NBA: The Dynasty Crusher (Basketball)

After the official starting lineups were announced, Bob Costas analyzed live on NBC:

"The Spurs signed veteran swingman Mario Elie this season after his run with Houston. He'll be starting at shooting guard tonight. The rest of the starters? Familiar faces from last year's core.

Elie, 36 years old, was a solid bench piece during the Rockets' back-to-back championships in '94 and '95. For the Spurs this season, he's averaged 9.7 points, 2.9 boards, 1.9 assists, and a steal per game. He's got some offensive punch and he's a physical defender...

But let's be real—he's no Latrell Sprewell. That's a clear weakness for San Antonio at the two spot."

Doug Collins chimed in:

"At point guard, the Spurs are rolling with Chauncey Billups—the former No. 2 pick once labeled a bust. But after two seasons grinding it out in New York, he's finding his rhythm. He's shaping up to be on par with someone like Avery Johnson. Not flashy, but he gets it done."

Isaiah nodded.

"At small forward, it's veteran Sean Elliott. The third pick in the '89 Draft. He's 31 now—used to be an All-Star caliber guy, but after last year's injury, he's not the same.

This season, he's putting up just 11.4 points, 4.3 rebounds, and 2.3 assists. He's clearly lost a step. And if he gets matched up with Zhao Dong? He's gonna get torched—on both ends."

Bob chuckled grimly.

"Inside though... whew. San Antonio's Twin Towers? They're a nightmare. Tim Duncan and David Robinson—that combo dominated Shaq in the West. No question, they've got the edge over Danny Fortson and Wang Zhizhi inside."

Doug agreed but added:

"Still, Zhao Dong's likely to drop into the low post on both ends, giving New York more power down low than people expect. We're looking at a high-level battle in the paint tonight."

Bob gave his final take:

"This one's a coin flip. 50-50 shot. Game 1 might come down to the final minutes."

---

Back in China, the CCTV broadcast was heating up.

Veteran commentator Zhang Heli saw Wang Zhizhi listed in the starting lineup and practically jumped out of his seat.

"I didn't expect this! Coach Nelson is bold—very bold. If it were me, I wouldn't dare start Dazhi in a Finals game. This is the most critical series for defending the dynasty!"

Sun Zhenping nodded in encouragement.

"Let's hope Dazhi can keep his nerves in check and play his game."

Zhang Heli laughed.

"Zhao Dong's stirred up trouble with another head coach. I've got a feeling this opening will be fierce. The Knicks will try to ride the home crowd and punch the Spurs in the mouth early.

Looking at the matchups, San Antonio's Twin Towers are stacked. They even took down Shaq. New York can't outmatch them inside—unless Dazhi rises to the occasion and helps Zhao Dong battle it out."

---

At 7:10 PM, the arena lights dimmed.

The starting lineup intros began—full showtime energy.

A single spotlight hit Tim Duncan as he walked out.

A tsunami of boos erupted from Madison Square Garden.

The second-year big man didn't flinch.

Stone-faced, hands raised, Duncan calmly waved to the crowd, then jogged to the court.

Even louder boos followed.

"You DARE wave?!" Knicks fans roared.

"That's a provocation!" yelled Spike Lee, nearly spitting with rage. But even he couldn't hear his own voice in the deafening madness.

Then came the Knicks' turn.

When Zhao Dong made his entrance, the Garden exploded.

The entire arena shook.

Zhao Dong high-fived fans on both sides, signed a few quick autographs for kids, and even turned down a request from a stunning woman to sign her chest.

With a laugh and a wave, he headed onto the floor.

The MC handed him the mic, and the noise began to settle.

Zhao Dong looked around at the roaring crowd, then delivered his message—cool, confident, and commanding:

"To all Knicks fans... this is it. We're about to start a great Finals series. We're here to defend our title, to build a dynasty. And we're going to make it exciting."

The crowd erupted.

He held up his hand and continued.

"People keep saying the Spurs' Twin Towers are unstoppable—that we can't match up with them.

But who said the Knicks can't compete with San Antonio?"

The crowd booed that statement—not at him, but in shared defiance of that idea.

"Whoever said that," Zhao Dong smirked, "doesn't know us."

Bob laughed from the NBC booth.

