Zhao Dong walked through the Knicks' headquarters like he owned the place. After all, he kind of did—at least on the court. An hour after landing back in New York, he was already face-to-face with the big bosses. Team owner James Dolan and the rest of the management were waiting for him, grins plastered on their faces like they'd just won the lottery.
"Zhao Dong, welcome back," Dolan greeted warmly.
Ernie Grunfeld didn't waste any time. He led Zhao Dong and Old Nelson into his office, handed him the current roster, and asked him to take a look.
"Check this out and tell me what you think," Grunfeld said.
"Alright," Zhao Dong nodded, flipping through the list.
Inside Line: Ben Wallace, Danny Fortson, Charles Barkley, Kevin Willis, Larry Johnson.
Outside Line: Zhao Dong, Chauncey Billups, Latrell Sprewell, Hu Weidong, Cuttino Mobley, Charlie Ward.
"Some of these deals are still pending, but for the most part, this is what we're working with for the season," Grunfeld explained.
Zhao Dong nodded again. This was their 12-man rotation heading into the new year.
He raised a brow. "Charlie Ward's still around?"
Grunfeld shrugged. "Couldn't find a good enough deal for him. As for Rick Brunson, he's basically just filling out the bench. Larry Johnson's contract is garbage now, so no one's taking that either."
Zhao Dong chuckled. "Larry can still put up double digits if you give him minutes. Sure, his efficiency's dipped in the low post—he's barely cracking 40% now, down from over 50% in his prime—but he's still good off the bench."
He handed the sheet back. "As long as the league doesn't approve Karl Malone's trade to the Lakers, we've got a shot. Our lineup is still legit."
Grunfeld's eyes lit up. "That's all I wanted to hear."
Then, a smirk crept across his face. "But hey, Sprewell's got a short fuse. You're gonna have to manage that."
Zhao Dong grinned. "Leave that to me. I'll make sure he doesn't go choking out any coaches."
Grunfeld burst out laughing.
Old Nelson just shook his head and chuckled. "I coached that kid when I was with the Warriors. Wasn't always like this."
Then, Nelson shifted topics. "Let's talk big men. Ben Wallace has been putting in serious work this offseason. Physically, he's at the top of the league now—might even be stronger than Karl Malone was in his prime."
He continued, "Defensively, Oakley's been mentoring him, and I've been pushing him to develop his passing for fast breaks. He's evolving. He might just become the anchor of our paint."
Zhao Dong nodded. "Ben's a grinder, no doubt. Last season his passing held back our fast breaks, but we can't expect him to become a Magic Johnson overnight. We'll lean on Billups more for that."
Nelson didn't miss a beat. "Speaking of hard workers—Danny Fortson's been grinding too. He's been using your rebounding drills, working outdoor courts, learning how to track the ball off the rim. He's been doing defensive drills with Ben too. He's just as hungry."
Zhao Dong smiled. "If he can stay on the floor for 35 minutes and keep his fouls in check, his rebounding's gonna be huge for us."
Nelson laughed. "Last season he was capped at 23 minutes. Now, with refined footwork and less reckless movement, I think he can push 30. Ben can go for 35 no problem. If Fortson gives us 30 solid ones, we're set inside. Then Barkley, Willis, and Larry can split the remaining 36-40 minutes. Keep 'em fresh, keep the quality high."
Then the conversation shifted to Billups.
"I still believe in this kid," Nelson said. "In the playoffs, he performed better under your pressure than he did in the regular season. That says a lot. He's got the mental toughness. He just needs direction."
Zhao Dong nodded. "As long as he sticks to organizing the offense and limits those wild shots, he's good. He needs to keep working on his jumper though. Did he keep up with training?"
Nelson grinned. "He's been doing extra drills all summer. Actually, thanks to you, a lot of young blood in this league are putting in offseason work. Not just our guys—Iverson, Kobe, Duncan, Marbury, Ray Allen, Garnett, Vince Carter, even Mike Bibby—they're all putting in that sweat."
Zhao Dong laughed. "Jordan didn't go party in Vegas?"
"Nope. Still grinding. At 35, he might be aging, but his willpower's different. That guy trains harder than some rookies. Even if he's lost a step, he's still dangerous. The Bulls are still a top threat."
Zhao Dong leaned back. "Spurs, Bulls, Lakers, and us… Those are your top four. The title's coming from that group."
Grunfeld agreed. "The league's still frozen with the lockout. We still don't know if the Jazz managed to split up their Black-and-White duo. Wherever those two land, that team's instantly in the mix."
"No doubt," Zhao Dong smirked. "That could shift the whole power dynamic."
Grunfeld then glanced at Zhao Dong curiously. "What's the deal with your fight against Tyson?"
Zhao Dong waved it off. "Relax, Ernie. The chance of me getting hurt is tiny. It won't mess with the season."
He wasn't bluffing either. Thanks to the system reward he earned from winning the Eastern Conference Finals, he had one chance to heal even a serious injury. He wasn't worried.
