On the Bulls' bench, with elimination looming, the atmosphere was heavy.
Jordan sat expressionless. He could handle losing in other ways, but losing to Zhao Dong? Unacceptable.
He was drained. With Pippen locked down, he was forced to score, organize, and defend, exhausting his energy.
But now, there was an aura around him, simmering like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
"Pip, lock in! I don't want to see you lose focus! From now on, press him full court. Don't let him breathe!" Phil Jackson barked at Pippen, his voice sharp with frustration.
Throughout the Eastern Conference Finals, Pippen had been a mess, averaging only 8.1 points, 3.3 rebounds, 1.5 assists, 0.9 steals, and 0.3 blocks, with a painful 3.2 turnovers per game.
The friction between Phil Jackson and Pippen was clear. The Bulls' management saw it too.
Pippen, feeling helpless, stared at the floor. He was outmatched—Zhao Dong was taller, stronger, faster, and more skilled at both ends.
After several games, Pippen's confidence was in shambles.
In the past, he would've snapped back at Phil Jackson, even in front of Jordan, but now? He didn't have the courage.
Seeing Pippen's slumped posture, Jordan shook his head.
He understood. He himself was reeling.
They had lost 3 of 4 regular-season games to the Knicks and were now down 2-3 in the Eastern Conference Finals.
The Game 1 loss stung the most—despite Jordan's 69 points, they still fell short. Only he knew how hard that hit.
If it weren't for his iron will, he might've crumbled like Pippen.
But he still needed Pippen. Even if Pippen's offense and organization were shot, his defense was still valuable.
With no one else available, Jordan forced a smile.
Back in October, he had pressured Jerry Krause using Zhao Dong's contract as leverage. Now, it had backfired horribly.
But he was Michael Jordan—he wouldn't admit he was wrong. And he sure as hell wouldn't accept losing to the Knicks and Zhao Dong.
"Curtis..."
He patted Pippen on the shoulder. When Pippen looked up, Jordan locked eyes with him.
"Old man, trust me. We're not losing. Not here. Not now. In this league, God wears number 23. Lock that rookie down. Help me win this one, and we'll kill him in Game 7."
Seeing Jordan's defiant, almost maniacal expression, Pippen nodded.
The timeout ended.
Bulls' possession.
Jordan held the ball beyond the arc on the right wing. Unlike Zhao Dong, he wasn't a primary facilitator. His focus was on scoring, using his drive-and-kick game when necessary.
After breaking down John Starks, he met Oakley's help defense.
Starks recovered, forming a double-team.
"Here!"
Kukoc, left open in the right corner, signaled for the ball.
Without hesitation, Jordan zipped a pass to him.
Kukoc caught and fired.
"Swish!"
A clean three-pointer.
92-89, Bulls cut the deficit to three.
"Yeah!" Kukoc roared, fired up.
"Hell yeah, Tony!" Jordan clapped him on the back.
"Toni Kukoc drills a massive corner three! Wait—oh! Watch out! Here comes Zhao Dong, full throttle!" Marv Albert shouted.
Zhao Dong was already flying down the right wing.
Ewing had already made the outlet pass from the backcourt, and Pippen was one step behind.
At the midcourt, Harper sprinted back on defense, while Jordan, still near the half-court line, was a step late.
Zhao Dong caught the pass and instantly cut toward the paint, changing direction to shake the defenders.
His speed wasn't at its peak, but he pushed through with everything he had.
Harper rotated over, bracing for contact.
As Zhao Dong hit the right elbow, Harper met him with a hard contest.
But Zhao Dong's impact was ferocious, barreling through.
The force sent Harper staggering, taking two unsteady steps before crashing to the floor.
"Bang!"
Zhao Dong exploded into the air, slamming it down with both hands.
The whistle blew.
"AHHH!" Zhao Dong roared.
But as he landed, he saw the referee pointing at him—offensive foul.
"No way!" Zhao Dong's eyes widened in disbelief.
The United Center erupted. Bulls fans roared with approval while Knicks fans booed furiously.
"This is a bogus call!" Van Gundy raged, jumping up on the sideline.
On the other end, Phil Jackson clapped with satisfaction.
"Zhao Dong now has 5 fouls, including two offensive fouls. The refs have been tight with the whistle on him all night," Matt Goukas commented.
"That's probably why he's been passing more in the fourth quarter, avoiding aggressive drives," Marv Albert added.
"Only 88 seconds left, Knicks up by three, but with Zhao Dong sitting on five fouls, this could get dicey," Matt warned.
The Bulls' offense.
Just like before, Jordan attacked from the right wing.
After Oakley provided help, Kukoc slid to the right corner.
Jordan eyed him briefly, but it was a fake pass.
