Russell Neveda laughed over the headset.
"Without their star defender, the Man-eating Shark, the Patriots' defense is a step slower in both morale and strength. Their offense hasn't been clicking either. Honestly, it's looking rough. I don't think they'll be able to handle our attack."
Sure enough, on the very first snap, Zhao Dong burst into the formation. He was swarmed by multiple defenders, but not before gaining solid yardage.
"Beautiful!" Neveda shouted. "The Tyrannosaurus lowers the boom, bulldozes the strong-side linebacker, hauls in the ball, and fights his way six yards forward. That's just short of another first down!"
"The Colts don't have a linebacker who can match up with him, and the Patriots don't either," Wells Michael added. "Maybe they try sticking a defensive tackle on him, but those big bodies just don't have the speed to keep up."
---
And that's exactly what New England tried. They swapped out the strong-side linebacker and dropped in a 130-kilogram defensive tackle, hoping brute strength would slow Zhao Dong down.
When the ball came to him again, Zhao Dong collided head-on with the massive lineman. But this time, without enough acceleration off the line, he couldn't knock the big man over—or even move him back.
The play broke down. Quarterback Welin Paul was forced to scramble, looking for another receiver. But before he could get one free, the Patriots' defensive end broke through and sacked him at the 62-yard line.
The Jets' drive slipped backward. From 67 to 62.
---
"Third down and nine," Neveda said with a grim edge. "That's a tall order."
"He should've used his quickness, not brute force," Wells Michael critiqued. "Bypassing the big man instead of trying to truck him. Inexperience showing there."
On the sideline, Head Coach Edward sent in the call. Quarterback Welin Paul leaned close to Zhao Dong and whispered, "Tyrannosaurus, line up wide—strong side. I'm coming to you."
"Got it," Zhao Dong replied, breaking into a sprint toward the right sideline.
---
The defensive tackle who had been assigned to him froze, confused. He glanced back at his middle linebacker for instructions.
"Damn it!" Patriots head coach Bill Belichick barked on the sideline. The staff had no time to adjust—the offense was already set.
"Don't shift! Let the cornerback take him!" the defensive coordinator shouted.
And so the misalignment was set: a 6'9", 255-pound freak against a 5'11" cornerback.
---
"Mismatch alert!" Neveda hollered. "This could be trouble."
"Set—hut!" Welin Paul barked.
The ball snapped. Zhao Dong exploded off the line. The cornerback tried to keep pace, but his strides were too short. Paul retreated into the pocket, eyes locked on the matchup, then launched the pass.
Zhao Dong crossed the 67-yard line, the ball streaking toward him. It came in hot—too fast—but he accelerated, stretching for it.
At the 75-yard line, the ball descended. Zhao Dong leapt, both hands snatching it out of the air.
Bang!
The Patriots' safety crashed into him midair, driving him hard into the turf. But Zhao Dong never let go. Both massive hands clamped around the ball, holding it tight as he hit the grass.
---
"Yeah!" The Meadowlands erupted in a deafening roar.
"Unbelievable!" Neveda's voice cracked with excitement. "Seventy-five yards! A thirteen-yard gain on third down—and a brand new set of downs! The Jets are only seven yards outside the red zone!"
On the Patriots' bench, silence.
---
Belichick rubbed his temples. "How do we defend him?"
The defensive coaches traded helpless glances.
What could they do? Tight end, wideout, even tailback—Zhao Dong shifted positions at will. They never knew where he'd line up until the huddle broke, and by then, it was too late to substitute. Every snap was a mismatch waiting to happen.
"What's he playing next?" Belichick muttered, staring out at the towering figure jogging back to the line.
---
Snap after snap, Zhao Dong moved around the formation—tight end one play, wideout the next—forcing New England to guess wrong again and again.
The Jets didn't punch in a touchdown, but they kept hammering forward. Another first down. Another push into enemy territory.