"Who said that? Not me. I just said this game was fifty-fifty!"

Doug laughed back.

"You did, five minutes ago!"

Bob rolled his eyes.

> "Well, Zhao Dong's just lighting a fire under his squad. Motivating the crowd. That's leadership."

Zhao Dong wasn't done.

"Earlier today, in the underground parking lot, Coach Popovich rejected my handshake.

He rejected my respect."

He paused.

"So what do we do to teams that show no respect?"

Popovich, watching from the bench, clenched his jaw.

"Damn it! This guy's using the home crowd to take shots at me?!"

"DOWN WITH THE SPURS!" shouted Charles Barkley courtside, fired up like a man fighting for his own ring.

Michael Jordan, sitting nearby, raised his eyebrows.

"Barkley's putting in work like he's still playing."

The crowd picked up the chant.

> "DOWN WITH THE SPURS! DOWN WITH THE SPURS!"

The Garden was on fire.

The entire building felt like it was vibrating.

Hell-level intensity.

The kind of atmosphere only Madison Square Garden could summon.

"This is what happens when a team has a true leader," Isaiah said.

"Zhao Dong's turned the Knicks into a fortress—and this court into hell."

Zhao Dong handed the mic back, jogged to the sideline, greeted some VIPs and strangers alike, kissed Lindsay in the front row, then tore off his warmups and hit the court for final prep.

8:00 PM, June 8th. Game 1 of the 1999 NBA Finals. Tip-off.

Tim Duncan and Wang Zhizhi stepped into the circle.

Ref tossed it up—Duncan won the tip.

Spurs ball.

San Antonio went straight to their bread and butter: The Twin Towers Offense.

The setup was clean.

Robinson took position just right of the top of the key—high post.

Duncan drifted down to the left low block, ready to operate.

That's the classic Double Tower Set.

Two bigs, one high, one low.

With their size and length, they could eat on the glass, screen hard, and pass over smaller defenders with ease.

The two-man action unfolded—one high, one low—splitting apart the Knicks' interior defense like a scalpel.

At the perimeter, the Spurs spaced out perfectly. Junior General Johnson was parked on the left wing beyond the arc, Mario Elie held the right wing, and Sean Elliott posted up low on the right block.

Johnson initiated the play. He dumped the ball into David Robinson at the high post, then rotated to the right wing, dragging Chauncey Billups out with him.

Elie took Sprewell with him to the corner, clearing the lane.

Inside, Wang Zhizhi picked up Robinson. Zhao Dong locked in on Tim Duncan down low. Fordson drew the assignment on Sean Elliott.

"No zone here," Bob commented from the NBC broadcast booth. "Knicks going man-to-man."

"Zhao Dong's matched up with Robinson again," Doug added. "Remember, he blocked Robinson's shot at the Olympics in Atlanta. Let's see if he brings that same fire tonight."

Down on the left block, Duncan was trying to establish position, but Zhao Dong was already bodying him up with tough top-side pressure.

Duncan still had that hesitation. Every time he faced Zhao Dong, there was that shadow. Their last meeting? Duncan got killed. Before that? Same story.

But tonight—tonight was different. He'd clawed his way to the Finals. He was here, on the biggest stage, and he wanted to show Zhao Dong—and the world—that he wasn't that rookie anymore. He was Tim Duncan. He was the superstar.

At the high post, Robinson held the ball, sizing up Wang Zhizhi. He hadn't forgotten the embarrassment in Atlanta. That Chinese kid had erased his shot in front of the world.

Still, the Spurs' playbook was simple: run the Twin Towers. Robinson starts high, Duncan works low. Feed it inside. Duncan either isolates or kicks it back. If he goes for it and misses, Robinson crashes for the board or a put-back slam.

Robinson swung the pass to the low post. Duncan leaned in with his left, arm extended to create space, signaling for the entry.

But before the ball could even reach his hands—

"SWIPE!"

Zhao Dong exploded laterally, cutting off the passing lane. His first step, a blur honed from hours studying Grant Hill's film, was lightning-fast. Duncan never saw it coming.

"SNATCH!"

Zhao Dong picked the ball clean with his left hand and took off like a shot.

"Zhao Dong with the steal! He's in transition!" Isaiah roared.

