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Table of Contents
Photo Insert
Copyright Page
This book is dedicated to Philip Harrison and Lucille O’Neal, creators of my game and my character.
Shaq
To my late sister Karen, who loved life almost as much as Shaquille.
Jackie
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Taahirah, Amirah, Me’arah, Shaqir, Shareef, and Myles, you are the reason I get up every morning and start my day with a smile. Grandmother Odessa, Grandmother Irma, and Grandpa Harrison, may you read this in heaven as you continue to watch over me. To the entire O’Neal and Harrison family. To Dale Brown, Mike Parris, Jerome Crawford, Perry Rogers, Colin Smeeton, Cynthia Atterberry, Joe Cavallero, Danny Garcia, Anthony Hall, Mark Stevens, Amy Martin, Derek Mallet, Will Harden, Tommy Johnson Jr., Evelyn “Poonie” Huval, Dane Huval, Caprice Huval, Ken Bailey, Alex Conant, Dewayne Davis, Michael Mallet, and Nicole Alexander, thanks for looking out for me. To Chief Ronald J. Boyd of the Los Angeles Port Police, to Chief Don DeLucca and Chief Carlos Noriega of the Miami Beach Police, and Chief Tom Ryff of the Tempe, Arizona, Police, thanks for training me and trusting me to be part of your law enforcement units. Thanks, also, to Jackie MacMullan for doing a great job in helping me tell my story, and to Rick Wolff of Grand Central Publishing for turning out a cool book.
Shaq
Thanks to Rick Wolff of Grand Central Publishing for his superb guidance, and thanks to the Grand Central team, most notably Linda Duggins, Meredith Haggerty, David Palmer, Bob Castillo, Flamur Tonuzi, and their great sales team. Thanks to Jay Mandel for making this book happen. Many thanks to Joe Cavallero, Danny Garcia, Michael Parris, Jerome Crawford, Cynthia Atterberry, Colin Smeeton, Perry Rogers, Nicole Alexander, and Alex Conant for letting me in. Lucille O’Neal was gracious, helpful, and passionate in discussing her oldest son. Thanks to the more than one hundred coaches, teammates, general managers, and team officials who provided valuable insight, especially Dale Brown, Phil Jackson, Brian Shaw, Gary Payton, Danny Ainge, Doc Rivers, Kevin Garnett, Jerry West, Stanley Roberts, Wayne Sims, Dennis Tracey, Herb More, Alonzo Mourning, Dennis Scott, Mike D’Antoni, James Posey, Pat Williams, and Zydrunas Ilgauskas. Thanks to Ian Thomsen, who is both an amazing sounding board and a wonderful friend. Thanks to the Ya Ya’s—Janice McKeown, Jane Cavanaugh Smith, Elizabeth Derwin, Elaine Keefe, Val Russell, Arlene St. Onge, Gretch Hoffman, and Patty Filbin—who never cease to amaze me with their kindness and generosity. Thanks also to Eileen Barrett, Monet Ewing, Liz Douglas, and Stephanie Baird for their support and encouragement. Many thanks to all the Boyles, far and near. I’m blessed with two great parents, Fred and Margarethe MacMullan, and my sister Sue Titone and her wonderful family—Vinny, Julia, and Christopher. Cheers to the Good Things basketball crew; may we always have each other’s back. Much love to my husband, Michael, and children, Alyson and Douglas, who were so sweet and understanding whenever this book pulled Mom away. Finally, thanks to Shaquille O’Neal, the most generous athlete I’ve ever met and the most fascinating superstar of his time.
Jackie
AUTHOR’S NOTE
When I was a little kid, I used to dribble my basketball around the Boys and Girls Club in Newark, New Jersey, dreaming about being Dr. J or Magic Johnson.
Then I went home and dreamed about being a famous DJ, spinning records and hanging out with the most successful rappers in the business.
At night, when I was watching television with my friends, I’d fantasize about being a movie star or a famous actor, the one who always landed the most beautiful girl to set up the perfect fairy-tale ending.
