The Jets lined up in an I-formation—a classic power run set.
Zhao Dong's job was simple: smash through the defense and open a path for the halfback behind him.
"Set… hut!"
Quarterback Weylin Paul barked the call. Center Chris McGill snapped the ball, and chaos erupted at the line of scrimmage.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bodies collided. The Dolphins' star defensive end, Murphy Wallace, blew past the Jets' left guard, shoving him to the turf. Off balance but still dangerous, Wallace locked eyes on his next target—Zhao Dong.
If Wallace could take Zhao Dong out, the halfback would be exposed, and maybe—just maybe—Wallace could blow up the play himself.
Zhao Dong burst left, straight toward the defender. He knew Wallace's reputation—strong, explosive, and one of the league's top ends.
The man was built like a wrecking ball: about 6'3", 285 pounds. Zhao Dong had the height, but Wallace outweighed him by roughly 30 pounds—a huge margin in the trenches.
Didn't matter. Zhao Dong's game wasn't just about size. His explosiveness had made him unstoppable in the NBA, and he believed it could level the playing field in the NFL.
Wallace was still regaining his footing after pancaking the guard. Zhao Dong didn't hesitate.
BOOM!
The collision was thunderous. Wallace's knees buckled, and Zhao Dong sent him sprawling to the turf. Zhao Dong hit the ground too, but the lane was open.
The halfback charged through, crossing the line of scrimmage before being swarmed by three linebackers. He went down after a six-yard gain.
"Six on first down, four more on second—beautiful work!" commentator Russell Nevida called from the booth.
---
"Damn it, get outta here!" Wallace snarled, humiliated by the hit.
Still, he didn't dare throw a punch—he knew exactly who Zhao Dong was: former heavyweight boxing champion. That was a fight you didn't start unless you had a death wish.
"Heh…" Zhao Dong smirked, shoving himself up using Wallace's chest plate.
"Damn Chinese!" Wallace spat, his voice low and bitter.
Zhao Dong leaned in, helmet to helmet. His voice was ice.
"Listen, white boy—unless you want me feeding you to sharks in the Pacific, shut your mouth."
He gave Wallace's helmet a sharp headbutt before shoving him away.
Wallace's jaw flexed like he was holding back an eruption. But he stayed put—Zhao Dong's connections alone, from Mrs. Lindsay's Wall Street clout to his own reputation, were enough to ruin him without a single punch.
The line judge drifted over, but seeing the two already separated, he let it slide. The other players kept their distance—this was NFL football. A little shoving wasn't worth an ejection.
On the Jets sideline, head coach Edwards and his staff exhaled in relief. They knew Zhao Dong's locker room record—three teammates hospitalized in one incident. The last thing they needed was him starting a brawl on live TV.
---
Forty seconds later, the Jets lined up for second down at their own 26. Still in the I-formation, they faced a run-stopping defensive set from Miami.
But this time, Edwards called for a fake handoff.
At the snap, Zhao Dong and the halfback barreled left, selling the run. The Dolphins' linebackers bit hard, crashing toward the ball carrier. That left the far sideline wide open.
Paul pulled the ball back and fired a quick pass to the right. The wide receiver caught it in stride, cutting upfield for an 11-yard gain before a cornerback dragged him down.
"Beautiful execution!" Nevida shouted. "That's a fresh set of downs for the Jets—offense is cooking."
"The ball's at the 37-yard line," Wells Michael announced. "First and ten, Jets."
---
The drive stayed hot. Two more first downs pushed the Jets to the Dolphins' 35-yard line—just outside the red zone and already within striking distance of a field goal. The crowd at MetLife was deafening, the air buzzing with anticipation.
But the Dolphins dug in. Over the next three plays, the Jets could only manage four yards, stalling at the 31.
It was now fourth-and-six.
---
The Call
Edwards didn't hesitate. "Field goal unit!"
The special teams squad sprinted on. Veteran kicker Hans Clingham jogged into position, the holder kneeling eight yards behind the line of scrimmage.
From here, it was a 48-yard attempt—well within Clingham's range.
The Jets had driven the ball to the Dolphins' 31-yard line. From here, it was a 49-yard field goal attempt—about 45 meters. Not impossible, but far from easy.
Hans Clingham, the Jets' veteran kicker, stepped back, took a deep breath, and eyed the uprights.
Bang!
The kick was up—high, straight, and long.
"Yeah!"
The crowd exploded as the ball sailed cleanly between the uprights.
"Beautiful! Hans Clingham nails a 49-yarder for the Jets!" Russell Nevida's voice thundered through the stadium speakers.
"Three-nothing, New York on top," Wells Michael added on the broadcast. "Clingham doesn't waste the offense's hard work. That was a big-time kick. Shame it wasn't just one yard farther—it would've been a perfect 50."
The Jets had the early lead, but the ball now went to the Dolphins, starting from their own 20-yard line.
Miami head coach Locke Osman switched to a pass-heavy attack. Zhao Dong's two earlier sacks had blown up their running game, and the Dolphins weren't eager to test him again in the trenches.
Besides, with star wide receiver Brent Lint in the lineup, the Dolphins' real firepower was through the air.
Zhao Dong was back on the field at strong-side linebacker. But this time, Miami went over the top.
On first down, quarterback Mince Reuben hit Lint with a strike over the middle. Lint hauled it in at the 35 and rumbled another six yards before the safety dragged him down—a 21-yard gain and a fresh set of downs.
The next few plays were textbook precision passing. Reuben and Lint connected again and again, chewing up yardage.
Then, from the Jets' 43-yard line, Reuben dropped back and launched a deep rainbow toward the end zone. Lint got a step on his man, reeled it in, and crossed the goal line untouched.
