Western Conference All-Star Starters: Shaquille O'Neal, Kevin Garnett, Karl Malone, Kobe Bryant, Gary Payton
Western Conference All-Star Reserves: David Robinson, Eddie Jones, Nick Van Exel, Vin Baker, Mitch Richmond, Tim Duncan, John Stockton
Western Conference Head Coach: Del Harris
Eastern Conference All-Star Starters: Dikembe Mutombo, Zhao Dong, Grant Hill, Michael Jordan, Anfernee Hardaway
Eastern Conference All-Star Reserves: Shawn Kemp, Glen Rice, Reggie Miller, Steve Smith, Rik Smits, Tim Hardaway, Jason Williams
Eastern Conference Head Coach: Don Nelson
This year's All-Star Game was lit—TV networks everywhere picked it up. Even CCTV was in on the action with a live broadcast. Zhang Heli cracked a joke:
"Even though the Knicks got the best record in the league, only Zhao Dong made the All-Star team. Meanwhile, the Lakers, second-best and top in the West, got four guys in. That's a crazy gap."
"O'Neal, Eddie Jones, Van Exel, and Kobe. Kobe's definitely stepped up this season, but man, the Lakers really boosted his numbers to push him into the starting lineup. That's a major PR move," Sun Zhenping laughed.
Zhao Dong's grandparents didn't come out today—it'd be too loud for them, and this kinda scene wasn't their thing. Lin Meizhu stayed back to keep them company. Only Zhao Zhenzhong, Zhao Dacheng, and Lindsay pulled up for the game.
Zhao Dong got his people settled in then headed to the East locker room—technically the home team's room. He'd been in there a million times before.
Outside the door were Coach Nelson and some Knicks staff along with security.
"They're all in there. Go ahead, Zhao Dong," old man Nelson said, clapping him on the shoulder with a grin.
"Aight, I'm going in."
Zhao Dong pushed the door open.
"What's up, y'all? Welcome to the Garden," he said, smiling.
"Zhao Dong, congrats, man," Grant Hill stood up, showing love.
Everyone else chimed in too—even MJ tossed out a little joke.
"Appreciate it!" Zhao Dong grinned.
Totally different vibe from last year. Back then, his league status wasn't like this. Now? He's got a Finals MVP, a ring, and averaging 30+ a night with near triple-doubles. He's officially that guy. Even Jordan couldn't block his shine anymore.
He thought to himself—if MJ tried to pull that same "let's team up and freeze him out" move from last year, it probably wouldn't fly. The league respected him too much now.
Last year, Jordan came at him hard. Would he even dare try that now?
And since Jordan actually congratulated him, Zhao Dong let it slide and started getting dressed.
MJ, though? He was in his head. The first drop of Zhao Dong's Silver Demon 1s just launched yesterday—and they were moving. Sales hit hard, even back in MJ's backyard. The Zhao Dong store in Chicago sold 10,000 pairs. Chicago.
Who the hell in Chi-Town betrayed him like that?
And this ain't just about cash. It's status. Zhao Dong was no longer just a baller—he was a brand. A business. And people like that sit in rooms most players never see.
MJ felt that pressure. If he didn't level up, he might not even be able to stand next to Zhao Dong anymore. It was time to have a real talk with Nike.
His plan? He wanted part ownership in Jordan Brand. Not just a face—an owner.
Twenty minutes later, it was game time. Starters lined up from both sides, waiting on intro.
Zhao Dong looked around—Lakers had four All-Stars, two starting. Even the Spurs had two. And the Knicks? Just him.
"Yo Shaq, even if y'all win the chip, with all those All-Stars around you, does it even count? You better tell the front office to trade some of those dudes," he said, grinning.
"Pfft!" Mutombo cracked up.
Shaq was heated, but laughing. "Zhao Dong, you think I'm dumb?"
"Look, when I won the ring, they called it a solo carry. You win with that squad? That's quad-core. Supercomputer level!" Zhao Dong smirked.