How many people can say almost all of their dreams came true? I’m pretty sure I’m one of the lucky few. I got to be an NBA superstar, a rapper with platinum and gold records, an actor who starred in movies, got to be on Saturday Night Live, and had my own reality show.
When most NBA players retire, the best part of their lives is over. I feel like mine is just beginning. Although I love the game of basketball, I’ve never wanted that to be the only thing that defines me.
I’ve always had dreams. Big dreams. Yet there were days I thought they would never come true. Days when I was teased because of my height, because I stuttered, because I was clumsy. Days when I hung out with the wrong crowd and made the wrong decisions. When I got cut as a freshman from my high school team, I lay in my room, devastated, wondering if I’d ever get another chance to prove myself.
My life hasn’t been nearly as smooth as you might think. You see a seven-foot-one giant with an easy smile and figure, “He’s got it made.”
Well, sometimes I did. Sometimes I didn’t. I had my own doubts, my own fears, my own disappointments. At times, the expectations of others nearly suffocated me. At times, the weight of my own expectations threatened to crush me.
For more than twenty-five years, people have been scrutinizing me. They have painted their own picture of who I am and what I stand for. Some of it has been positive, and some of it has been hurtful.
It’s time for you to hear from me what makes Shaquille O’Neal tick. I’m ready to let you inside so you can understand where my journey has taken me and how it has shaped me as a man, not just as a basketball player.
Hopefully some of it will make you laugh. Some of it might even make you cry.
People always say I’m bigger than life.
Let me tell my own story this time, so you can decide for yourself.
Shaquille O’Neal
Summer 2011
JUNE 4, 2000
Los Angeles, California
Game 7, Western Conference Finals
The Portland Trail Blazers strode to their bench with a 71–58 lead over Los Angeles after three quarters of the winner-take-all Game 7 in the Western Conference Finals. The boasts of the Lakers, who vowed to steamroll the competition on their way to the NBA title, suddenly rang hollow.
Lakers coach Phil Jackson gathered his assistants on the court for a conference while Shaquille O’Neal and his teammates plopped onto the bench and waited.
Jackson prepared his team long ago for this moment. His instructions were succinct: “When all hell is breaking loose, go to your ‘safe place,’ a personal image or memory that will exude serenity, happiness, and peace of mind.”
“Shaquille,” Jackson asked shortly after he accepted the Lakers job. “Where is your safe place?”
“In my grandmother Odessa’s lap, while she’s sitting in her rocking chair,” the big man answered.
“And how did that come to be your safe place?”
“She would find me after I messed up when I was a kid,” Shaquille said. “After I did something really stupid and my father gave me a beating.
“When he was done hitting me, she’d sneak into my room and slip me a piece of pound cake and rock me and tell me, ‘It’s okay, baby. Everything is gonna be fine.’ ”
As Shaq fidgeted in frustration on the bench on the night of June 4, absorbing the catcalls and boos from LA’s angry and shocked fans, his first thought was if the Lakers choked away this series, he knew who would get the blame.
It would be him, just as it had been in Orlando, when they failed to win it all.
Not again. O’Neal closed his eyes. He conjured up an image of Grandmother Odessa, just as Phil Jackson had instructed him to do. He focused on her soft voice, her gentle smile, her soothing words.
The Lakers broke from their huddle, but not before veteran Rick Fox challenged his teammates, “Is this how we’re going out? Is this how it’s gonna end?”
No, the big man told them. Not again.
Portland pushed the lead to 15 points with 10:28 left in t
he game. It was then that Shaquille O’Neal, double-and triple-teamed for most of the night, broke free and dunked on their heads. His basket ignited 15 consecutive Laker points, a stunning comeback punctuated by another O’Neal slam, this one expertly delivered by Kobe Bryant in the form of a slow-motion, looping lob.
Usually Shaq cooly turned after such demonstrations of dominance and jogged up the floor, expressionless, as if to say, Been here. Done this. Not this time. He exuberantly thrust his fingers aloft as he sprinted down the floor, his mouth agape and his wide eyes shining.
Grandmother Odessa was right. Everything was gonna be fine.
