Twenty minutes later, both teams announced their starting lineups.
Jazz: Greg Ostertag, Karl Malone, Bryon Russell, Jeff Hornacek, John Stockton.
Knicks: Zhao Dong, Charles Oakley, Larry Johnson, John Starks, Chris Childs.
The moment the Jazz were introduced, the arena erupted in the loudest boos Madison Square Garden had ever seen.
"Karl Malone, get the hell outta here! You don't belong in the Garden!"
"Mailman! All you do is elbow people—happy being a caked eater?"
"Malone, you're just a role player!"
"Caked Eater! You ain't ever winning a ring!"
Malone stepped out onto the court, immediately bombarded with vicious heckling from the Knicks' faithful.
"Shut the hell up, you punks!" Malone barked back, his frustration spilling over. The Jazz were on the brink of elimination, and now this.
"Karl, forget 'em!" Stockton said, nudging him forward.
Then, the Knicks' starting five was introduced. The energy inside the Garden went from electric to straight-up insane. It was like an earthquake of cheers. But when Zhao Dong came out last, the place erupted.
Zhao grabbed the mic from the in-game host and roared, "TONIGHT, WE TAKE THE CHIP!"
"CHAMPIONSHIP! CHAMPIONSHIP! CHAMPIONSHIP!"
The chant thundered through Madison Square Garden, spilling out onto the streets where thousands of Knicks fans had gathered. The whole damn city was ready.
Broadcast Booths
Over on CCTV, Zhang Heli was hyped. "The game hasn't even started yet, but the Knicks' momentum is off the charts! The championship aura is just overwhelming!"
Sun Zhenping chimed in, "If the Knicks win tonight, there's only one man for Finals MVP—Zhao Dong! No debate!"
Zhang Heli nodded. "Absolutely! Zhao Dong led the Knicks to the Finals in his rookie year and dominated all the way. His playoff performance is on par with Magic Johnson's rookie run—hell, in terms of pure scoring ability, he's even better!"
On NBC, Marv Albert set the stage.
"The championship trophy is already courtside. Commissioner David Stern is here, ready to present it. The Knicks have everything lined up—but will the Jazz go down easy?"
Matt Goukas shook his head. "No way. The Knicks want this title, but Utah ain't gonna roll over. It's gonna be a fight."
Marv chuckled. "Well, let's see if we get a close one. Tip-off coming up!"
Opening Possession
Jump ball. Zhao Dong won the tip—Knicks ball.
He sprinted straight to the paint, Karl Malone shadowing him.
Oakley moved to the right wing, pulling Bryon Russell out.
Larry Johnson settled in the low post, matched up with Greg Ostertag.
Starks and Childs spaced out on the perimeter.
Zhao Dong cut through the lane and posted up on the left block.
Malone tried to keep up, but Zhao was too quick—he caught the pass clean.
Instantly, he faked a bank shot. Malone bit, jumping to contest.
But Zhao Dong had baited him. He pulled the ball back, exploded past Malone, and went straight to the rim!
Ostertag saw what was coming and rushed over to help. But he was too slow. By the time he got there—Zhao was already in the air.
Dirty Play
Ostertag panicked. With no other option, he shoved Zhao Dong mid-air.
"BANG!"
Zhao went flying backwards, crashing hard to the floor.
"OH SHIT!" The entire arena gasped.
"Lindsay's face turned pale as she jumped to her feet.
"Zhao, are you okay?" she whispered.
His agent Wells stood up beside her, faces tense.
Zhang Heli on CCTV was shook. "That was a dangerous push! Ostertag had NO business doing that!"
"That's a flagrant!" Marv Albert shouted.
Matt Goukas agreed. "Utah is desperate, and it's showing. They know they can't win playing fair."
Zhao Dong… didn't stay down.
In one smooth motion, he flipped over and popped right back up.
"OH HELL YEAH!" The Garden exploded in cheers.
Shaq, watching from courtside, was stunned. "Damn! How the hell is he moving like that at his size?!"
Zhao Dong brushed himself off and stared Ostertag down. Cold as ice.
Larry Johnson and the squad ran over, fired up. "Boss, you good?!"
Zhao put a hand up. "Chill. Don't do anything dumb."
The ref jogged over and called it. "Flagrant 1! Two shots and possession!"
Zhang Heli sighed. "Zhao Dong's lucky he didn't get hurt. But the Jazz are gonna get nastier. He needs to be extra careful on drives—especially with plays like that last dunk attempt."
Zhao stepped to the line.
First free throw—swish.
Second free throw—buckets.
2-0, Knicks lead.
They inbounded the ball from the backcourt. This time, Zhao didn't go to the post—he moved to the left wing.
Malone followed.
Up top, Childs swung the ball to Larry Johnson in the post.
Larry faced up against Ostertag. Pre-injury, he would've gone right at him. But now?
He had to be smarter. His back wasn't what it used to be.
