At 7:40 p.m., the Chinese national team stepped onto the court to begin warm-ups.
The atmosphere inside the arena was electric. The crowd was buzzing, and the stakes were sky-high.
Even International Olympic Committee President Saoirse sat in the VIP box, alongside the FIBA President and Director Yuan, head of the Chinese delegation.
By 8:00 p.m., the game tipped off.
---
Starting Lineups
China: Yao Ming, Wang Zhizhi, Li Nan, Hu Weidong, Zhao Dong.
USA: Alonzo Mourning, Kevin Garnett, Shareef Abdur-Rahim, Vince Carter, Gary Payton.
The game was broadcast live in the U.S. by NBC, with Hubie Brown and Mike Cook calling the action.
"Look at that starting five," Hubie said. "Four NBA starters on Team China. Hu's the Wizards' starting shooting guard, Wang's the Mavericks' starting center, Yao's a key piece for the Nets, and Zhao Dong—well, there's nothing left to say. That lineup isn't far behind Team USA's starting five."
Cook chuckled. "Hubie, Zhao Dong said this U.S. squad isn't even qualified to be called a Dream Team. Do you agree?"
Hubie shrugged. "When you're the God of Basketball, the most dominant player in NBA history, you earn the right to talk like that. Frankly, if this American team can't beat a Chinese team led by Zhao Dong, then maybe he's right—maybe they don't deserve the title 'Dream Team.'"
Yao Ming stepped into the circle, facing Kevin Garnett.
"Rookie," Garnett sneered. "You think you can jump high enough to get this?"
Yao's expression stayed calm. "Kevin, they say you can touch the top of the backboard. Why not just sit on the rim and dunk with your butt?"
"…" Garnett's jaw tightened.
That jab landed perfectly. Everyone—Chinese players, American starters, even the referee—burst into laughter.
"Pfft!" Hu Weidong nearly doubled over.
The referee, still grinning, tossed the ball up.
"Bang!"
Fired up from Yao's comment, Garnett leapt high, tipping the ball to Team USA.
---
Gary Payton took the ball up, only to find Zhao Dong waiting for him at half court.
"Glove," Zhao Dong grinned, "your contract's up next year. Come join me. Hug my thigh. I'll get you a ring."
Payton glared. "You're not winning a title next season. The Trail Blazers can't beat the Lakers."
Zhao Dong laughed. "Please. If I wanted, I could win a championship with four eighty-year-old grandmothers. You couldn't win even with four Shaqs or four MJs."
"F*** you!" Payton snapped.
And that was all the opening Zhao Dong needed.
"Bang!"
With lightning speed, Zhao Dong poked the ball loose, spun around Payton, and snatched it cleanly.
"Zhao Dong with the steal!" CCTV commentator Sun Zhenping shouted, his voice cracking with excitement. "He's off to the races—nobody ahead of him!"
Payton, red-faced and furious, gave chase, but Zhao Dong was already gone.
Two strides past half court. Three powerful dribbles.
Then, from the free-throw line, Zhao Dong launched himself into the air.
The world seemed to stop.
---
In Sanbulao Hutong, Beijing, the Zhao family was glued to the TV.
"Look, baby, Daddy's about to dunk!" Lindsay cooed to her youngest son, Zhao Rongxing, barely a month old.
Li Meizhu and Zhao Zhenguo sat nearby, each feeding one of the other three quadruplets with bottles.
The four boys, now with clear eyebrows and sharp little features, looked almost identical—handsome enough to make anyone stop and stare.
Old man Zhao Zhongguo wasn't even watching the TV. He was too busy pinching the cheeks of his great-grandsons, laughing joyfully.
---
"Bang!!!"
The Olympic arena exploded.
Zhao Dong spun mid-air, completing a 360-degree tomahawk slam that sent the crowd into a frenzy. Red flags waved wildly as Chinese fans roared.