MY GRANDMOTHER CALLED ME SHAUN—NOT SHAQ, NOT Diesel, The Big Aristotle, Shaqtus, or The Big Shamrock. Back then, I was just a little boy running around the projects in Newark, New Jersey, who needed someone to look out for me.
I may have looked big, but I was just a kid. I was surrounded mostly by women, and if my grandmother or my aunt Viv or my mother saw the drug dealers slinking around our apartment they came out and told them to keep moving along. They warned them they better not mess with their Shaun. Once, when one of those shady guys started talking to me, my aunt Viv came flying out the door and started throwing punches.
“You leave him alone!!” she said, pounding her fists on the dude’s back. “That boy is going to be a ballplayer!!!”
I was going to be someone special. That’s what my mommy always told me.
I was going to be Superman.
My full name is Shaquille Rashaun O’Neal. My mom, Lucille O’Neal, was on her own when she had me. She was seventeen years old when she got pregnant. I never knew why my mother gave me a Muslim name. I guess it might have been because she felt like an outcast, or thought nobody loved her. Shaquille meant “little one” and Rashaun meant “warrior.” I was her little warrior. It was going to be me and my mom against the world.
My grandmother Odessa Chambliss was a Christian woman, so she insisted on calling me Shaun. My grandma was the one who always told me, “Believe in yourself.” Odessa always talked in a low voice, kind of like I do now, and she was always smiling.
Grandma Odessa looked like the perfect church woman. She wore a dress all the time. She never cursed, never raised her voice, always had a Bible nearby. I never really saw her hair because she wore these curly wigs all the time.
Grandma was a dreamer, and she let me know it was okay for me to dream, too. I always felt safe when I was with my grandmother. Of course, she used to sneak up on me and give me cod liver oil. I hated that stuff, but she swore by it. She was sure it would cure everything. I’d be filling up a big bowl of Trix cereal in the morning and just about to dig in when she’d slip that teaspoon of cod liver oil under my nose. A perfectly good breakfast ruined.
For the longest time I didn’t understand why my last name was different from everyone else in the family. My mom and dad were Lucille and Philip Harrison, but I was O’Neal. So how does that work? Turns out that O’Neal was my mother’s maiden name. When my mother married Philip, she took her husband’s last name, but she kept me as O’Neal. I really didn’t care too much, I guess, but one day in school one of my teachers asked me, “Shaquille O’Neal? How come your name is different from your daddy?” I went to my mom for some answers.
She decided I should go meet my biological father. His name was Joseph Toney. I think I was about seven years old. I remember he was tall, a nice-looking guy, but he didn’t have a whole lot to say to me. They told me he had a scholarship lined up at Seton Hall to play basketball but he got into drugs and blew his chance.
The day I went to meet him he was nice enough. He said, “What’s up? Hey kid, how are you doing? I’m your daddy.” I wasn’t really sure what to think. I had this other guy at home who sure acted like my daddy. Philip Harrison had given me a place to live, some toys, and even though I got in trouble a lot, I was cool with my life. When you are a kid, all you know is what you’ve got. After I met my “real” daddy, I went home with my mom to Philip, who as far as I was concerned was the only father I was going to pay any attention to.
The area of Newark that we lived in was poor, with mostly black people on every corner. It was dangerous, there was lots of crime, and it was the greatest place on earth if you were a drug dealer. Business was always booming for those cats.
I was born five years after the Newark riots, which was one of those memories that all the grown-ups talked about in real serious tones.
The riots apparently started after this guy named John Smith—like the English guy who loved Pocahontas, only this cat was a black taxi driver—passed two cops driving on Fifteenth Avenue. The two cops are white, and they arrest John Smith because he passed them on a double line, so they drag him down to the precinct, which is right across the street from the Hayes Home housing project. Everyone in the projects is watching the police beat this guy as they haul him in, and they’re convinced those white cops are about to kill a black man for a traffic violation.
The place explodes.
For the next six days Newark is a war zone. There’s rioting, shooting, and looting. People are throwing rocks through windows and tipping over cars. Too much poverty, anger, drugs, and inequality.
