The instant Zhao Dong burst out of the end zone, the first defender closed in fast. He dipped his shoulder, sidestepped the hit, and slid past cleanly—first tackle avoided.
Then he accelerated.
And then accelerated again.
The football was locked in his right arm, his forearm tight across the nose of the ball, knuckles white through the gloves. Every stride was explosive, every breath measured.
A full head taller than most on the field, he scanned the chaos ahead. Blocking lanes. Closing gaps. Pursuit angles. He needed one clean seam—one impact route—to rip through the coverage and break free.
---
"It's you," he muttered under his breath.
Three steps later, he locked in on a Lions player charging straight at him. Smaller build—maybe a running back or linebacker playing special teams. Bigger than a corner, smaller than a lineman.
Behind him, a gap. If Zhao Dong could smash through here, that was at least another twenty yards.
---
Kick returns were the most electric plays in football. But they were also the most dangerous.
Both sides at full speed meant one thing: when the hit came, it was going to be violent. Shoulder pads cracking like gunshots. Helmets ringing like church bells. Careers—and sometimes lives—could change on a single collision.
Years later, the NFL would rewrite the rulebook to make kick returns safer. But today? Today was all risk, all glory.
---
Ten steps out of the end zone, just shy of the ten-yard line, Zhao Dong's target launched himself forward, bracing for impact.
Zhao Dong shifted the ball against his chest, arms tight, breath held. His body tensed like a coiled spring. Through the cage of his facemask, he locked eyes with the defender.
Steel met steel.
Cold. Unblinking. No hesitation.
---
"Here comes the hit!"
Russell Neveda's voice cracked over the regional broadcast.
---
BANG!
The collision was a cannon shot. The Lions player recoiled like he'd run into a brick wall and bounced backward.
The crowd of 80,000 gasped in unison, the sound swelling like rolling thunder.
And then—
"YEAH!"
Cheers exploded, shaking the steel of Giants Stadium. Sound waves crashed over the stands like a storm surge.
---
"He's still up! Zhao Dong's still on his feet—he's accelerating again!"
Neveda's call boomed across the PA.
Zhao Dong staggered for half a step, then found his balance, surging forward. He didn't stick to the drawn-up return route—he cut hard into the gap the hit had opened. Two layers of Lions coverage evaporated behind him.
Now it was a foot race.
---
Across the forty.
Across the forty-five.
Still accelerating.
"Zhao Dong's shifting gears—he's flying! He's got touchdown distance!"
Wells Michael's voice was hoarse from shouting.
"One hundred yards if he makes it! This place will go insane!"
Neveda's excitement was electric.
---
Up in the stands, Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley were on their feet, fists pumping.
"Go, Zhao Dong!"
"Take it to the house!"
"Charge! Charge! Charge!"
The chants rippled through the crowd. Eighty thousand voices feeding the adrenaline of the man with the ball. Every step forward felt like the stadium itself was tilting toward the Lions' end zone.
At the forty-eight, Zhao Dong juked left—two defenders flew past, grasping at air. Another cut, sharper this time, and he was through the next line.
Only four Lions remained.
Two cornerbacks. Two safeties.
All speed, all agility—exactly the kind of guys built to stop him.
They split into two staggered lines, closing in from both sides.
"Fifty-five yards… sixty yards…"
Neveda was practically screaming.
"Hit 'em, Zhao! Blow through!"
Wells Michael was waving both arms like a windmill.
The first corner came from the right—fastest of the group. He'd reach Zhao Dong first. That made him the target.
Zhao Dong didn't wait to get hit. He planted, cut right, and charged straight at him.
He knew why. If he took the corner head-on here, he'd avoid being sandwiched by the left-side defender. Beat this man, and the next two would be isolated. Miss him, and it would be a three-man wall.
Two steps later—impact.
BANG!
The cornerback—barely a hundred kilos—was launched backward, feet leaving the turf. He tumbled through the air like a rag doll, crashing down five yards away. His helmet tilted, eyes rolling back into darkness before he hit the ground.
Zhao Dong burst past without breaking stride, angling toward the right-side safety. The defender flinched, his steps faltering as he scrambled to adjust his pursuit.
"Seventy yards!"
Neveda's voice was a roar.
"GO!"
The hit had blown the roof off the stadium. Fans were screaming so loud popcorn rained down from the upper decks, arms waving in chaos and celebration.
On the field, only three defenders were between Zhao Dong and the end zone—and they were running out of angles fast.
The rest of the players were chasing from behind, the sound of cleats hammering turf echoing through the crisp autumn air.
Zhao Dong lowered his shoulder, drew in a deep breath, and locked on to his next target.
And then—he hit the gas again.