"...Quad-core?" Shaq blinked. If that was true, then what did that make him?
"So go trade the ones who ain't pullin' weight. Like that rookie, Kobe," Zhao Dong joked.
"What?!" Kobe jumped up.
"Chill. This ain't your time to talk yet," Zhao Dong shot back.
"Kobe, sit your ass down," Shaq snapped.
He knew exactly how Kobe got that starter spot. He wasn't even supposed to be in these convos. Just 'cause he made the lineup didn't mean he was one of them.
"You gotta be kidding me…" Kobe was pissed. Look at Shaq teaming up with outsiders to clown him. One day, I swear I'll rip out your oxygen tank when you're old, you washed-up—
Zhao Dong laughed so hard he almost pulled something. Kobe was just 19, still growing. Bullying baby Kobe? Too much fun.
West starters came out first, then the East. Since it was Zhao Dong's house, he got the final intro. Jordan led off for the East.
"AMVP! AMVP!"
The whole Garden went wild when Zhao Dong stepped onto the floor.
"Damn kid…" Jordan muttered.
He wasn't feeling the All-Star MVP race. Zhao Dong had home court, and this wasn't his night to dominate. Even if he wanted to challenge him, Coach Nelson probably wouldn't give him the minutes.
David Stern sat courtside, keeping an eye on everything. He knew there was heat between MJ and Zhao Dong. But they were both his poster boys—two international superstars. He couldn't let them beef on live TV.
As long as there wasn't a private scuffle like the one between Zhao Dong and Karl Malone off the court, Stern wasn't gonna step in. But he definitely didn't want another situation like last time when Zhao Dong straight-up rocked Jordan.
He got up, waved both of them over.
"Mr. Stern," Zhao Dong and Jordan greeted him.
"You two are global superstars now. Millions are watchin' every move you make. So do me a favor—be the face of the league. Don't give the world a reason to think the NBA is all about fights and dirt, ya feel me?"
Stern was being slick with it. First jab was about Zhao Dong's violence. Second one? Straight shade about Jordan's dirty defense last time they clashed.
Zhao Dong and Jordan caught the drift. Jordan quickly said, "Sir, you know me. I wouldn't defend like that on purpose. Zhao Dong should be apologizing. He hit me just 'cause."
"I didn't smack you over that play," Zhao Dong clapped back. "I hit you 'cause you threatened my teammate. You really don't get it?"
"I didn't threaten anyone. You hit me for no reason," Jordan fired back.
"You actin' like this the first time you been punched. Even your little bro, Steve Kerr, laid hands on you. Why you pressed now?" Zhao Dong shot.
"You—" Jordan gasped.
"It's on, it's on! Internal beef poppin' off!"
"Yo, get the cameras! Get that behind-the-scenes heat!"
The media and fans went crazy watching these two square up. Cameras zoomed in, snapping nonstop.
"That's enough!"
Stern's face turned cold. They're out here arguing right in front of him. These two were straight chaos.
The mediation flopped. And with everyone locked in on the drama, Stern waved it off and sent them both back to the bench.
The two went back to the East squad, clearly still salty.
Next up, all the All-Stars lined up for the family photo. Zhao Dong and Jordan stood right in the center, taking the C spot like true alphas.
"Apologize now, you violent dude!"
"You still owe me a public apology."
"Never happening."
"Oh, almost forgot. God of Gamblers—you still owe me a million from last season. Pay up."
"That's history, my guy. Go ask a museum curator."
"You broke-ass gambler."
"You psycho thug."
"Next time I beat you up, maybe you should call the cops."
"You dumb? They'd shoot us both. I'll give you some advice—unless you're white, don't call the cops in the U.S."
"Shit, forgot about that!"
They kept trash-talking through the whole photo shoot. The other All-Stars were dying laughing.
The photographer was about to cue "Cheese," but everybody was already cracking up.
