"Zhao Dong, you're the most familiar with them. Tell us straight—what are our chances against Team USA?" Coach Jiang Xinquan asked, his tone serious.
The entire coaching staff, including Liu Yumin and Del Harris, turned their attention to Zhao Dong, eager to hear his analysis.
Zhao leaned back slightly, speaking calmly.
"In the paint? We won't lose ground. Dayao can outplay any of their bigs. But on the wings, we might suffer."
He paused, glancing at everyone.
"Even though they're thin at small forward, their guards are explosive. If we can't contain their perimeter penetration, once they break through, the pressure on our interior defense will be huge."
He gestured toward the board, his tone becoming analytical.
"The current NBA prioritizes inside scoring, especially finishes at the rim. Did you all watch this year's Finals?"
Everyone nodded.
"In the Knicks-Lakers series, both sides focused on attacking the basket because that's where efficiency is highest. It's different from the old days when mid-range shots dominated.
Back then, the mid-range was king because once you beat the first line of defense, you got uncontested pull-ups. But now, rim efficiency trumps everything."
He tapped the board again.
"I don't know if Team USA will fully adopt this NBA shift for the Olympics, but we have to be ready.
If we make it to the finals against them, Yao Ming and I will hammer the paint. That's where we dominate. But if we do that, they'll adjust and attack inside as well.
So, when our offense and defense are concentrated near the rim, we must stop their guards from constantly driving and attacking Dayao. Protect him at all costs."
Zhao's voice grew firmer.
"Even if we can't completely stop them, they can't stop us either. Neither Yao Ming nor I can be contained by their bigs.
And if I'm at point guard? I can torch all their perimeter defenders. Inside, I'll destroy every one of their bigs. There's nothing they can do to stop me."
The last sentence hit like a thunderclap.
For most of his explanation, Zhao had been measured, cautious even—but now, that unwavering confidence, almost arrogance, filled the room.
It was contagious.
Moments ago, shouting "gold medal" felt like wishful thinking. But now… it felt real.
Zhao continued, his voice carrying authority.
"If we're talking odds, I guarantee that as long as we protect Yao Ming and keep their guards from overattacking the paint, we have at least a 50% chance of beating them.
Truthfully? These twelve guys aren't even qualified to be my opponents in the NBA. Beating them should be natural for us."
The room went silent for a second.
The arrogance was stunning, unheard of in China's sports world, especially basketball.
Only Yao Ming, Wang Zhizhi, and Hu Weidong, who had played alongside Zhao Dong in the NBA, weren't surprised. They knew—this was the real Zhao Dong.
"The God of Efficiency. The No. 1 player in NBA history. The best active player in the world. The man who averaged 60+ in the Finals…"
Del Harris finally spoke, his voice filled with respect. "If anyone has the right to say this, it's him."
No one argued.
After reporting to the national team, Zhao Dong returned home to wait for his sons' birth.
His family followed traditional generational naming. His father, Zhao Zhenguo, belonged to the "Zhen" generation. Zhao's own full name was Zhao Xingdong (nicknamed Dongdong), while his brother was Zhao Xingcheng (Dacheng).
The next generation carried the "Rong" character, so Zhao named his four sons Ronghua, Rongxia, Rongfu, and Rongxing.
As the due date approached, the Zhao household became a whirlwind of activity.
The housekeeper, Ms. Abel, a team of foreign nannies, doctors, and nurses all worked tirelessly, attending to Lindsay around the clock.
On the 10th, Zhao received a call from Ben Wallace.
"Zhao, I've been traded to Detroit," Big Ben said, sounding resigned.
After hanging up, Zhao sighed.
"Fate always finds its way… I just wonder if that legendary Pistons team will still form in this timeline. Rasheed Wallace is still with the Bulls right now."
On the morning of August 15th, Zhao and his staff picked up Mrs. Doris and Mr. John Houston from the airport. Instead of booking a hotel, Zhao insisted they stay at his home.