Touchdown, Dolphins.
6–3, with the extra point still to come.
---
On TNT's live broadcast, Seth Nobby broke it down.
"Offensively, the Dolphins are still the stronger team. Lint's making plays, but Reuben? He's been near-perfect so far. Those two together are a nightmare to cover."
Philolas nodded. "True, but don't sleep on Zhao Dong. Whether he's lining up at linebacker or fullback, he's playing at a star level tonight."
"I'll give you that," Nobby replied. "But for this game? I'm leaning Dolphins."
Russ, curious, asked, "Why?"
"The Jets' offense is their problem," Nobby explained. "No star QB, no star wideout, and an average backfield. Passing or running—it's all middle of the pack. Center Thor McGill's a borderline star, great in protection, but protection doesn't score points. This team desperately needs a go-to receiver or quarterback—preferably both."
Russ countered, "Fair, but Zhao Dong's already got two sacks tonight. That helps make up for losing 'Three-Eyes' Venis from last season. Venis had 12 sacks alone last year—I thought the defense would collapse without him, but they've held up."
Fast-forward to the final minute of the fourth quarter. The Dolphins had just punched in their third touchdown of the game, stretching their lead to 35–29. Only 45 seconds remained.
The Jets needed a touchdown to win—no field goal could save them now.
On the sideline, head coach Edwards burned his final timeout, drawing up the last-ditch play.
The drive started at their own 20-yard line. First down, they ran the ball—three yards. Second down, another run—five yards.
Now it was third down, 28 yards from their own goal line, and just 11 seconds left on the clock.
MetLife Stadium had gone quiet. Over 80,000 fans sat in tense silence, bracing for the inevitable.
Then the formation caught everyone off guard.
"Shotgun?!" Nevida's voice rose. "The Jets are actually going to air it out!"
It was a pure passing set. Quarterback Weylin Paul lined up five yards behind the line—no running backs in the backfield. Five eligible receivers spread wide across the formation.
Zhao Dong stood one yard behind the line to the left, staring down the Dolphins linebacker across from him.
"Set… hut!"
The snap came clean from Thor McGill.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The line exploded into chaos. Helmets clashed, pads cracked, and bodies hit the turf.
From the snap, the Jets' tight end, two wideouts, and both backs sprinted into routes—five targets ready to catch the ball.
The Jets lined up in shotgun—five wide, no backs in the backfield.
One play. One shot.
Bang!
The snap came clean from center Thor McGill. On the left side, Zhao Dong exploded off the line, delivering a bone-rattling hit that sent the Dolphins cornerback sprawling. He broke across the line of scrimmage untouched—five yards of daylight ahead.
He glanced back—quarterback Weylin Paul saw him and didn't hesitate.
Whssht!
Paul fired a bullet. The ball sliced through the air like a missile.
Zhao Dong extended his right hand—snatch!—and plucked it out of the air one-handed. Fingers clamped tight, he tucked it in and powered forward.
---
Russell Nevida (play-by-play):
"Beautiful! Zhao Dong with the one-handed grab! Cornerback closing in—oh, he shakes him! Cuts to the middle—watch out!"
The roar from over 80,000 fans hit like a wave—loud, primal, shaking the stadium.
From the booth, Russell's voice jumped an octave.
"Here comes Dolphins' star safety, Murphy Wallace—"
Zhao Dong caught him in the corner of his eye, braking hard. Wallace flew past like a missile gone wrong, hit the turf two yards ahead, and skidded helplessly.
Russell: "Whoo! That was nasty! What a cut!"
---
Zhao Dong accelerated again, legs churning. Two linebackers closed in from the middle. The crowd's chant rolled like thunder:
Crowd: "Go! Go! Go!"
He veered left at the last second, slicing between them with barely a foot to spare, and burst into open space. Only two safeties remained between him and the end zone.
---
Russell:
"Zhao Dong at the 50—wide open field ahead! Sixty yards—sixty-five—the safeties are coming!"
One safety lined up in front of him, bracing for the hit.
Zhao Dong didn't even think about dodging. He dropped his shoulders, pumping his legs harder, speed climbing past his limit. The wild collision talent in him kicked in—pure adrenaline and raw force.
Russell: "Oh, he's going straight through him!"
---
BOOM!
The sound of the collision echoed across the field. The Dolphins safety flew backward, helmet snapping, body hitting the ground hard. Zhao Dong's momentum staggered for a split second—but he powered forward again.
Behind him, three Miami defenders crashed into each other trying to bring him down, bodies piling up in frustration.
---
He crossed the goal line untouched.
SLAM!
Zhao Dong spiked the football into the turf with both hands. The stadium erupted—80,000 voices roaring like a storm. Popcorn flew into the air, fists pumped, strangers hugged.
Russell (screaming):
"Zhao Dong! He's a real T-Rex out there! He crushed the Dolphins defense—ran through the whole roster! That's a seventy-two-yard touchdown!"
Wells Michael:
"His first NFL touchdown—and what a way to start a career. One play. One legend."
---
Jets players swarmed him, leaping on his back, pulling him down in celebration. The energy was chaos—pure joy on one sideline, pure disbelief on the other.
---
For the Dolphins, it was disaster. Not only was the game tied, but one of their starting safeties lay motionless on the turf. Blood trickled beneath his face mask.
"Wittson's down! He's not moving!" a teammate yelled, waving frantically for the medical staff.
Panic rippled through the Miami sideline.
"Call the trainers now!"
"Get the coaches over here!"
Even the Jets' victory shouts dimmed for a moment as the reality set in—this wasn't just a touchdown. This was a collision that might end a career.
(End of chapter)
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