Click, click…
Camera flashed a few times. That was it.
Next up, the halftime show.
Tonight's star power was off the charts—Hollywood celebs, NBA legends, the whole squad courtside. The performers were straight fire too.
Twenty minutes later, tip-off time.
Shaq and Mutombo jumped. Shaq won it. Western Conference ball.
As always, the first half? No defense. Just highlight reels and star power.
This was Kobe's All-Star debut. Dude was nervous but hyped. Came out aggressive, asked Payton for the rock. Payton handed it over.
Swish!
That first jumper? Cash.
"Yooo!"
Kobe felt the buzz. His nerves started fading, replaced by that Mamba fire.
"Kobe, cook whoever's in front of you!" Zhao Dong yelled.
The other East All-Stars just sighed. Man really told the rookie to go at Jordan? What is he tryna do, start another fight?
Jordan was heated. Like hell this rookie gonna challenge me.
He gave Zhao Dong a death glare, then turned to Mutombo for the inbound.
"Give me the ball, I'm runnin' point," Jordan demanded.
"I got it," Zhao Dong said, stepping in.
"Internal beef again!"
Cameras whipped back around. Fans lost it.
"Hardaway's the PG," Jordan barked.
"Then why you askin' for the ball?" Zhao Dong shot back.
Jordan paused—couldn't say a thing.
"Chill and play off-ball. I got the keys tonight," Zhao Dong smirked.
"No way," Jordan snapped.
The ref saw the mess, blew the whistle, motioned to keep the game moving.
"Who on the East got more assists than me, huh? Who wanna challenge my playmaking?" Zhao Dong said, scanning the squad.
Nobody said a word—not even Penny Hardaway.
Zhao Dong was averaging 9.6 assists per game, second-best in the league. First was Rod Strickland of the Wizards with 10.5, but he wasn't even here.
"Mutombo, give me the ball or I'll come down there and take your job," Zhao Dong barked.
Mutombo blinked, then handed it over.
He wasn't tryna battle Zhao Dong on the boards tonight. Better to piss off Jordan than let Zhao Dong snatch his shine under the rim.
"Damn punk," Jordan muttered.
The crowd at Madison Square Garden erupted in cheers.
Zhao Dong brought it up, guarded by Garnett.
The West starters had two PFs on the floor, including his old rival Karl Malone who was chilling near the paint.
Zhao Dong pump-faked, then blew by Garnett with ease.
Garnett had speed, no doubt, but it wasn't enough. After getting cooked, he didn't even try to chase—just watched Zhao Dong fly to the rim.
When O'Neal saw Zhao Dong charging in with the rock, he didn't even bother contesting. Big fella just stepped aside like, "This ain't my business."
But Karl Malone? Different story. After half a season of rehab and sessions with a shrink, dude had finally shaken off the trauma Zhao Dong left on him. He was back—mean, mad, and hungry for payback.
As Zhao Dong attacked the rim, Malone locked in, fully focused. The beef between these two? Legendary. On-court, off-court, even in the damn boxing ring. They were the only duo in league history who took their beef from hardwood to gloves. So yeah, every camera lens was zoomed in, and the whole arena had their eyes glued to this clash.
Zhao Dong's eyes were locked in. He cocked the ball back with his right, took flight straight at Karl Malone.
"Yo, he going for the poster!" the commentator shouted.
Malone, ice-cold expression, launched himself to meet him in the air.
He didn't care if he had to foul him hard—there was no way in hell he'd let Zhao Dong throw down on him again. Not in his house.
Under the eyes of millions, Zhao Dong rose up in front of Karl Malone, who went in for the swat. But just as Malone threw his hand, Zhao Dong twisted midair, dodged him clean, and floated toward the rack.
Thanks to the Silver Demon system and a level 100 core strength stat, his hops and hang time were next-level. He did a smooth 360 spin in the air—still hovering like gravity didn't apply to him—with his head just below the rim.
