On November 30th, a massive press conference lit up the New York media circuit.
Zhao Dong walked in with swagger, flanked by Oakley and Larry Johnson. They were all suited up, but the atmosphere was tense, the buzz loud, like something explosive was about to go down.
That's when he came face-to-face with the heavyweight beast himself—Mike Tyson.
Zhao Dong looked down at him and sneered.
"Tyson," he said, his voice low and cold. "You better wear a damn helmet when you step into the ring. Otherwise, you'll be getting carried out on a stretcher, no cap."
Tyson's eyes flared. "What did you just say?"
"Don't act tough just 'cause your wife's funding your career, you damn gigolo!" Tyson barked back, fists clenched.
Click, click, click!
Every camera in the room went wild. Flashes exploded as New York's two biggest sports icons squared up.
Zhao Dong's face twisted with rage. "You call me a gigolo?"
He didn't wait for security. With zero hesitation, he threw a heavy kick at Tyson. Chairs screeched. Reporters gasped. The room erupted into chaos.
"Fuck him up!" Larry Johnson shouted, stepping forward like he was about to tag in. As an amateur boxer, he wasn't afraid of Tyson's title. But before he could get close, security swarmed in, holding him back.
Tyson roared and lunged, ready to swing, but another group of guards pinned him down too.
"Oh, hell yeah! Let's go! Go, Tyson! Go, Zhao Dong!" one hyped-up reporter shouted, frantically snapping photos like he hit the jackpot.
"I swear, I'm gonna smash that punk into a damn pig's head!" Tyson yelled, eyes bloodshot, veins popping. "I'll knock him out cold! Watch me!"
Zhao Dong turned to the cameras, still burning with fury. "Better prep the ICU. That's where this match belongs. After I blow his head off, he's going straight to surgery. I don't wanna kill him, just make sure he can't open that mouth again."
The press conference ended in complete disaster. But as far as hype went? It was a gold mine. Every media outlet around the globe ran it. The whole damn world was talking about Zhao Dong vs. Tyson.
While the boxing world was heating up, the NBA? Ice cold.
Negotiations between the league and the players were going nowhere fast. Talks dragged on endlessly, and there was still no deal in sight.
"Stern has threatened to cancel the entire 1998–99 season. Every player would lose their income." – TNT
"NBA labor negotiations collapse again. Season cancellation looks inevitable." – New York Times
"If the NBA shuts down, it'll drop to last among the four major leagues and lose most of its fans." – New York Sports Daily
"Many players who were grinding in the offseason have now given up. Only Kobe is still locked in." – Los Angeles Times
---
In Chicago, Jordan slammed a stack of newspapers onto the floor.
"These bastards... what the hell are they even doing?" he muttered in frustration.
He'd been putting in extra work for four straight months now. No breaks. No vacation. Just sweat and grind. But the season still hadn't started. And at 35, he was feeling it.
"Maybe I should just play golf like Zhao Dong..." he whispered, almost to himself, rubbing his knees.
---
Over in Philly, Allen Iverson had quit training a month ago. The wait had broken him. He was back out with his boys, partying every night, blowing off steam.
But in L.A., Kobe was on another level.
Strength training. Shooting drills. Defense reps. Breakthrough sets. Post-up moves. Every damn day. Rain or shine.
He saw what L.A. looked like at 4:00 a.m. every single morning.
That hunger? Real.
He believed the season would come back. And when it did? He was gonna shock the whole damn league.
"I'm not just another '96 rookie," Kobe whispered, finishing his last set, drenched in sweat. "I'm Kobe Bryant. And I'll make sure Zhao Dong remembers my name."
December rolled around. On the 10th, Zhao Dong and his boxing crew boarded a flight straight to London.
Lindsay stayed behind in New York. She was drowning in work, more loaded than even Zhao Dong.
Storm Fund had gone nuclear. The last year had seen ridiculous returns. In just a few months, it had exploded from a rising star on Wall Street to a capital giant.
Investors were throwing money in like it was the jackpot.
In fact, the $20 billion figure that Frank Warren mentioned to Tyson? That was just one part of the empire.
That was the venture capital branch. The real beast? A stable investment fund now sitting at $50 billion—and still climbing fast.
But not everyone could get in.
Lindsay kept it tight, mostly taking in non-U.S. funds. A ton of European capital had flowed in, thanks in part to Dolores and her husband's connections. But most came chasing the Storm Fund's rep.
At the same time, she was also starting to take the reins at Zhao Dong Sports. After the mess where Chen Jian got sidelined, she wasn't letting things run wild again.
Even so, she'd still fly out before the fight kicked off.
London in December? Cold, gray, and gloomy as hell. The sun barely peeked out, and temps hovered just above freezing.
Zhao Dong wasn't fazed. Beijing wasn't any warmer, just drier and less depressing.
When they landed, cold rain and snow misted the runway. Roads were slick as hell, and their car had to move slow through the slush.
As they passed through the city, Zhao Dong spotted massive posters of him and Tyson plastered on billboards.