He quickly turned, created separation from Starks, and pulled up for a fadeaway jumper.
"Swish!"
Even with his legs nearly gone, Jordan nailed the clutch shot.
92-91, Knicks clinging to a one-point lead.
Zhao Dong brought the ball up in the backcourt, with Pippen pestering him nonstop. Without hesitation, Zhao Dong hit him with a quick crossover, blowing past him and sprinting up the middle.
The Knicks were on the move. Even Ewing, mustering all his strength, ran hard on the left wing near the paint.
"Will they double him?" Marv Albert shouted as Zhao Dong reached the top of the arc.
Yes. Rodman left Oakley and rushed up to double.
But the rest of the Bulls stuck to their assignments, chasing down the Knicks. Zhao Dong's recent flurry of assists had them too scared to gamble.
"Squeak!"
Zhao Dong slammed on the brakes, stopping just outside the three-point line. With Rodman in his face, he didn't hesitate—he rose up for a pull-up three.
"Pull-up?!" Matt Goukas's eyes widened.
"Bang!"
The shot was pure—splashing through the net.
"Zhao Dong drills a cold-blooded three from the top of the arc! This is the price the Bulls pay for backing off the triple-team! Rodman and Pippen can't stop him!" Marv Albert roared.
"YEAH!"
The Knicks' bench erupted. Away fans roared.
"Defense! Get the stop!" Zhao Dong shouted, waving his arms, not even bothering to celebrate.
"Defense!" the Knicks chanted in unison.
95-91, Knicks up by four with 46 seconds left.
"Squeak, squeak!"
In the Bulls' frontcourt, sneakers squeaked as the Knicks hounded them relentlessly.
John Starks, with fresher legs, hounded Jordan on the right wing, cutting off his driving lane.
The Knicks' defense shrank, closing in on Jordan.
But MJ, ever the assassin, spun out of the trap, evading Oakley's swipe, and suddenly pulled up for a fadeaway jumper.
"Swish!"
The United Center exploded as the ball splashed through the net.
Oakley inbounded the ball, but Kukoc interfered, delaying the pass. The fast break chance was blown.
Zhao Dong received the ball and slowly pushed it up, maintaining control.
On the sideline, Phil Jackson signaled for a half-court press.
"Damn! Jordan's unreal! Quadruple-teamed, and he still knocked it down?!" Matt Goukas marveled.
"95-93! It's a two-point game!" Marv Albert shouted, the tension rising.
"The tighter the situation, the sharper Jordan gets," Matt shook his head, impressed.
"It's all on the stars now. Ewing's choked too many times against MJ, but this time, it's on Zhao Dong. 25 seconds left. This is it!"
Zhao Dong crossed half-court in five seconds, with Pippen immediately clamping down on him like a rabid dog.
Zhao Dong protected the ball, turning his back, and raised his left arm to keep Pippen from getting too close.
"MOVE! Everyone, run!" he barked at his teammates.
"Squeak!"
He shifted his feet, faked right, making Pippen bite, then suddenly crossed back left and blew by him.
"Damn, his handles are slick—point guard level," Matt Goukas praised.
Zhao Dong streaked toward the top of the arc, forcing the Bulls into a defensive dilemma—triple-team him and leave two shooters open, or double and risk one?
But Zhao Dong didn't give them time to decide.
He cut left, pulling to the left wing.
"He's milking the clock!" Marv Albert shouted.
"Trap him! Press hard!" Phil Jackson roared from the sideline, throwing sportsmanship out the window.
"Tweet!"
The ref's whistle cut through the chaos.
Zhao Dong stopped cold, confused.
Pippen was a step away—there was no contact.
But then he saw the referee point at Oakley, signaling an illegal screen.
"Bullshit!" Zhao Dong snapped.
"Hell no! I didn't touch him—he ran into me!" Oakley barked, veins bulging.
"Tweet!"
The ref immediately blew a technical foul on Oakley.
"Damn it!" Matt Goukas groaned.
"Oh no, Oakley's meltdown just handed the Bulls a golden chance—one free throw and possession!" Marv Albert shouted.
"Shit! We just gave them a free point and the ball!" Zhao Dong cursed under his breath.
Zhao Dong and Ewing quickly rushed over to pull Oakley back, keeping him from getting ejected.
"Calm the hell down! We're taking this!" Zhao Dong barked, his voice fierce.
He turned to his teammates, his eyes blazing.
"I told y'all—we're beating the Bulls tonight. Ain't nobody stopping us! We're winning this shit!"
The ref gave Zhao Dong a sharp glare, clearly pissed, but didn't penalize him. Instead, he walked toward the scorers' table.
Before the technical free throw, Knicks called a timeout.
