September 14th – Game Day
Kickoff: 2:00 p.m.
The Colts' stadium, though old, could still pack in 65,000 fans. A new one was already in the works, but for now, this venerable structure would have to do. It wasn't as massive as Giants Stadium, but it was still an intimidating arena—especially when the roar of the crowd hit like a hundred bombers circling overhead. The noise rattled the brain, sent adrenaline spiking.
Indiana in September was no joke. The temperature hovered at 33°C under a punishing midday sun.
The visiting Jets won the coin toss. Weylin Paul called it wrong, and the Colts chose to receive. The Jets picked the west side—away from the glare of the sun, perfect for the quarterback's vision. But it came with a drawback: receivers tracking high throws might get blinded when the ball cut across the light.
Special teams took the field for the opening kickoff. The Jets' kicker drove it deep—straight out of the end zone. No return. The Colts would start at their own 20-yard line.
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The Colts came out in shotgun—five wide, all spread across the line. No running back in the backfield. Peyton Manning stood five yards deep, scanning the Jets' defense with that famous field vision. At 6'5" (196 cm), he could see over the line with ease.
But across from him stood someone taller. Zhao Dong—set just one yard behind the line—locked eyes with Manning. The air between them practically sparked.
Tonight, Manning was his target.
On the line, nine men from each side crouched low, ready to collide. The Colts' center gripped the ball.
"Set—hut!"
The snap hit Manning's hands, and the battle exploded. Helmets clashed, pads cracked, bodies slammed.
Zhao Dong burst forward but met resistance—the Colts' tight end squared up on him. The collision was brutal, but Zhao Dong's raw explosive power won. The tight end went down hard.
Manning still had the ball. Zhao Dong accelerated, his first step blurring forward—pure NBA quickness adapted for the gridiron. Two more strides and he was within arm's reach.
But just as his hand reached for the quarterback, Manning sidestepped with uncanny calm.
He'd seen his chance—right wideout Harris Norman had burned his man. Manning's throw snapped out like a rifle shot, fifteen yards downfield.
"Damn it!" Zhao Dong shot past him, too late to stop the release.
The ball hit Norman in stride before the cornerback brought him down.
Cherno (commentator): "First down in sight—eight yards on the first play, two on the second! Colts starting strong!"
Ziegler (color analyst): "And what a dodge by Peyton! He made the Tyrannosaurus look like a rookie out there!"
Both burst into laughter, and the crowd roared along.
Zhao Dong twisted back toward the huddle, brushing past Manning. Their helmets nearly touched—Manning's eyes steady and confident, Zhao Dong's cold enough to freeze steel.
The Colts had moved to their own 28, just two yards shy of another first down. As Zhao Dong reset, he caught a glare from across the line—Randolph Hanauer, the Colts' star offensive tackle. Pure malice in his eyes.
"Set—hut!"
The tight end met Zhao Dong again. Same result. Zhao Dong powered straight through him, untouched. Manning was just three steps away—easy prey.
Then—boom!
A massive hit blindsided him from the right. Zhao Dong went down hard under a mountain of muscle.
Hanauer (trash-talking through his facemask): "How's that taste, big guy?"
Zhao Dong growled, shoving Hanauer off and climbing to his feet in one motion. The tackle backed away, smirking but not pushing his luck. He knew—if you were going to mess with Zhao Dong, it had better be between the whistles.
The sudden retirement of the Jets' three-eyed monster, Venis, definitely had a story behind it—one that wasn't simple.
Yet, no media outlet reported it. No one even tried to dig deeper. That could only mean one thing: whatever happened had been buried under the weight of serious influence. The New York Jets didn't have that kind of pull. This was the work of bigger forces—forces Hanauer knew he couldn't challenge.
On the field, the Colts had just wrapped up their second-down play. Peyton Manning dropped back, rifled a short pass, and found star wideout Harris Norman. Norman secured it, took two quick strides, and was dragged down.
It was enough for 5 yards, and with their first two plays totaling 13 yards, the Colts moved the chains. The Jets' defense had failed to get the stop.
Forty seconds later, the Colts lined up again. First down at the Jets' 33.
Behind the defensive front, Zhao Dong quickly replayed the last two snaps in his head.
First mistake—he underestimated Manning's pocket movement. In the NFL, no sport demanded better footwork or evasion from a quarterback. If he wanted a sack, he'd have to anticipate that.
Second mistake—his pass-rush lane had been too tight to the offensive line. He needed to widen his route, avoid the tackle's initial punch, and stay clean. Of course, that meant giving Manning more space—far from ideal.
The real fix? The Jets' defensive end holding strong against the offensive tackle so Zhao Dong wouldn't get chipped. But that was easier said than done.
"Set—hut!"
Manning's voice cracked like a whip, and the snap was off.
Zhao Dong exploded out of his stance, right foot driving forward. But the Colts' tight end suddenly motioned across the line, crossing right in front of him.
"Not good," Zhao Dong realized instantly.
The trap sprung. Manning lofted the ball just over Zhao Dong's head, targeting the tight end who had slipped behind him.
But Zhao Dong wasn't done. Timing it perfectly, he leapt—arms extended like a pair of steel beams—and snatched the football out of the air with one massive hand.
Pop!
The crowd erupted. Sixty thousand fans gasped in unison, the sound crashing like thunder through the stadium.
"Whoa!" one commentator barked. "A high-altitude interception?!"
"Watch the return!" the other shouted.
Manning's face fell. A pick at the line of scrimmage was lethal, and with no running backs in the shotgun formation, he was the last line of defense.
The tight end spun around in panic, but Zhao Dong was already churning upfield, his first step a blur. Colts linemen gave chase, but they looked like freight trains trying to catch a sports car.
Only Manning remained. Zhao Dong knew the quarterback wouldn't take him head-on. The best he could hope for was an angle tackle.
Not today.
Zhao Dong closed the gap, then shifted his path straight at Manning.
"Damn it!" Manning cursed, sidestepping just in time. But as he reached out, all he caught was a handful of jersey. The force of Zhao Dong's momentum ripped him free without breaking stride.
The grab was illegal—tackling from behind by the jersey—but the refs let it play, since the offense benefitted either way.
The end zone was wide open.
Two yards out, Zhao Dong launched himself like a missile, cradling the ball and slamming it into the turf as he landed. His teammates swarmed, piling on in a roaring celebration that turned into a full-on human pyramid in the Colts' house.
Pushing his helmet back, Zhao Dong let out a guttural roar at the stunned home crowd. That's for every voice that mocked me.
The Jets' sideline exploded with energy. On the Colts' side, the stadium was dead silent.
"That's a nightmare," one commentator groaned. "An interception at the line? There's no time to recover from that."
Touchdown. Six points. The special teams trotted out for the extra point.
Jogging back to the sideline, Zhao Dong got mobbed by his teammates.
"Tyrannosaurus," Thor laughed, thumping him in the chest, "you should be a receiver. No one could stop you."
Head coach Edwards was already thinking the same thing. Speed-wise, Zhao Dong outran every wideout and halfback on the roster. Add his size and power, and it was like putting a freight train on the outside. The Jets' offense could use that kind of weapon.
Kicker Hans Clingham drilled the extra point, putting the Jets up 7–0.
It was early, but the tone had been set.
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