Frank Warren and Arum weren't slacking on the promo. They were going all out.
Arum took him over to scope out the venue: London's Salford Indoor Stadium.
Built in 1991, it could seat 18,000—perfect for a winter boxing brawl. It was one of London's most iconic boxing arenas.
The day after Zhao Dong landed in London, Tyson showed up with his crew.
Frank Warren, a heavyweight in London's boxing scene and part of a well-known sports family, wasted no time. As soon as Tyson arrived, Frank hosted a press conference and started hyping up the fight like a true promoter.
Not to be outdone, Arum tapped into his own network to generate momentum for Zhao Dong, setting off a full-blown media war between both camps.
Zhao Dong Sports Company didn't miss out either. Huang Zhiwen used the opportunity to open a flagship noodle shop right in the heart of London, making waves in the local scene.
Then on December 23, the league's labor negotiations hit yet another dead end. Commissioner David Stern, visibly frustrated, made it clear: if the next round failed, the entire NBA season would be canceled.
This bombshell caused a rift among players. The high-salary stars would take the hardest hit if the season was scrapped, and tensions started brewing between them and the lower-paid guys.
The media had a field day. The New York Times called it a battle of millionaires, mocking both sides—one wearing the mask of capital, the other pretending to be labor.
On December 26, a headline dominated the news: Jordan and Nike had struck a major deal. Nike agreed to spin off the Jordan brand as its own subsidiary, with Jordan himself holding stock and becoming a minority owner.
This made MJ the second NBA player after Zhao Dong to own his own sneaker company—and his commercial value shot through the roof.
By the end of December, 1998 was winding down and 1999 was right around the corner.
From December 29 onward, NBA stars and Hollywood celebs started pouring into London. Jordan and Karl Malone—both openly rooting for Tyson to lay Zhao Dong out—were among the first to land on the 29th.
Zhao Dong had eased up on his training a bit over the last two days, but on the 30th, he cranked it back up to full intensity. He needed his body to be in its most fired-up state heading into fight night.
At 5 p.m. that same day, he went to the airport to pick up Lindsay.
"There was a blizzard in New York yesterday, babe," she told him.
"Oh shit… no one froze to death, right? There are so many kids on the streets."
"You're not gonna like this—media reported dozens were found frozen in the parks. Five of them were children."
"Damn… alright, let's donate 3,000 tents under our name."
"Got it. I'll make the call."
"And look, after we help in the U.S., we can't forget China. That kind of tragedy would never happen there—our government wouldn't allow it. But I've been thinking about setting up a real charity fund in China, not like those U.S. tax-dodge foundations. I want to help build Hope Primary Schools out there. The remote areas are dirt poor, and the education situation's dire. You down?"
"I'm all in. How about we donate… $200 million?"
"Done."
…
The next day—New Year's Eve—Zhao Dong's squad touched down. Oakley, Larry Johnson, Allan Houston, Big Ben Wallace, Barkley… the whole gang was in London now.
Zhao Dong took care of their lodging and hosted a party at the hotel that evening.
"Boss, you think the new season's really gonna get canceled?" Danny Fortson asked, half-joking, half-worried.
"You run outta money already?" Zhao Dong shot back.
"…Kinda," Fortson admitted, scratching the back of his neck.
He was only a sophomore. Half his rookie money went to help his family, another chunk into the storm fund. The rest? Gone. Long gone.
Ben Wallace wasn't doing much better. Unlike Fortson, who was a lottery pick, Ben went undrafted and was on a tiny contract. He grumbled, "If this lockout drags on, boss… I might need a loan from you."
Zhao Dong smiled. "It's fine. If you're strapped for cash, just hit me up."
He looked around the room and added, "The league and the players' union are both under a shit-ton of pressure. If the season gets scrapped, the NBA's gonna take a massive hit—huge financial losses and maybe even long-term damage. I think both sides will cave a little. I really don't think the whole season's going down the drain."
"That'd be a relief," Oakley muttered.
He had finally landed a big-time contract—eight figures—and now the damn lockout was robbing him blind.
The party didn't drag on. Just some food, drinks, catching up, and vibes. Zhao Dong went to rest early.
The next morning, the calendar flipped to 1999.
By 7 p.m., Soford Indoor Stadium—packed with 18,000 fans—was buzzing.
The hype was off the charts. ESPN had picked up the North American broadcasting rights and was charging $100 for the pay-per-view.
In the UK, pay-per-view wasn't as huge, so a London TV station bought the rights and aired the fight for free.
The main event was scheduled for 9:30 p.m., but three undercard matches were set to kick things off starting at 7:30—two six-rounders and one nine-rounder.
The arena was star-studded—straight up movie scene vibes. Not just NBA and Hollywood elites from the U.S., but also a ton of local celebrities and European sports stars.
The front row was loaded with soccer legends: Beckham, Keane, Vieira, Tony Adams, Liverpool's Fowler, even Manchester United's former king, Cantona, all sitting ringside, waiting to see blood.
