ticket revenue.
Chicago was a massive basketball market, while Salt Lake City didn't have the same pull.
Compared to Chicago, the Jazz's Finals ticket prices were dirt cheap, which was another punch to Stern's wallet.
"Mr. Stern?"
A knock at the door broke his thoughts.
It was Vice President Russ Granik.
"Come in."
Russ walked in, holding the ratings report with a grin.
Stern immediately scanned Russ expression.
He wasn't looking too grim—a good sign.
Maybe the drop-off wasn't as bad as he feared.
"17 million?!"
Stern nearly fell out of his chair.
He glanced up at Russ, baffled.
"Lanier, is this a mistake?"
Russ shook his head, smiling.
"I thought so too, but NBC confirmed it.
I even double-checked with them myself—it's legit."
Stern exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair, a massive grin spreading across his face.
This Finals was turning into a goldmine.
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