That same afternoon, Lindsay was admitted to Union Hospital, the top obstetrics hospital in the country.
From then on, the Zhao family rotated visits to the hospital, while Zhao stayed there full-time.
The doctors decided on a C-section due to the quadruplets' size.
At 3 a.m. on August 20th, Lindsay was wheeled into the delivery room, with Zhao accompanying her.
The entire process—preparation, anesthesia, and delivery—took just 20 minutes before the first baby emerged.
"Wah!"
The nurse lifted the newborn by the ankle, gave a firm slap, and the little boy cried loudly, spitting out amniotic fluid.
According to old Chinese tradition, babies needed to cry at birth to clear fluid from their lungs; otherwise, they could grow up frail and sickly.
Zhao watched, his expression softening. The baby, barely three pounds, squirmed and wailed.
One by one, the other three followed, their cries filling the room.
By 4 a.m., Lindsay was wheeled out of surgery.
The quadruplets were lined up by weight.
Ronghua (1st son): 3.5 kg – officially the eldest.
Rongxia (2nd son): 3.2 kg.
Rongfu (3rd son): 3.1 kg.
Rongxing (4th son): 2.8 kg – the youngest, but Lindsay's favorite already.
They were tiny, wrinkled, and not particularly handsome, but none of that mattered.
The elderly Zhaos beamed with pride, their smiles so wide they could hardly close their mouths.
While Li Meizhu was busy cooking chicken soup for Lindsay, she couldn't help glancing at her four grandsons every few minutes, a warm smile on her face.
Both mother and children were safe, which brought a deep sense of relief to Mrs. Doissa, who had always treated Lindsay like her own daughter.
Lindsay, who had initially been worried about her babies being too small, quickly stopped worrying. The four boys had clearly inherited Zhao Dong's powerful genes. Their physical condition was impressive—less than an hour after birth, all four opened their eyes curiously, quietly observing the world.
They had black hair and black eyes, appearing slightly mixed-race but with features that leaned more Chinese. This was expected—Zhao Dong's own bloodline had been honed into that of a "hexagonal warrior" through years of rigorous physical development, and Lindsay herself carried partial Chinese ancestry.
By the end of August, Zhao Dong had resumed training while Lindsay was discharged from the hospital. The four little ones, however, remained hospitalized for observation. Their weight was increasing rapidly, and they were visibly stronger than at birth, with no health issues at all.
Finally, on September 6, Zhao Dong brought his four sons home, where they were cared for by a full staff of doctors, nurses, and nannies under Ms. Abel's supervision.
The next day, Ringo Wells called Zhao Dong.
"Zhao, both major boxing organizations are pushing for a mandatory title defense. What should we do?" Wells asked.
After a brief silence, Zhao replied, "Give them up. Announce I'm relinquishing both belts."
He was never truly passionate about boxing; basketball was his world. Spending time with Lindsay and the children mattered far more.
On September 8, Wells officially announced Zhao Dong's resignation of both world titles in New York.
Boxing fans were disappointed, but no one was more upset than Evander Holyfield, who had been eager to challenge Zhao Dong and reclaim the belts.
On September 10, the Chinese Olympic delegation began preparations to leave for Sydney.
The men's basketball team was drawn into Group A with the United States, New Zealand, France, Lithuania, and Italy. Group B consisted of Russia, Angola, Canada, Australia, Spain, and Yugoslavia.
The draw was considered favorable. With this Chinese squad's strength, no one worried about qualifying for the quarterfinals.
But Zhao Dong remembered history well. In the previous timeline, this supposedly "easy group" turned out to be the group of death. Team USA narrowly beat France in the finals and barely survived against Lithuania in the semifinals.
This time, however, the Chinese team was far stronger than before. Qualifying wasn't even a question.
On the morning of September 11, the Chinese men's basketball team held a pre-departure press conference at the Dongcheng Base.
