Head coach Adam Lomas wasn't your typical play-it-safe type. Instead of calling a conservative short-yardage set, he shocked everyone by dialing up a radical long-pass play.
It made sense—this Colts roster was built for it. They had a superstar quarterback in Peyton Manning, a premier deep threat in wideout Harris Norman, and an offensive line that could buy time for bombs downfield. Manning, in his prime, could drop a 50-yard strike into a receiver's hands like he was playing catch in the backyard.
On the other side, Jets head coach Herm Edwards had his defense set. Zhao Dong lined up at strong-side linebacker—his spot all night—locked in and ready.
"Attack!" Manning's sharp bark echoed through the stadium. The ball was snapped, and the line of scrimmage erupted into a violent collision.
Colts offensive tackle Randolph Hanauer, one of the team's three Pro Bowl linemen, made his presence known early—burying a Jets defensive tackle with a brutal head-on hit before peeling off toward Zhao Dong.
Zhao Dong, meanwhile, had already shed the tight end trying to chip him and was staggering forward toward Manning. But then—contact from the right.
He reacted instantly. Instead of fighting to regain his balance, Zhao Dong dropped low, rolled forward under the blocker's reach, and popped back up—still charging.
"Damn it!" Hanauer swore as he lunged but missed, colliding instead with the tight end Zhao Dong had just steamrolled. The two teammates tangled, the tight end grunting in pain as the air rushed out of him.
Downfield, Harris Norman still hadn't broken free—it was a deep shot, and he needed time. Manning kept scanning, edging in the pocket. The Colts linemen knew what was at stake—Zhao Dong had already burned them in the first quarter with a red-zone interception that flipped the game. Another one here could be fatal.
But then, Manning saw it—Norman finally shook his coverage. Two cornerbacks and a safety had closed on him, but he slipped into open space. This was it.
Zhao Dong saw Manning's shoulders square to throw. Not good. He planted hard, exploding forward.
"Snap!"
Manning's release was quick, but not quick enough—Zhao Dong's right hand shot up, swatting the ball mid-flight. The football spun awkwardly, wobbling into the air.
"Ohhh!" The crowd roared.
"Loose ball! Get it!" commentator Mike Ziegler shouted over the din.
Too late—Zhao Dong launched himself upward, snagging the ball in traffic. He didn't care about the risk—ankle, knee, whatever—this was his.
"Damn it!" groaned color man Frank Cherno as the stadium shook.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Three Colts pounded Zhao Dong to the turf before he even hit the ground.
The crowd let out a collective gasp.
"Interception! Another interception!" Cherno barked. "How many does this guy have today? Should've left him in the NBA to block shots—at least then Peyton would have a chance!"
Ziegler, shaking his head, added, "I've lost count. Five? Six total? Against Peyton alone, it's three or four. That's enough to put him at the top of the league's interception charts tonight. Unreal. We've underestimated just how dangerous Zhao Dong is in coverage."
Cherno groaned, "And in the red zone? Brutal. They were 13 yards from the end zone. This could end the Colts' season."
Zhao Dong lay on the turf, ball locked in his grip like it was glued there. When the officials unpiled the scrum, the call was clear—Jets football. First and ten, 13 yards from pay dirt.
The Jets sideline erupted. Coaches were screaming for the offense to get helmets on and line up.
With ten seconds on the play clock, Edwards barked, "Shotgun! All linemen, heavy set! Zhao Dong—you're at tight end. Hit hard off the line but watch for help coverage. Welin Paul—protect that football and make the throw count."
It was a classic bait—send the backs wide to pull the defense, open the seam for Zhao Dong to bulldoze through.
The tension was electric. Both sides jawed as they lined up, shoves and trash talk flying. Zhao Dong took his spot on the right side of the line, eyes locked on the defense.
Zhao Dong lined up on the right side of the formation. That was by design—when your quarterback's right-handed, the tight end usually sets up on that side. Flip it for a lefty, and you'd find him on the other.
Both offensive and defensive fronts crouched low, eyes locked. Helmets tilted forward, breathing heavy. The whole line sounded like a pack of caged animals—snorting, pawing the turf, ready to explode.
"Attack!"
Welin Paul's sharp command cut through the roar, like a bugle calling the charge.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The line erupted into chaos. Jets running backs shot off the snap, angling toward the end zone just 13 yards away, trying to pull coverage away from Zhao Dong. If one of them found daylight, Paul would gladly hit them for six.
Zhao Dong hammered through the strong-side linebacker with a crack of pads, about to burst past the line when a blur came from his left. He instinctively pulled up—a massive Colts lineman thundered past.
Close one, he thought, planting hard and bursting forward again. One step, two steps—he cleared the offensive line and turned his head.
The pocket was collapsing. The Colts' middle linebacker had busted through all five linemen and was charging at Paul. Backpedaling, the QB fired a quick short pass toward Zhao Dong.
And Zhao Dong… caught it with one hand.
The stadium gasped. The Jets' sideline froze. Twenty coaches and every player stood there with wide eyes.
Herm Edwards muttered under his breath, If he drops that, I don't care who he is, I'm tearing into him.
But Zhao Dong's massive left hand clamped on the ball like a vise. No bobble. No hesitation. He turned upfield and accelerated.
Several Colts defenders peeled off their assignments. No reason to cover anyone else now—NFL rules allowed only one forward pass per play, and Paul had already thrown it. The rest of the Jets' skill players ahead of Zhao Dong were out of the picture—no blocking allowed.
At the 8-yard line, a cornerback met him head-on. Bang! Zhao Dong trucked him, staggering forward.
Seven yards… six…
Another defender, a safety, tried to square up. Bang! He went down, too.
The Colts' first and second lines had been smashed aside by sheer size and explosion, but Zhao Dong's gas tank was running on fumes. His stride slowed. He couldn't reload for another burst.
"Go, Tyrannosaurus!" the Jets' sideline screamed, voices cracking.
Five yards… four…
Two more defenders—a safety and a corner—dove in for a double tackle. With no momentum left, Zhao Dong couldn't bulldoze them. The sideline groaned. It's over.
But then—he stepped back. Just one step.
The two tacklers slammed into each other instead of him, collapsing at his feet. The stadium erupted.
"Go!"
The Jets' bench was losing its mind.
But trouble came from behind—two massive defensive linemen, 350 pounds each, bearing down. Zhao Dong felt it without looking. In one motion, he flicked the ball sideways.
Bang!
They crushed him to the turf. His back screamed in pain. Damn it… I'm hurt. It was the first time he'd been injured since stepping into both the NFL and NBA.
"Parallel pass?!" Cherno's voice from the commentary booth cracked with shock. "You've gotta be kidding me!"
From his elevated position, Zhao Dong had spotted the opening before the hit came. Wide receiver Tom Hanks—left uncovered—had the awareness to loop back to Zhao Dong's yard line, making himself eligible and avoiding an offside penalty. A parallel pass meant no restrictions.
The ball sailed perfectly.
For Hanks, the moment felt familiar—he'd been here before. First quarter, he'd dropped a pass before Zhao Dong saved the play with an interception and delivered it right back for a touchdown.
Now, the ball was in his hands again. And this time, it was all on him.
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