"Unbelievable!" Sun Zhenping's voice cracked. "Zhao Dong with the steal and a thunderous tomahawk from the free-throw line! He's sending a message loud and clear—he's the God of the NBA, and even on the international stage, no one can stop him!"
Xu Jicheng, usually composed, just shook his head in disbelief.
Even Hubie Brown could only marvel on the U.S. broadcast: "That's why he's the best player on Earth."
As Payton arrived under the rim, Zhao Dong landed, glancing at him with a mocking grin.
"Glove, you can't stop me. If you could, you'd have made the Finals already."
Payton's jaw clenched, his eyes blazing.
But Zhao Dong was relentless.
On the next possession, Payton brought the ball up again, determined to redeem himself.
Tomjanovich, pacing the sideline, shouted, "Vince, help him out! Set a screen!"
Payton froze for a second, feeling humiliated. Him? One of the greatest point guards ever, needing help just to cross half court?
"Hell no," Payton muttered under his breath, deciding to take Zhao Dong one-on-one.
With a quick between-the-legs dribble, Payton tried to shake Zhao Dong. But Zhao Dong, with those long arms and impeccable footwork, slid with him, cutting off every angle.
"Bang!"
Zhao Dong's hand darted out, knocking the ball loose again. Payton lunged, barely saving it, but his dribble was dead.
"Vince!" Payton barked, forced to pass the ball off.
On the sideline, Garnett yelled for the ball, his face twisted with frustration.
The ball stayed in place. Zhao Dong, never one for politeness on the court, immediately closed in on Payton, his massive frame pressing tight.
Hu Weidong, marking Vince Carter, glanced over. The moment he saw Zhao Dong applying pressure, he left Carter and rushed over, forming a tight double-team.
Payton panicked and tried to swing the ball to Carter, but Hu's quick hands deflected it.
"Mine!" Zhao Dong pounced, snatching the loose ball cleanly.
On the U.S. bench, Jason Kidd shook his head.
"It's over," he muttered.
Kidd had faced Zhao Dong many times back when Zhao dominated in Chicago. Not only had he never gotten the better of him, but Zhao had bullied him physically every time.
Payton was learning the same hard truth. Against smaller, quicker guards, Zhao Dong's massive frame was a nightmare matchup. And unlike most big men, Zhao possessed elite guard-level handles and speed—faster than Payton himself.
This wasn't surprising to Kidd at all. A careless Payton getting stripped was normal.
"Bang!"
The fast break was pure chaos. Zhao Dong streaked down the court, a runaway freight train in red.
One step from the free-throw line, he exploded into the air.
"Bam!"
A thunderous slam dunk. The crowd erupted, waving Chinese flags frantically.
Xu Jicheng's voice cracked with excitement on CCTV: "Beautiful! For years, it was always our guards struggling to cross half-court against full-court pressure. Now, it's Team USA's point guard who can't even get past midcourt sometimes!"
On NBC's broadcast, Hubie Brown didn't hold back either.
"Gary Payton hasn't adjusted his mindset," Hubie said seriously. "He's facing Zhao Dong—the God of Basketball. This is the same guy who dominated him in the NBA. Even with help, Payton's chances of winning this matchup are slim. Trying to take Zhao one-on-one is just plain stupid."
The U.S. attacked again.
This time, Payton didn't dare go solo. Working with Vince Carter, he barely managed to advance past half-court.
Standing just a step away, Zhao Dong shadowed him like a hawk, long arms swaying.
Payton's heart tightened.
He'd faced this nightmare before—his rookie year, 1990–91, against Magic Johnson.
Back then, Magic had bullied him with the same oversized frame, long arms, and floor vision. Payton had hated that matchup.
He remembered it vividly: three games against Magic, held to 12 points, 2 points, and 6 points. Barely 20 total in three games. It was humiliating.
Now, ten years later, Zhao Dong was dragging those buried memories back to life.