Because of Zhao Dong, the event drew global attention. The hall, capable of holding 400 people, was packed—half the attendees were foreign reporters.
With four NBA players alongside Zhao Dong, world sports media expected China to finish at least in the top three.
The first question came from Yang Yi, a familiar face from CCTV.
"Zhao Dong, what's your goal for this Olympics?"
Zhao straightened up, his voice firm.
"Whether it's the NBA or the national team, my goal is always the same—first place. Nothing else matters."
"Gold medal?"
The hall erupted in murmurs and whispers.
"Won't that put too much pressure on you?" Yang pressed.
Zhao glanced at his teammates, smiling.
"I think they can handle it. We'll get it done."
The next question came from a New York Times reporter.
"Do you believe the biggest obstacle for China is Team USA—Dream Team 4?"
Zhao smirked.
"Whether they deserve to be called a 'Dream Team'… I'll decide that on the court."
The room buzzed with excitement.
The reporter followed up.
"Are you doubting their strength? China's warm-up games weren't impressive."
"You said it yourself—those were just warm-ups. Our NBA players didn't even suit up. What does that prove?" Zhao replied coolly.
The reporter persisted.
"Then, what do you think of Team USA's strength?"
Zhao didn't hesitate.
"I don't see how they can beat us."
The hall went dead silent before exploding into chaos.
Reporters frantically scribbled, some whispering "He's insane!"
Liu Yumin and Coach Jiang lowered their heads, smiling bitterly. Zhao Dong's directness was… unique, to say the least.
News of Zhao Dong's remarks spread globally within hours, quickly reaching Team USA.
At that moment, they were also preparing to depart for Sydney.
"Did you hear what he said?!" Kevin Garnett slammed his fist into his palm. "We need to show that guy who the real Dream Team is!"
Alonzo Mourning scowled. "That dude is way too cocky. No way we lose to China."
Even the usually calm Gary Payton frowned. "Zhao Dong's more arrogant than Jordan ever was. Somebody needs to humble him."
But the rest of the locker room remained quiet.
Vince Carter, Alan Houston, and Zhao's future Blazers teammate Steve Smith exchanged glances but stayed silent.
Veterans like Jason Kidd and Tim Hardaway, who had both been dominated by Zhao Dong in the NBA over the past few seasons, kept their heads down. They had no confidence to talk trash.
Seeing their teammates' reactions, Garnett and Mourning finally fell silent, too.
There was no other reason. Everyone in the NBA had been defeated by Zhao Dong at some point.
They had watched with their own eyes as he rose, season after season, to become the God of Efficiency and the No. 1 player in NBA history—crushing them one by one along the way.
To Zhao Dong, they were nothing more than stepping stones—stones he had trampled to climb to the top of basketball's throne.
In the entire league, only Shaquille O'Neal could be considered a worthy rival in terms of pure efficiency.
But even Shaq, one of the most dominant big men in history, had been swept aside by Zhao Dong in the Finals.
On September 12, after saying goodbye to his family, Zhao Dong boarded the flight to Sydney with the Chinese men's basketball team.
Three days later, on the evening of the 15th, the grand opening ceremony of the 27th Summer Olympic Games was held at the Homebush Bay Olympic Stadium.
As the national flag bearer, Zhao Dong marched proudly, leading the Chinese delegation into the stadium under the cheers of thousands.
The men's basketball tournament was set to begin on the 17th, and China's first matchup would be against Team USA.
It was the most anticipated group-stage game in the entire Olympics. Every major sports outlet in the world was predicting a fifty-fifty showdown.
At 3 p.m. that afternoon, the head of the delegation, Director Yuan, personally visited the team to boost morale.
The pressure was already immense. China had boldly declared their ultimate goal—a gold medal. But Yuan wasn't afraid of adding more pressure.
"If we want that gold medal, we have to beat Team USA. Let's start strong tonight," Yuan said firmly.