The guards from both teams instantly sprinted the wings.

At the top of the arc, Wang Zhizhi reacted a split-second later, turning and bolting downcourt just inside the three-point line.

Robinson, who had been cutting toward the basket, realized what was happening. Desperate to catch up, he reached out and tugged on Zhizhi's jersey—just enough to slow him down. The two got caught up, trailing the four guards who had already sprinted ahead.

Zhao Dong surged forward with the ball, a predator in the open court. Duncan gave chase, but he was already two steps behind.

"Dunk the glass! Dunk the glass!"

The crowd at Madison Square Garden was on its feet. The Knicks were in transition, and Zhao Dong was leading the break.

On the sidelines, Gregg Popovich was screaming over the crowd. "David! Stop him!"

He was desperate. If Zhao Dong shattered the backboard on the first possession, it would kill their momentum. In an arena this hostile, that might be a knockout punch in the first minute.

But Robinson couldn't hear a thing. MSG was deafening. Still, the Admiral had years of instincts. He kept glancing over his shoulder. Zhao Dong was two meters behind and closing fast.

Robinson planted, turned, and spread his arms wide at the top of the arc.

Zhao Dong didn't slow. He whipped the ball low—through the Admiral's legs!

"WHOA! THROUGH THE LEGS!" Goukas hollered.

Wang Zhizhi caught it clean on the move, took two dribbles forward, and spotted Zhao Dong burning past Robinson. He rifled the ball back.

"HE'S GIVING IT BACK!"

Zhao Dong caught it in stride and launched into a full sprint. Three steps from the free-throw line—

He took off.

"BOOM IT!"

Flashes lit up like fireworks behind the baseline as every cameraman smashed their shutter buttons.

Stars sitting courtside rose from their seats. MSG fans were already standing, fists clenched, waiting for the eruption.

O'Neal, sitting on the Spurs' side, watched wide-eyed. "Yeah… that's gonna break."

"BOOOOM!!"

The backboard exploded. Glass shards rained like fireworks.

"YEEEEAAAHHHHH!!"

The Garden erupted. A wall of sound smashed through the building. Thousands of fists punched the air. The place felt like it was vibrating with raw power.

Popovich slammed his fists in frustration. "Shit!"

Zhao Dong stood in the middle of the wreckage, surrounded by sparkling debris, and slowly raised one hand to his lips.

He made a shushing motion.

The deafening noise paused—for three seconds. That's all it took.

Then Zhao Dong lifted his head and roared at the crowd:

"TONIGHT… LET'S DO THIS TOGETHER—"

He thrust his fist in the air.

"—BEAT THE SPURS!"

"BEAT THE SPURS! BEAT THE SPURS!!"

It was like a tsunami inside the Garden. The chant swept over the arena, over the players, over every soul watching.

(TL: Fuvvvkk I feel the goosebumps)

"Do the Spurs even have any fight left?" Bob shouted over the NBC broadcast. "In the '90s, the United Center was the scariest place to play. But here—right now—tonight, Madison Square Garden has become the most terrifying arena in the NBA!"

Over on China's CCTV broadcast, Sun Zhenping was just as fired up. "The Knicks' momentum is like a boulder rolling down the mountain—unstoppable!"

Zhang Heli nodded gravely. "I said they needed to come out hot to crush San Antonio's morale. One team's confidence is an oven, the other's a fridge. This G1 might be over before it even starts."

Timeout Spurs.

The MSG sound system blasted an intense beat.

The Knicks cheerleaders stormed the floor, spinning and flipping through flying shards of glass. The arena was electric.

"Yo, what do you guys think of that dunk?"

Zhao Dong grinned as he walked along the sideline, joining a small group of NBA stars.

"Don't show off," Jordan said with a scowl.

Truthfully, MJ had wanted to try that kind of dunk himself—but he never had. It required insane explosiveness, and even for him, it was too risky. One bad landing could mean injury. But Zhao Dong? With that monster build of his and an iron body, he could tank the impact like it was nothing.

"Zhao Dong, man… that dunk was unreal," O'Neal said, eyes still wide. "I wanna try it once, right here in the Mecca of Basketball."