---
The next day, the sports world exploded.
The news broke like a thunderclap—Zhao Dong was in talks for a boxing match with Iron Mike Tyson during the NBA lockout. It was the kind of headline that shook both sports worlds. Instantly, media outlets from the U.S. to China ran wild with it. News tickers, magazine covers, talk shows—everyone had something to say.
Even NBA players started chiming in, some hyped, others worried. But one thing was clear: this wasn't just another offseason.
"I bet when Zhao Dong steps into the ring with Tyson, he's gonna get his ass beat," Shaquille O'Neal chuckled as he showed up first in front of the camera crew.
"I'm showing up in person for this one. If there's betting odds, I'm putting my money on Mike Tyson to knock Zhao out cold," Michael Jordan said casually while leaving the training hall, answering the media's questions without breaking stride.
Even some heavyweight boxing legends chimed in. Evander Holyfield, who famously beat Tyson in 1996, didn't hold back.
In a live interview, Holyfield stated, "I don't like Zhao Dong's chances against Mike. Sure, he's got the size—he looks like a damn wall next to Tyson—but that height? It's just a bigger target. Tyson's been in there with guys taller than him plenty of times."
He leaned forward, adding with a frown, "He might be faster in a sprint, I'll give him that. But this isn't a race. Speed doesn't win fights unless you know how to use it. His bench press might crush Tyson's, but pure strength? That just makes his punches slow and stiff. He'll be swinging and missing, leaving himself wide open. And let's be real—he's never had proper boxing training. I don't get why he'd step into the ring like this. It's a dumb move."
A china sports outlet called Zhao Dong for a response.
"What do you have to say about Holyfield's comments?" the journalist asked over the phone.
Zhao Dong didn't hesitate. "I'll knock Mike Tyson out," he replied.
That one sentence spread like wildfire. The entire sports world—and the professional boxing scene—erupted in disbelief.
Tyson's comeback might've dulled his public image, but everyone knew he was still a killer in the ring. The pros scoffed at the idea that Zhao Dong, a basketball player, could take down a former heavyweight champ.
Mike had only been knocked out twice. The first was back in 1990 by Buster Douglas, in Tokyo of all places, after ten rounds. That upset is still talked about like some wild urban legend. Rumor had it Tyson had partied the night before—surrounded by women and booze—and walked into the ring drained.
The second KO was in 1996 against Holyfield—a TKO, not even a full knockout. So to serious boxing heads, neither loss really stained his rep that bad.
So when a basketball player, even one as freakishly athletic as Zhao Dong, starts talking about KOs? It blew the roof off the sports world.
"Arrogant."
That's all George Foreman, former heavyweight legend, said to the press. He didn't bother elaborating.
Lennox Lewis, current heavyweight world champ, had more to say. In a sharp-toned interview, he said, "In our world—the heavyweight boxing world—you show respect. Even if Mike doesn't hold a title anymore, he's still one of the most dangerous fighters out there. Zhao Dong should learn some humility. Mike's going to remind him what real power feels like."
Zhao Dong clapped back instantly.
"If Lewis wants to teach me about humility, he's welcome to come over and show me personally. I'd love that."
And about Foreman?
"If I knock out Tyson, I expect Foreman to eat those words."
Lewis responded quickly. "I'll be there. I want to watch Tyson destroy him with my own eyes."
Foreman didn't respond at all. Maybe he thought it wasn't worth the breath.
But all that noise was nothing compared to what Tyson himself said.
He was in New York when reporters cornered him. When they brought up Zhao Dong's KO comment, Tyson lost it.
"He wants to knock me out? That Chinese dude is nothing but dog shit. A maggot. He eats shit for breakfast!"
The press couldn't even bleep it all in time. Tyson went full meltdown.
Born and raised in Brooklyn's worst hoods, expelled from school, Tyson didn't know how to censor himself. Swearing came naturally. He'd even cursed out Holyfield and a bunch of reporters back in the day, almost clocking one of them after a loss. That drama got him blacklisted in multiple U.S. states—nobody wanted to issue him a boxing license anymore.
So Tyson's outburst didn't shock anyone—except one person.
Storm Investment Fund HQ, Wall Street.
"President…"
One of Lindsay's assistants burst into her office, eyes wide. She relayed what Tyson had just said on live TV.
Lindsay's hands clenched into fists.
Tyson had just insulted the man she loved with the most vile, disgusting words possible.
"Get everything on him," she snapped. "I want dirt. Anything I can use to throw his ass in jail."
She immediately called Zhao Dong.
"Don't fight him, babe. Let me destroy him legally," she said.
"Huh?" Zhao Dong sounded confused. He was in the middle of training, no one had told him anything yet.
Once Lindsay explained, his face darkened with annoyance, but he wasn't surprised. "This is Tyson we're talking about. Dude grew up around thugs. NBA trash talk is bad, but that's on another level. Whatever, don't stress. I'll settle it in the ring. How about I cave in his head and call it a day?"