By the time the whistle blew, the Jets had driven into the red zone. The ball sat on the 89-yard line—just eleven yards shy of pay dirt.
This was a knife pressed against the Patriots' throat, ready to drop at any second.
The Jets lined up for first down.
Last time, Zhao Dong had played running back. Now, during the shift at the line, he slid out wide to the right as a receiver.
The Patriots scrambled to adjust. They weren't allowed to substitute mid-formation, so they slid a strong-side linebacker over and dropped a safety down for extra coverage. All eyes keyed in on Zhao Dong.
"Set—hut!"
The snap came.
---
"Damn it—we got fooled!" Bill Belichick roared from the sideline. He ripped his headset off and spiked it on the turf.
Because the Jets weren't going to Zhao Dong at all.
Instead, the halfback took the handoff behind perfect blocking, burst through the left side, and crossed the goal line untouched.
"Yeah!" The Meadowlands detonated as the touchdown signal went up.
The Jets had sold the feint brilliantly—using Zhao Dong's presence on the right side as bait to pull the Patriots' defense wide. With the box tilted, the left side collapsed, and the run game cashed in.
"Feint east, attack west!" Wells Michael yelled in the booth. "All the attention went to Tyrannosaurus, and the Jets went the other way for six!"
The kick was good. 14–0, Jets.
---
On the Patriots' sideline, the mood plummeted. Belichick was beet red, barking like a drill sergeant, his voice cutting through even the roar of 80,000 fans. But his players looked shaken.
Zhao Dong jogged back to his defensive spot behind Herb "The Lion" Hanks. He studied the Patriots lining up across from him. Their body language sagged. Morale was shot.
Still, Zhao Dong didn't relax. He knew better. A team like New England only needed one spark to flip momentum back in their favor.
---
This time, the Patriots abandoned the I-formation. Brady lined up in shotgun, five yards behind the center, ready to read and fire without retreating.
A pure passing look.
The Jets' headset crackled with instructions: "Pass defense. Watch both flats. Tyrannosaurus, adjust the backers."
Zhao Dong relayed the orders, shifting the defense into position.
"Set—hut!"
The battle began.
---
The 350-pound Lion Hanks tore through the pocket again, splitting two blockers and forcing Brady to move. Zhao Dong shot through the lane behind him, angling for the quarterback.
But the Patriots had protection set. The fullback slid across and cut him off, blocking Zhao Dong's path.
At that moment, Brady spun and faked a handoff, the halfback darting left with the ball cradled low against his side.
"Run?" Zhao Dong thought—then stopped.
He caught Brady's shoulders in his peripheral vision. The quarterback wasn't selling the run at all—he was sliding right, cocking his arm.
"Fake run, real pass!" Zhao Dong shouted to his teammates.
---
In a split-second burst, Zhao Dong juked around the fullback and charged. Brady saw him too late.
"What the—" Brady's eyes widened. He'd fooled him twice earlier, but now the tables had turned.
Bang!
Zhao Dong's 255 pounds crashed into him like a freight train, driving him into the turf.
"Ahh!" Brady's helmet smacked the grass. His head rang. For a dizzy moment, Zhao Dong's snarling facemask doubled in his vision.
---
The stadium went berserk. Fans leapt from their seats, fists pumping in the cold New Jersey air.
"Sack! Tyrannosaurus just sacked the Amazing Tom!" Neveda's voice cracked with excitement. "That's his first quarterback takedown—and it's huge!"
"Loss of six!" Wells Michael added. "Brady dropped at the 14-yard line. Second and sixteen. The Jets' defense has them in a chokehold!"
---
Zhao Dong pushed himself off the turf, towering over Brady. He glared down at the quarterback who had mocked him earlier and barked, "Get ready, kid—you're getting sacked again."
Flat on his back, Brady gritted his teeth and shot back, "I'll be waiting."
The rivalry had just been born.
---
(End of Chapter)
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