"Don't worry, Director Yuan," Zhao Dong replied immediately, his voice loud and confident. "We're here for the Americans."
"Good! That's the spirit of champions," Yuan nodded, satisfied.
At 6:30 p.m., the Chinese team arrived at the arena.
As they stepped off the bus in the underground parking lot, they ran into Team USA, who had just arrived.
"Boss!"
The voice came from Alan Houston, who jogged over quickly.
Right behind him were Vince Carter and Steve Smith of the Trail Blazers.
Carter had never played alongside Zhao Dong, but as the top sneaker endorser of Zhao Dong Sports, he naturally came to greet his boss.
Steve Smith followed, smiling respectfully. Though he was older, in terms of status, Zhao Dong was unquestionably above him.
"Boss, I'm Steve Smith from the Trail Blazers," Smith said, introducing himself to avoid any awkwardness.
Zhao Dong patted Houston and Carter on the shoulder, then nodded at Smith. "Hello, Steve."
At that moment, Ray Allen and Shareef Abdur-Rahim walked over. They were from the same draft class as Zhao Dong. Their relationship wasn't particularly close, but it was cordial enough.
Allen, having been Zhao Dong's All-Star teammate earlier that year, greeted him with a smile.
Meanwhile, Yao Ming and his teammates exchanged greetings with the Americans. Wang Zhizhi hugged Houston warmly—they were already quite familiar with each other.
After the polite exchanges, Zhao Dong grinned and dropped a bomb.
"So… your goal for this Olympics should be the silver medal, right?"
The Chinese players laughed. On the American side, Alonzo Mourning, Kevin Garnett, and Gary Payton instantly stiffened, their faces darkening.
"Zhao Dong, don't get too full of yourself," Garnett snapped. "The outcome hasn't been decided yet."
"That's right," Mourning added, his voice tight with anger. "Beating us won't be so easy."
Zhao Dong turned to Mourning with a smirk, his tone dripping with disdain.
"Alonzo, you're not even qualified to be my opponent now. I dominated you back in my rookie year. Tell me—what's changed?"
Mourning's face turned red. Beat him? In his rookie year? That was true, but to throw it in his face here—this was humiliation.
His fists clenched, but after a long breath, he forced himself to calm down. He knew arguing with Zhao Dong was pointless. The man was ruthless both on and off the court.
Zhao Dong then turned to Yao Ming, ignoring Mourning entirely.
"Yao, Garnett's yours tonight. Beat him for me."
"Just him? I'll lock him down," Garnett scoffed, glaring at Yao.
Yao didn't flinch. "Kevin, in our two games this season, you couldn't stop me once."
Garnett froze, his jaw tightening. It was true—he couldn't deny it.
Zhao Dong twisted the knife further.
"Dayao, when you face the Timberwolves in the regular season, you and Marbury crush him every time."
Garnett nearly choked on his own anger. The Timberwolves had become a bottom-tier team, while Stephon Marbury's Nets had risen to championship contention—a fact Garnett hated to be reminded of.
Finally, Zhao Dong's gaze shifted to Payton.
"Garry, your SuperSonics are done. No championship hope left. Why not join me and hug my thigh? Barkley did it."
"I'm not Barkley," Payton shot back immediately, his pride stung.
"Then don't copy David Robinson either," Zhao Dong said with a mocking grin. "That idiot chose the Lakers. He'll retire without ever winning a ring."
Payton opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn't argue—Zhao Dong was right. Since Shawn Kemp's decline and trade, the SuperSonics had been sinking, and Payton knew it.
Satisfied after mentally crushing half of Team USA, Zhao Dong gave his teammates a casual wave.
"Let's go."
The Chinese team walked past confidently, leaving the Americans standing in silence.
On the U.S. side, Garnett's fists trembled, Mourning's face was still flushed, and Payton muttered curses under his breath.
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