"Defense! We gotta lock this down!" Jeff Van Gundy, completely drenched in sweat, roared from the bench.
"If you get a clean look, Zhao Dong, take the damn shot!" he added after finishing the defensive assignments.
On the Bulls' bench, Phil Jackson clutched his tactical board, laying out the final play.
"Spread the floor. Kerr and Kukoc go to the corners—pull the defense wide. Michael, drive in from the wing. Harper, set a screen for Pippen. Pip, you cut to the basket. Michael will feed you, then set a screen. You take the last shot—get the two."
"Got it," Jordan nodded coldly.
Pippen felt his chest tighten. Was this real? With Jordan on the team, he was getting the final shot? His eyes stung with emotion—he could hardly believe it.
The timeout ended, and both teams took the floor.
The Knicks stuck with their lineup, while the Bulls swapped Rodman for Steve Kerr, adding more shooting.
Jordan sank the free throw—95-94. Bulls down by one with 12 seconds left.
The United Center was on edge. One shot could save their season. The nearly 20,000 fans barely breathed, eyes locked on the court, too afraid to shout and risk distracting their players.
"Shhh!"
But the away fans didn't hold back. They booed loudly, trying to rattle the Bulls.
"Bastards!"
"These damn New York scumbags!"
"Why the hell did they even get tickets?!"
The Bulls fans seethed with hatred.
Harper burned four seconds getting into the frontcourt before the Bulls' play unfolded.
Kerr sprinted to the left corner, dragging Ewing with him. Kukoc pulled to the right, taking Oakley out wide. Jordan worked the right wing.
Harper handed it off to Jordan, then darted to the left.
"What the hell is he doing with Pippen?" Zhao Dong narrowed his eyes, his gut twisting.
And then it clicked.
"Shit—it's a screen for Pippen!"
His mind raced, immediately anticipating the next move—Pippen's cut.
Jordan drove hard into the paint. Oakley, defending in the short corner, instantly collapsed into the lane, leaving Kukoc open.
At the same time, Ewing sagged off Kerr, closing in on Jordan.
But MJ refused to pass—pushing through the double-team by Oakley and John Starks.
Meanwhile, Harper positioned himself beside Zhao Dong, giving Pippen the perfect angle to cut.
And Pippen took off.
But Zhao Dong, moving on pure instinct, instantly spun around Harper and took off as well.
They both raced toward the paint, starting two meters apart. Two blazing arrows, cutting toward the basket at a 30-degree angle.
Jordan reached the paint, but Oakley and Starks smothered him.
Now he had three passing options—Pippen, Kerr, and Kukoc.
As per the play, Jordan fired the ball to Pippen, his most trusted target.
Pippen caught it at the left elbow, just as Zhao Dong closed in, a step behind.
Too close to drive. Zhao Dong's defense had boxed him in.
Zhao Dong, reading the play, slammed on the brakes. He anticipated Pippen's next move—a stop-and-pop jumper.
But Pippen, in a flash of brilliance, whipped the ball back to Jordan.
"What the fuck?!" Zhao Dong's eyes widened.
Jordan caught it—already rising into his legendary fadeaway.
Oakley spun around, desperate to contest, but MJ was mid-air.
"Swish!"
The United Center exploded—a roaring sea of red and black.
"ARGHHH!"
Jordan let out a primal scream, chest-bumping with Pippen, veins bulging.
"FUCK!" Zhao Dong cursed under his breath, clenching his fists.
He'd been too locked in on Pippen—not even considering the kick-out. He'd misread it completely.
95-96, Bulls up by one with 1.3 seconds left.
"Damn it!" Matt Goukas yelled.
"All those clutch stops, and it comes down to Pippen's dime and Jordan's dagger!" Marv Albert groaned.
"The Iron Triangle—they're still the best duo in the history of the game, huh?" Matt Goukas chuckled.
"No doubt." Marv smirked.
The Knicks called their final timeout.
"1.3 seconds left—one shot to save it," Matt said, voice tense.
"Van Gundy's a defensive genius, but his offense is shaky. Can he draw up something clutch?" Marv Albert questioned.
On the Knicks' bench, the atmosphere was ice cold.
The last-second lead change had gutted their morale.
"Fuck…" Zhao Dong growled under his breath.
But he refused to fold.
"We're still alive!" he barked, his voice cutting through the tension.
"One damn shot! We ain't done yet!"
His fury reignited the bench. The Knicks' spirits lifted, refusing to go down without a fight.
Van Gundy, though, was rattled. Sweat dripped from his head, hands trembling as he gripped the tactical board.
No play came to him.
His mind was blank.
Seeing their coach frozen, the Knicks' hearts sank.
Their last spark of morale flickered.
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