"Drink!" he grunted.
He extended, pulled back like a bow, and BOOM—exploded with one arm, spiking the rock through the rim like a missile.
"What the—?!" Malone couldn't believe he missed. He knew it was over.
BANG!
An explosion echoed above Malone's head.
YEAHHHHH!
Madison Square Garden erupted. 20,000 Knicks fans were straight losing it.
Every celeb courtside—NBA stars, Hollywood bigshots—stood up, clapping and shouting.
" A 360 SLAM… AN ABSOLUTE RIM-ROCKER… THE NEW YORK GOLDEN TYRANT JUST BLEW UP THE GARDEN!" the commentator lost his mind on the mic.
On the sideline, Commissioner David Stern clapped with a satisfied grin.
To him, if MJ was the king of smooth, Zhao Dong was the perfect mix of power and flair. He was something different. A new kind of superstar. That was Stern's take.
"If only he was American," he thought. "That'd be perfect—if you ignore his violent side…"
"Yo, Mailman—your defense weak!" Zhao Dong shouted, flexing, eyes wild with fire as the crowd roared behind him.
Malone gritted his teeth, jogged back upcourt, heart pounding. That old fear—the one he thought he buried—started creeping back in.
West All-Stars with the ball.
After seeing Zhao Dong's poster, O'Neal was hyped. He got down to the paint, backed Mutombo down to the top of the arc, and threw his hand up for the rock.
Payton zipped it to him.
As soon as Shaq caught it, Mutombo got smart and stepped out the way.
BOOM!
The Diesel wrecked the rim with a two-hand monster jam. The whole backboard was rattling like it might snap off.
Fans went wild again.
Eastern squad came back. Zhao Dong brought it up, broke down Garnett, and flew into the paint.
O'Neal? Yeah, he already knew better. Man stepped aside like, "Go head, young blood."
Only Karl Malone was left in the paint.
Zhao Dong wasn't sprinting this time. He approached slow, calculating… then boom! Hit a nasty crossover.
This move wasn't supposed to exist in a 6'9", 250-pound body. That was point guard-level shiftiness.
Malone got caught leaning. Badly.
Zhao Dong saw the opening and took one explosive step.
"Aw hell no…" Malone realized too late. He jumped, trying to stop the inevitable.
But Zhao Dong? Too quick. Too high. Malone's hands barely reached his chest, let alone his shoulders. He tried to shove him outta the air, but it was already done.
BOOM!
One-hand rim detonation.
Zhao Dong crashed into Malone midair and sent him flying.
BANG!
Malone hit the ground and sat down hard, stunned.
YEAHHHHHHH!
MSG exploded again.
"WOAH, WOAH, WOAH OH MY GOD, HE DID IT AGAIN!" the commentator screamed. "A VIOLENT POSTER DUNK OVER KARL MALONE! THE GOLDEN TYRANT JUST SERVED HIM A FULL COURSE OF DISRESPECT!"
"DUNKED ON YOU! LOOKED DOWN ON YOU! AND HE'S SOAKING IN THE LOVE FROM THE CROWD!" he yelled.
Zhao Dong jumped down from the rim, stared down Malone. He smiled, but in his eyes? Nothing but killer instinct.
On the sideline, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar nudged Magic Johnson.
"Magic, that move he made before the dunk? That guard-level crossover—that's what set it all up. Malone didn't stand a chance after that."
"Yeah, I can do that too," Magic joked, grinning.
Jabbar burst out laughing.
The two legends were tight. When Kareem was aging out, Magic came in and carried the Lakers to a ring as a rookie. History.
"Shaq's agile too, real quick for a big man," Magic added. "But he still can't do what Zhao Dong does. Kid plays like a guard trapped in a power forward's body."
"Everyone's got their style," Kareem said, chuckling. "Shaq just needs to bulldoze people. Ain't gotta be flashy."
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