Instead of forcing a tough shot, he weighed his options.
Attack? Or kick it out?
At that moment, Zhao Dong, posted up on the left wing, suddenly took off, cutting straight to the basket.
Karl Malone grabbed at him, but Zhao slapped his arm away and blew past him. All Malone could do was watch him storm into the paint.
"Damn it, I'm too slow!" Malone cursed in his head.
Meanwhile, Larry Johnson, who was about to drive, saw the play unfold and lit up. With a slick move, he whipped a one-handed bounce pass backwards.
Greg Ostertag immediately spun around to defend the rim.
Zhao Dong caught the pass in stride, kicked into another gear, and went right at Ostertag—full force.
Ostertag stepped up—too late.
By the time he reacted, Zhao Dong was already airborne.
Arms cocked back.
BOOM!
The entire Garden shook from the force of the slam.
"BANG!"
Zhao hung on the rim, his body swinging forward violently—colliding straight into Ostertag.
The impact was brutal.
Ostertag got rocked. He groaned, lost all control, and flipped backwards.
"THUD!" He hit the hardwood hard, head-first.
The arena exploded.
"YEAHHHHHHH!"
The crowd was going crazy.
"BEEP!"
The ref's whistle cut through the noise.
Something was wrong. Ostertag wasn't moving. Blood was pooling under the back of his head.
The ref immediately stopped play and signaled for the Jazz bench.
"Greg! Greg, wake up!"
"Shit! His head hit the floor!"
The Jazz players rushed over, panic on their faces.
On the Knicks' bench, Oakley and the crew turned to Zhao Dong.
"Damn, bro, his head hit the hardwood?"
Zhao nodded casually. "Yeah, looks like it."
He hadn't done anything dirty. That's just how he played. If he really wanted payback?
He'd have kneed him mid-air.
And trust, his knees weren't normal. They were like iron. If he threw them into a dunk?
Somebody's career would be over.
Meanwhile, the Jazz team doctor ran onto the court, face pale.
"He's unconscious! We got external bleeding! Get the stretcher—NOW!"
Ostertag was quickly carried off. The blood was wiped away.
But for the Jazz?
Their morale was shattered.
Broadcast Booths
On CCTV, Zhang Heli wasn't holding back.
"That's karma! Ostertag just committed a dirty foul on Zhao earlier—could've ended his career!"
Sun Zhenping shook his head. "Zhao Dong was just attacking normally. Ostertag fell 'cause he didn't protect himself. If he kept his chin up on the way down, he wouldn't have cracked his head open."
On NBC, Marv Albert spoke in a serious tone.
"We hope Greg Ostertag is okay. Head injuries are no joke."
Matt Goukas nodded. "It's rough, but let's be real—Zhao's dunk was clean. He went up strong, Ostertag just got in the way. Alright, game's back. 4-0, Knicks up, Jazz ball."
With Ostertag out, the Jazz threw in backup center Howard Eisley—a borderline role player.
With their starting big gone, the Jazz got desperate.
Their play got more physical—damn near reckless.
John Starks drove inside—BOOM!
Jeff Hornacek caught him with an elbow to the ribs.
"No call?!" Starks yelled at the ref.
But the whistle stayed silent.
Hornacek took advantage, slipping free and getting an open mid-range shot.
Missed.
The rebound?
Malone snatched it.
Zhao Dong instantly bodied up, keeping him locked down.
Malone had no angle, so he kicked it out to Stockton to reset the play.
Zhao clapped his hands hard. "Turn up the D! If they wanna play dirty, we play harder!"
"DEFENSE! DEFENSE!"
The Garden crowd roared.
Malone rotated left—Zhao shadowed him.
Bryon Russell came in for a pick.
Zhao fought through it.
Malone caught the pass—Zhao lunged in.
Desperate, Malone swung his elbows to create space.
Zhao didn't flinch.
"BANG!"
Malone's elbow smashed into Zhao's right collarbone.
But before he could even react—
"BANG!"
Zhao ripped the ball clean from his hands.
"STEAL!"
The crowd erupted.
"Zhao Dong STRIPPED the Mailman! He's OFF to the races!"
Malone took off right after him.
But after crossing half-court?
Zhao Dong had already left him two meters behind.
Stockton and Russell sprinted back to help.
As Zhao approached the top of the key, they stepped up.
He changed direction.
Full-speed sprint.
Pure, unstoppable momentum.
And just before impact—
The image of Ostertag laid out on the floor flashed in their minds.
Both Stockton and Russell hit the brakes at the same time.
They wanted NO part of that smoke.
The next moment, Zhao Dong blew past them, wind whipping through their hair.
"BANG!"
The entire rim snapped back violently, rocking up and down. The arena erupted in cheers.
"Click, click, click!"
Behind the baseline, the media's cameras flashed non-stop.
"You see that?!" Zhao Dong grabbed a courtside camera and yelled straight into it. "We're taking this championship, and nobody's stopping us!"