"You?" Zhao Dong shot him a look, voice turning cold. "You better make sure I'm not around when you do, or I'll yank you down mid-air. Whether you get injured or carried out? That's up to fate."

Unbothered, O'Neal laughed. "I'm not you. I don't need to launch from the free throw line. One step under the rim and I'm flying. You ain't knocking me down."

Zhao Dong turned to Oakley with a smirk. "Charles, remind me—who was the clown you laid out on the floor last time?"

"Who else?" Oakley grinned, pointing a thumb at O'Neal.

"Man, it was two-on-one! That doesn't count!" O'Neal barked.

"Little Shark," Barkley chimed in, clapping his hands. "I could've knocked you down solo. Wanna run it back?"

O'Neal's mouth opened, but no words came. He'd been dropped by Barkley before, and the memory shut him up.

"HA HA HA!"

The whole group burst into laughter.

On the Spurs' bench, Head Coach Gregg Popovich was doing damage control.

The team's morale had dipped fast, and the bench looked rattled.

As a former military man, Popovich understood what it meant when your squad looked like that. And he knew—this version of the Spurs couldn't beat the Knicks if they cracked now. Not in MSG. Not with Zhao Dong turning the arena into his personal highlight reel. Even with the Twin Towers, the Spurs couldn't do everything alone.

Stepping up, team captain David Robinson addressed the group with calm confidence.

"Don't sweat it. He shattered the backboard? Cool. Still only two points. We answer with a jumper, and that highlight disappears."

Popovich nodded, chiming in, and even Tim Duncan spoke up. The atmosphere slowly settled. The fire returned to the eyes of the Spurs.

"Tim, I want you to get the next one," Popovich said, pulling Duncan aside. "A dunk. Big one. Boost morale. You're our core—lead like it."

"I got it, Coach," Duncan said with a quiet nod.

After fifteen minutes, the new backboard was ready. The game resumed.

Spurs' ball.

San Antonio went back to their high-low Twin Tower setup, trying to create separation between the Knicks' bigs and give Duncan a clean one-on-one opportunity in the post.

Duncan stayed locked in this time, mindful of Zhao Dong's defensive angles. But instead of pressing up, Zhao Dong looped around from the front, cutting off the passing lane.

Zhao Dong wasn't defending tight now. He was gambling on speed and hops.

In his past life, Duncan had gone down late next season. Before that, he was a complete monster—nimble, athletic, deadly with cuts and finishes. His injury had turned him into more of a back-to-the-basket big, but right now? He was still airborne.

Still, Zhao Dong trusted his edge. Better bounce. Quicker feet. He could beat Duncan to the spot, deny the ball, and choke off one of the Spurs' main offensive weapons.

Duncan read the move. He made a sharp cut inside, left hand raised to signal Robinson. At the same time, he gave Zhao Dong a subtle shove on the hip, just enough to delay him.

"Damn, got me," Zhao Dong cursed, missing his chance to recover.

Robinson lobbed the ball in perfectly.

Duncan soared.

BANG!

The Knicks' new backboard exploded under the weight of Duncan's one-handed dunk.

"AHHHHHH!"

Even Tim Duncan—normally ice cold—roared and pumped his fist.

"Let's go, Tim!" Robinson yelled, fired up.

"GET BACK!"

Popovich's voice cut through the noise like a siren. While Duncan and Robinson celebrated, Zhao Dong was already gone, streaking down the court. Fordson inbounded instantly, hurling it forward.

"Fordson quick inbounds! Zhao Dong catches at midcourt! Spurs' paint is empty—he's taking off!" Doug's voice shook the MBC broadcast.

"Here it comes!" added Isaiah.

BOOM!

Zhao Dong soared from just inside the free throw line, arm cocked back, and threw down another tomahawk that sent shockwaves through Madison Square Garden.

"YEAHHHHH!"

The Garden exploded.

"The Knicks are killing it on the fast break tonight!" Bob shouted. "The Spurs clearly weren't ready for the tempo. They look flat out there."

"Popovich looks like he's gonna pop a vein," Doug laughed. "He's fuming on that sideline!"

"Don't celebrate! Get back on defense! Duncan, don't just stand there! Use your head—what, you leave your brains in the locker room!?" Popovich yelled, red in the face.

(End of Chapter)

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