"Glove, relax," Zhao's voice cut through his thoughts. "If you don't give me your best, beating you doesn't even count as a win."
Payton's teeth clenched. He hated trash talk, but right now, it was crawling under his skin.
"Here!" Garnett shouted, cutting toward the paint.
Payton looked up. Zhao Dong's massive hand stretched out, nearly covering Payton's entire downward vision.
Shifting his dribble, Payton backed up to create space, regaining sightlines. He saw Garnett open, cocked the ball back, and pushed forward for an overhead pass.
But he made a fatal mistake—he forgot Zhao Dong wasn't just Magic Johnson-level… he was more athletic.
"Bang!"
Zhao Dong launched off one step, rising like a rocket. With one hand, he snatched the ball clean out of the air.
"What?!" Payton's eyes widened.
"Steal!" Sun Zhenping roared into his mic. "Zhao Dong with a one-handed aerial interception! That's his third steal on Payton!"
Zhao Dong was already sprinting downcourt.
"Bang!"
A between-the-legs dunk, smooth and arrogant, slammed through the net. The stadium lost its mind.
"Zhao Dong again! China leads 6–0 over Team USA!" Sun Zhenping's excitement was off the charts.
Payton chased Zhao Dong back on defense, panting, his chest heaving. Three steals in just minutes—the pressure was unbearable.
"Come on, Glove," Zhao Dong taunted, walking past him. "Where's that All-Defense swagger? Right now, you're just trash."
Payton's jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. Not even Jordan had humiliated him like this.
This time, Payton decided to push hard. The moment he crossed half-court, Zhao Dong pressed again, his defensive stance low and predatory.
Payton used a quick crossover, shaking Zhao Dong's balance, then exploded to the right.
But Zhao adjusted instantly, spinning and cutting Payton off, his chest bumping Payton to the sideline.
On the right wing, Hu Weidong was ready, shading Vince Carter. The second Payton approached, Hu pinched in, forming a trap.
Panicking, Payton swung the ball to Carter, who caught it and immediately attacked.
Mourning and Garnett slid wide, clearing space for Carter's drive.
Wang Zhizhi and Yao Ming scrambled back to defend the paint.
Carter didn't even glance at Mourning, who had his hands up, begging for a dump-off pass. Vince had one thing on his mind—poster time.
He took a long stride, planted inside the paint, and launched himself skyward, legs tucked, cocking the ball back for a highlight-reel dunk.
Dazhi had already retreated under the basket, bracing for impact. Vince Carter exploded upward, cocking the ball back, ready to dunk over him.
"Bang!"
Carter's body crashed into Dazhi like a freight train. Dazhi went down hard but didn't give an inch—he wrapped Carter up on the way down, dragging him to the floor with him. Both players tumbled into a heap under the rim.
"Beep!"
The whistle shrilled.
"Dazhi, you okay?" Yao Ming called, rushing over.
"I'm fine," Dazhi grunted, shaking his head as Yao and Li Nan pulled him back to his feet.
Carter, however, landed badly. His foot was fine, but his right shoulder slammed the hardwood, sending a sharp pain shooting through him. His face twisted in agony as he clenched his teeth.
The referee pointed straight at him, gesturing for an offensive foul. Carter stared in disbelief.
He had forgotten—this wasn't the NBA. Under international basketball rules, there was no "restricted area." Once Dazhi had established position under the basket, Carter's charge was a textbook offensive foul.
"Dazhi's defense is tough," Sun Zhenping praised from the CCTV booth. "You can tell his time with the Knicks paid off. He's used to banging elbows with Karl Malone. Yao Ming doesn't have that experience yet."
Xu Jicheng smiled. "And now we're on offense, while the U.S. still hasn't scored."
Sun Zhenping nodded. "Zhao Dong is dominating defensively as a point guard. This is the beauty of a big guard mismatch. As long as he's not slower or less skilled, smaller guards will always be at a natural disadvantage—especially Payton, who's not as quick as him."