Lindsay wasn't done. "I'm still collecting his info. Next time he opens his filthy mouth, I'll sue him so hard he'll go bankrupt from lawyer fees alone."
Zhao Dong laughed. "Okay, okay. You handle the court, I'll handle the ring."
Later that day, Zhao Dong sat down with Fox TV.
With a stern face and a fire in his voice, he said, "Mike Tyson, apologize before the sun sets. Be humble. If not—I'll blow your damn head off."
Tyson heard that. His reply?
"No apology. Just a knockout."
Meanwhile, at the negotiation table, boxing promoter Frank Warren groaned.
He rubbed his temples. "Jesus Christ, can they stop talking for five minutes? I'm still working out the damn contract…"
Warren knew the truth—Zhao Dong held all the cards. No big-name fighters were lining up to fight Tyson. His bad rep and wild behavior scared everyone off. Tyson needed this fight more than Zhao Dong did.
Zhao Dong's team demanded double the fee Tyson got—$24 million. That was the power of holding the cards. You want Zhao Dong to fight, not the other way around.
"Mr. Frank, negotiations are off until Michael Tyson apologizes," Ringo Wells said coldly.
"What?" Frank Warren blinked, stunned.
"Remember this, Mr. Warren—Zhao Dong doesn't need this fight at all," Wells added, his tone sharp before walking out with the rest of the team.
Warren rushed back to Tyson's training facility, trying to salvage things.
"Frank, I'm not apologizing to that guy. No way. I'll lose face!" Tyson exploded the second he saw him.
"You even know who you insulted?" Warren said, shaking his head in disbelief.
Tyson deflated like a popped balloon, mumbling, "Yeah, yeah... NBA star, Jets owner, Zhao Sports boss, loaded as hell."
"He's not just rich," Warren pressed. "Remember how he handled Karl Malone? You wanna be next? You think you're untouchable?"
"I..."
Warren leaned in, his voice growing colder. "What's more important to you? Your damn pride or this fight? You know how much I invested in this? If this blows up, you think I'm eating that loss? Hell no.
And what about that incident yesterday? You grabbed some girl's ass at the club. If his people find her—which they will—you're looking at court dates every damn day. You also swung on a security guard the day before that. You forget how much trouble you've caused in just one week?"
Tyson looked away.
"Mike, wake the hell up. You know how things work in the U.S.—who you can cross and who you can't. You think you can disrespect Zhao just 'cause he's Chinese? That man's wife runs a $20 billion fund on Wall Street. She says one word, and half the financial world stomps on your ass."
Tyson was silent, until finally, he muttered, "So… Zhao Dong really is just a rich gigolo, huh…"
"You idiot!" Warren clutched his head in frustration. "That's what you took from this?"
A beat passed. Then Tyson sighed.
"…Alright. I was drunk. I said dumb shit. I'll apologize."
---
One hour later, Tyson's apology aired on a major New York news channel—and quickly spread across the globe.
Private Gym – Later That Day
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Zhao Dong's fists hammered into the heavy sandbag nonstop.
Thirty minutes of raw power drills later, he transitioned into shadowboxing. Every move was sharp, precise, focused.
A cluster of coaches circled nearby, eyes locked on his form.
"With the strength in his core, once he sharpens his boxing technique, his punch power's gonna be insane," one trainer said.
"His lats still need work. Punches aren't as fast as they could be," another pointed out.
"He's already crazy fast. If he gets faster, that explosiveness'll be off the charts."
"Right now, his max punching force is 542 pounds. If he hits 600, even Tyson might not survive one clean shot."
"He's got the potential, no doubt. 600 pounds? That'd make him a monster."
"Ain't nobody on earth eating a 600-pound shot to the head—not even 500, really."
"Speed's not the problem. He needs precision."
"What he really lacks is a full boxing toolkit. He needs to fight. Real rounds. We've never seen him gas out. Starting tomorrow, we go twelve rounds of sparring a day."
"We're gonna need top-tier sparring partners. Two already got hurt."
"You don't find elite sparring partners without serious connections. That's where Mr. Arum comes in."
"Exactly. That's his job—let him earn that money."
---
As Tyson's apology cooled tensions, negotiations resumed. But the brief stall had shaken Frank Warren.
He was sweating bullets over the NBA possibly lifting the lockout. If that happened, Zhao Dong would head back to the league, and the whole cross-sport spectacle would die on arrival.
So Warren started giving ground, pushing to close the deal fast.
By the end of November, he and Bob Arum finally wrapped things up.
Zhao Dong's appearance fee? A whopping $24 million—double Tyson's.
As for pay-per-view and other revenues, they settled on a 60-40 split, favoring Zhao.
The fight would go down in London, England—neutral turf for both men.
The date was locked: January 1, 1999.
Until then, Zhao Dong was officially barred from returning to the NBA.
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