The live broadcast was airing nationwide in Japan. As Zhao Dong's roar blasted through their screens, thousands of Japanese fans—especially the young girls—screamed like crazy.
6-0. The Knicks were up at home. The Jazz had to call a timeout.
"If Utah doesn't get their energy up, this game's already done," Matt Goukas analyzed on NBC.
"Zhao Dong is dominating on both ends. Karl Malone's iron elbows? Ain't scaring him at all. Malone looks like a declawed lion out there—getting eaten alive." Marv Albert called it like it was.
Matt Goukas nodded. "Chicago didn't lose the Eastern Conference Finals because Zhao Dong was better than Jordan. They lost because of matchups. Zhao locked down Pippen, the Bulls' offensive engine.
"And now? Zhao Dong has Malone locked up. The Jazz are done unless they make a major adjustment."
Marv Albert frowned. "You saying they should just ditch Malone's offense? Use him to pull Zhao out and let the others score? That's a huge gamble. Malone's their #1 option."
Matt Goukas grinned. "If they don't change, they lose. Simple as that. Utah needs to make a move, or tonight's the end of the Finals."
Marv sighed. "True, but man... benching your franchise guy on offense? That takes guts."
Jazz Bench
On the Jazz bench, Jerry Sloan looked like he was carrying a damn anvil.
Down 3-1 in the series, he knew it was over unless they flipped the script.
The reality hit him hard—just like Jordan had shut down Pippen, Zhao Dong had erased Malone.
So what now?
He hesitated. The Stockton-Malone duo had run this team for years. Could they just throw that out the window?
He turned to Malone.
"Karl, you wanna win?"
Malone's face twisted. His hands clenched into fists.
"Coach, I been dreaming of beating that motherfer.* He's ruining me."
His voice dripped with hate.
Zhao Dong had disrespected him publicly—called him a glorified lob target who only knew how to throw elbows.
The media had eaten that up. The fans? Started questioning his whole legacy.
This wasn't just about a ring anymore.
This was about his damn name.
Jerry Sloan took a deep breath. "Then drop the scoring. Create shots for your teammates."
Malone froze.
What?!
His whole career, he ate off pick-and-rolls. Stockton fed him the ball, and he finished.
Now?
"You pull Zhao Dong out of the paint and sacrifice your own numbers. That's the only way we win. You don't have time to hesitate. You want this ring? Agree—NOW."
Malone's face twisted even more.
Three seconds.
Then he gritted his teeth and nodded.
"Okay."
Jerry Sloan immediately adjusted the game plan.
Game Resumes
Malone set up on the left wing. Zhao Dong shadowed him.
Meanwhile, on the right side, the Jazz ran a pick-and-roll.
Jeff Hornacek popped open—caught the pass—pulled up.
"Splash!"
3-6. Knicks ball.
For the next few minutes, the Jazz relied on their shooters.
Hornacek caught fire.
Bang!
Another three.
Bang!
And another!
Nine straight points. The Knicks' lead shrunk fast.
But it wasn't just Hornacek.
With Zhao pulled out to guard Malone, Stockton snaked his way inside.
Layup after layup. The Jazz were getting whatever they wanted.
With four minutes left in the first, the scoreboard read:
18-19. Knicks still up—but barely.
Timeout, New York.
Broadcast Booths
"The Jazz adjusted, and look what happened," Matt Goukas said. "They're back in this game. Now the pressure's on the Knicks."
"Check this," Marv Albert added. "Malone only took one shot so far, locked up by Zhao Dong. Didn't score once. But with him out of the equation, the Jazz's offense actually looks smoother.
"So tell me, Matt... was Zhao Dong right? Was Malone really just a role player?"
Goukas laughed. "Damn, that's cold. But nah—if he was a role player, Zhao wouldn't be this locked in on him.
"But the truth? Malone eats off passes. He's not that dude who can create for himself. And against Zhao Dong? He's just not getting those easy looks."
Marv chuckled. "So basically, the dude with the iron elbows just ran into someone he can't elbow?"
"Exactly. And speed—Zhao Dong's speed is straight-up unfair. He can lock down any big man in the league. Even the superstar bigs."
CCTV Live Broadcast
On CCTV, Zhang Heli was breaking it down.
"The Jazz made the right adjustment. They're putting more pressure on the Knicks' defense, and Van Gundy has no counter."
"But here's the problem," he continued.
"Utah's entire game plan now depends on their shooters staying hot. Jeff Hornacek is on fire, but if his touch cools off? The Jazz's offense collapses.
"The Knicks don't need to panic. Just keep their offense steady. They're still scoring fine."
Zhang paused, then added, "And Zhao Dong should stop chasing Malone too far outside.
"Let him shoot. He's not a three-point threat. His mid-range is decent, but that's not enough to kill you. He should focus on protecting the paint instead."
Back to the Court...
The timeout ended.
Both teams stepped back onto the floor.
The battle continued.
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