Xu Jicheng added cautiously, "Still, we have to stay alert. These NBA stars have insane individual talent."
Sun Zhenping shrugged. "Sure, they're all stars and franchise players, but their chemistry is a mess. They barely practiced together, so everyone's playing isolation ball. Did you see Carter just now? He didn't even pass to Mourning. As long as Zhao keeps Payton locked up, we've got a real shot."
On the court, Zhao Dong brought the ball up, flashing a grin.
"Come on, Glove," he taunted. "Steal it from me if you can!"
Payton, now fully locked in, didn't bite. No trash talk, no risky pressure—just a focused, conservative stance.
Zhao crossed half-court with ease, slowing as he approached the arc. Two steps from the top, he suddenly spun, switched to his left hand, and used his right arm to shield Payton as he blew past him toward the left wing.
The entire U.S. defense shifted instinctively. Garnett and Mourning both glanced toward Zhao, stepping over to help.
"Zhao Dong's going to drive!" Sun Zhenping shouted, almost jumping out of his chair.
But Zhao had other plans.
Underneath, Yao Ming cut hard to the rim, slipping behind the collapsing help defense. Zhao fired a perfect lob.
"Bang!"
Yao caught it midair and hammered home an alley-oop dunk, shaking the rim.
"It's too easy!" Xu Jicheng yelled, slapping the table.
Sun Zhenping laughed. "First Olympics, and Yao Ming's already showing his power! What a connection between Zhao Dong and Yao!"
At the NBC booth, Hubie Brown sighed. "Yao in the paint, Zhao Dong running the perimeter—they both require double-teams. This inside-outside combo is ridiculous."
Cook nodded grimly. "Zhao's passing just tore through our defense. That lob was effortless."
Hubie shook his head. "Payton can't guard Zhao at the one. I'd switch Shareef Abdur-Rahim onto him. He's got the size—no, he can't match Zhao's strength, but at least he won't get bullied like Payton."
Cook frowned. "Rahim might struggle with speed, though."
Hubie shrugged. "It's still our best option. No one else on this so-called Dream Team 4 can hang with Zhao at point guard. If we let Zhao control the perimeter, he'll either feed Yao or attack himself, and everything collapses."
As they jogged back on defense, Zhao flashed Payton a grin.
"Glove, you almost stopped me just now," he said, mimicking Jordan's infamous trash talk.
Payton's lips twitched violently. He remembered Jordan saying those exact words to him—and now Zhao was rubbing it in.
"Ha-ha…" Zhao laughed openly, enjoying Payton's barely-contained rage.
China's run continued—8–0 to start the game.
Back home, millions of Chinese fans were glued to their TVs, roaring with every steal, dunk, and defensive stand.
---
Tomjanovich finally signaled for a timeout, rubbing his temples.
This was a nightmare matchup.
When Zhao played small forward in the NBA, he was already too heavy and strong for anyone to guard. Now, as a point guard, he was an absolute cheat code.
Think about it—Gary Payton weighed barely 82 kilograms, while Zhao tipped the scales at over 115. A 30-kilogram difference, plus Zhao's equal or better quickness and elite ball-handling? Payton couldn't hold his ground.
Who in the league could even guard this version of Zhao? Active players? None. Historically? Maybe Magic Johnson, and that was it.
---
The game resumed. Team USA came out determined to break the drought. Payton and Carter worked together to cross half-court before swinging the ball to Garnett in the low post.
The other Americans cleared out, leaving Garnett isolated against Yao on the left block.
"Bang, bang." Garnett dribbled twice, spun, and rose for a fading jumper.
"Splash!"
"It wasn't easy," Sun Zhenping admitted. "But the U.S. finally scores. Garnett's release point is too high to contest."
The camera zoomed in on Garnett, who pumped his fist slightly. But Zhao Dong was already jogging upcourt, smirking, ready to run the next set.
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