At that moment, Zhao Dong had only one thought—
Knock that man down. Break through. Cross into the end zone.
His eyes burned red. Adrenaline roared through his veins like fire, mixing with the pounding of his heart. This rush—this chaos—was something no basketball court could ever give him.
---
BANG!
The third collision hit like a car crash. The safety—same size as the cornerback before him—never had a chance to wrap up. Zhao Dong's shoulder plowed through him, and the defender was tossed aside like a rag doll, arms flailing as he hit the turf.
---
"GO! GO! GO!"
Eighty thousand fans were on their feet, losing their minds.
"Go, go!"
The commentators were shouting over each other.
"Take it! TAKE IT!"
Even NBA legends like Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley were screaming from the stands.
---
The hit slowed him down, but Zhao Dong didn't gasp for air. He locked his jaw, summoned the last reserves of his strength, and hit the gas again.
From his left, the last safety darted in, eyes locked on the ball.
From behind, several Lions players sprinted with everything they had left.
And then—like a runner breaking free of quicksand—Zhao Dong surged forward with a fresh burst of speed.
The safety lunged… and missed.
The trailing defenders dove… and missed.
Zhao Dong was gone.
He tore down the final stretch like a freed beast, leaping from two yards out. The ball was clenched in his right hand as he came crashing down across the paint.
BOOM!
The football slammed into the turf. Giants Stadium detonated.
The sound was deafening—tens of thousands of voices screaming, fists pumping, adrenaline burning. Fans jumped and waved their arms wildly, popcorn flying into the air like confetti.
Across the country, in living rooms and sports bars, people were on their feet.
"TOUCHDOWN! Kick return touchdown! Zhao Dong—in his very first NFL game—on his very first touch—takes it back ONE HUNDRED YARDS! SIX POINTS! This rookie just wrote himself into league history!"
Russell Neveda's voice cracked from shouting.
"That's a man against an entire team!"
Wells Michael's call was almost a growl.
"Three collisions, three defenders left in the dirt. He owned that field!"
Even TNT's Seth Norby and Philo Ras were standing in their booth, yelling into their mics.
---
Down in the end zone, the Jets' special teams swarmed him, burying Zhao Dong under a pile of bodies. He couldn't move—but he didn't care. His face was flushed, veins bulging, and from the bottom of the pile he roared at the top of his lungs, letting the adrenaline rip through him.
---
While the Jets celebrated, the Lions weren't cheering.
On the far side, trainers sprinted toward the three defenders Zhao Dong had trucked. The referee signaled to stop the clock.
The first player was conscious but coughing violently, his vision glassy—clear signs of a serious concussion and chest trauma.
The second and third? Blood from the nose and mouth. Both unconscious. Internal bleeding likely. The hits had been devastating.
When the pile finally broke, Zhao Dong stood and looked around. The roar of the stadium still shook the air.
Ten of his teammates grabbed him, pulling him toward the Jets' sideline, waving to the stands together.
Thirty seconds. That's all it had taken for Zhao Dong's NFL debut to become a highlight that would be replayed for years.
---
General Manager Philip and Head Coach Edwards weren't letting him back in. Not after that kind of physical war. Three collisions that put opponents in the hospital—there was no way they'd risk their rookie getting hurt.
Philip even insisted on taking him straight to the hospital for a precautionary scan.
But Zhao Dong knew his own body. Those hits hadn't left a mark. Still, he agreed to stay on the bench—for now.
---
On the Lions sideline, it was rage, not celebration.
Three players had been rushed off in ambulances. Fifty more stood seething.
"Horry's got at least two broken ribs," growled captain Hard McCas, fists clenched. "Ron and Leo… might not even make it. That Chinese bastard did this. We're getting it back. You hear me? We're getting it back!"
"GET IT BACK!"
The entire bench roared, helmets slamming down onto heads.
Even starters who hadn't planned to play strapped in. The Lions sideline boiled like a volcano ready to erupt.
---
The game resumed. The Jets lined up for the extra point—the reward for the touchdown.
An extra point in the NFL could be taken two ways:
Kick from the 15-yard line for 1 point.
Go for a 2-point conversion from the 2-yard line.
Most teams played it safe. The Jets did the same.
---
Their special teams jogged out again—minus Zhao Dong.
The Lions had loaded their defense with starters, led by Hard McCas, ready to smash him. But when they looked across the line… No. 1 wasn't there.
"Where is he?!"
Hard McCas's voice was pure fury.
Seeing their target wasn't on the field, the Lions' captain turned and charged toward the Jets' bench.
"With me!"
The order was enough. A wave of Lions players followed.
The Jets' special team unit caught sight of them and immediately sprinted back to the sideline.
Referees blew their whistles frantically, cutting across the field to block the confrontation before it could boil over.
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