My parents were in the middle of it. They couldn’t leave their house because it was too dangerous. They had relatives who were killed during the riots and some uncles and cousins who were arrested and thrown in jail for no good reason at all. But even so, they never talked about racism too much with me. I didn’t grow up in a home where white people were the enemy. My parents didn’t feel that way, and they didn’t teach me to hate anyone, even after what they had seen with their own eyes.
Besides, do you think when I am eight years old that I care about the Newark riots? All I want to know is how do I get myself a skateboard.
I didn’t know I was poor. I guess I should have. We moved all the time because we couldn’t make the rent. My mom tried to feed a young family of six on Chicken a la King out of a can. We ate a lot of franks and beans and noodles. Lots of noodles. I was hungry all the time, but I figured that was just because I was so damn big. Every morning that I woke up it seemed like I had grown another couple of inches.
That was a problem for two reasons: shoes and clothes. I kept growing out of everything. I had to wear the same stuff to school over and over again because we couldn’t afford to keep buying me new threads all the time. I heard about it. Kids would say, “Hey dawg, didn’t you have that shirt on yesterday?”
Nobody was shocked that I turned out to be a big guy. My natural father was tall and my mom is six foot two. Lucille O’Neal is my best friend. My mom has always, always, been there for me. She learned to be tough at a very young age. Life wasn’t always very kind to her, so she did her best to protect me from all the bad things that could happen to a wise-ass kid like me.
She knew how difficult it was to be taller than everyone else, because she had to deal with the same thing when she was growing up.
For example, my mom had to bring my birth certificate everywhere with her. They didn’t believe I was only nine. The bus driver, the subway conductor, the guy behind the counter at McDonald’s. Can’t a kid get a Happy Meal without all this hassle?
I got teased a lot for my size starting when I was around five or six. I remember walking down the street one day and this kid called me Big Foot. I looked down and he was right: my sneakers were huge.
As I got older, the names got nastier: Sasquatch, Freak-quille. Shaquilla Gorilla. I didn’t like that last one at all. I figured out I had a couple of choices. I could learn to be funny to get kids to be on my side… or I could just plain beat them up.
I did both.
When I started growing bigger I realized I had to master the little things. I had to be able to do all the things regular people did so they’d stop concentrating on my size. That’s why I started break-dancing. I just loved to dance. I had good feet, so I could really move. We used to have contests and I became a really fabulous dan
cer. I could twirl around, spin on my head, all the stuff you see those little black kids do on television. I was so good all the kids forgot I was tall and goofy, and they started calling me Shaqa-D cuz I could move.
I was dancing all the time. Everyone loved it. I loved it. But one day when I was dancing I hurt my knee. It was really bothering me so I went to the doctor, and he told me I had Osgood-Schlatter disease, which is something kids get when they start growing way too fast for their bodies.
When I got home, I told my father I had Osgood-Schlatter disease. He punched me and said, “You ain’t got Osgood nothing! You’re out there break-dancing and that’s why you’re wrecking your knees!” So I got a good ass whupping for that.
The truth is, my dad spent a lot of time beating me. If I did something wrong, he’d smack me and say, “Be a leader, not a follower.” I was really scared of my father. He beat me all the time, but I would never call any of those whuppings unjustifiable. I deserved it. He did it to keep me in line. I swear, if he hadn’t, I’d probably be in jail right now—or worse. Without my father staying on me, I never would have become Shaq or The Diesel or any of those other crazy names I’ve invented for myself.
Philip Harrison was a military man all the way. His friends called him Butchy, but all my friends called him Sarge. He was very, very big on discipline. Things had to be done his way, or else.
Ironically, that kind of tough-love approach hurt him in his military career. At one time he was a drill sergeant, but he spent so much time challenging people and cussing them out he was demoted. They put him in charge of running the gym on the base, but his temper got him into trouble there, too. They got tired of him cursing at people, so they made him a supply sergeant.
Nobody messed with Sarge, especially me. His family was Jamaican and when he did something wrong as a kid, he got a beating. He just did what he was taught.
Shaq Uncut: My Story Page 1