Zhao Dong stayed in his lounge, alternating between light warm-ups and short rests, making sure his body didn't cool down too much before the fight.
The door swung open, and in came Oakley, Barkley, and a whole crew of NBA players. The room instantly turned lively with laughter, jabs, and the scent of cologne and swagger.
"Charles," Zhao Dong suddenly spoke up, "Jordan's not gonna pass up a chance like this. Can you ask him if he's down for a bet?"
Oakley sighed and shook his head. "Man, both of y'all are trouble. You know that, right? Always looking to mess with each other. It gives me a damn headache."
"I already got a million riding on Tyson. Odds ain't great, but I'll walk away with a lil' something," Jordan shouted from across the lounge, surrounded by a swarm of NBA stars. He was grinning wide, clearly in a great mood.
Truth was, he had just become a minority owner in a sneaker company. His money game was climbing, and on top of that, he'd get to watch Zhao Dong catch hands tonight. Double win.
Oakley and Barkley approached with a few others in tow. Oakley sighed again and muttered, "Michael, Zhao said he figured you'd bet. He wants me to ask—are you in?"
"C'mon, Mike, jump on it!" Barkley goaded. "This could be easy money for you."
"How much?" Jordan asked, never one to back down.
"Ten million," Oakley answered flatly.
"Shit!" Jordan choked, coughing from shock. "That bastard just leeches off his own wife's money. Straight-up kept man…"
Just then, a procession passed by the lounge entrance—and Jordan froze.
Walking in heels that echoed power, Lindsay strode past with a dozen bodyguards flanking her. Several senior executives from the London branch of Storm Fund followed close behind. Behind them came a wave of high-profile investment brokers from London, each carrying serious money and trailed by assistants and security.
"Charles," Lindsay said, pausing in front of Oakley, not even sparing Jordan a glance.
"Hello, Miss Lindsay." Oakley, Larry Johnson, and the others greeted her quickly and respectfully. They could joke around with Zhao Dong all day long—but not with Lindsay. With her, it was strictly business.
Lindsay finally turned her eyes to Jordan, ice-cold and cutting. "Michael Jordan, you might be my husband's greatest rival on the court. But to me? You're just another chip in the game. No more, no less."
The room quieted.
She turned toward her associates and stated calmly, "Nike's closing price this afternoon was $30. With 366 million shares, that's a market value of about $11 billion. I plan to raise $10 billion and submit a takeover bid for Nike. Gentlemen, does this company seem worth the investment?"
Her tone was soft, but her words hit like a sledgehammer.
Jordan's scalp tingled. His lips parted, but no words came out.
Oakley threw him a quick side-eye, silently urging him to apologize. But Jordan couldn't get a single word out.
Lindsay continued, voice still icy. "Once we acquire Nike, we'll break it up and absorb it into Zhao Dong Sports. Nike, your legacy, and your personal brand—gone."
With that, she pivoted and walked away, heels clicking like the ticking of a financial time bomb.
Jordan just stood there, dumbfounded.
"She's not serious... right?" he finally muttered.
"Who knows?" Oakley said with a shrug. "You don't read the New York Business Journal or Wall Street Journal, Mike? Lindsay's name's been all over the news. Storm Fund's the hottest investment firm on Wall Street right now. Ten billion might not even be hard for her to raise. And FYI—I'm an investor in Storm Fund too."
Barkley chuckled. "Damn, Mike. Money makes you pretty, huh? But what you gonna do when that cash dries up?"
"Goddamn it," Jordan growled, fists clenched.
But it was too late.
Within ten minutes, news of Storm Fund's intention to acquire Nike exploded across London's financial circles and quickly hit Wall Street.
"Storm Fund is targeting Nike? Let's move. Prep a billion now!"
"Nike's on Lindsay's radar? Follow the money—fast!"
"Storm Fund never misses. Get me two billion, ASAP!"
The chain reaction had begun. Capital giants, hedge funds, and sharks of every kind smelled the opportunity. The chase was on.
Back at Nike HQ, President Phil Knight received word.
"Storm Fund? Lindsay? And Zhao Dong too? Shit... this is bad," he muttered, cold sweat running down his back. He immediately called his CFO.
"Boss, the stock's surging!" said CFO Robert Harold. "It jumped eight points before I even got in here. Still climbing!"
"What?" Knight was stunned.
That kind of spike only meant one thing: the cost of buying back stock had just gone through the roof. Still, he had no choice.
"Raise funds now! Start repurchasing immediately!"
"You serious? At this price?" Robert was shocked. "We should be cashing out, not buying!"
"I just got word," Knight said gravely. "Storm Fund is launching a $10 billion bid to acquire Nike. If they gain control, they'll merge us into Zhao Dong Sports. And the kicker? Lindsay—Zhao Dong's wife—is leading the damn charge!"
"Ten billion?" Robert gasped, nearly biting his tongue. "But... but they wouldn't even need that much! Just grabbing 30% of the shares would make them majority shareholders!"
Knight didn't respond. He didn't need to.
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