Leonard came out to meet my family. He was a former college point guard and Coach Brown trusted him, but my father warned him, “If you mess with my son, I’ll kill you.”
“He’s serious,” I told Leonard. “Don’t doubt it.”
I was about to become a professional athlete, but my daddy was still standing over me, larger than life, bigger than ever. What I didn’t realize was that was never going to change. Philip Harrison couldn’t—wouldn’t—stay in the background. He just didn’t know how.
When I got back home to the army base in San Antonio, I was living with my parents again, and that was an adjustment. It was a flashback. It was “yes sir, no sir” again. It was “turn down the music” again. It was “watch your language, son” again (that’s my mother).
But everything was about to change. My parents, who had taken care of me and kept me out of trouble (most of the time), were about to have their roles reversed.
It was finally time for me to take care of them.
In April 1992, even though I hadn’t been drafted yet and I had no idea which team I’d be playing for, I got some money from an endorsement for Classic Car. They paid me $1 million. I could not believe it.
I was rich!
I managed to blow through it all in two days.
The first thing I did was take care of some matters on the home front. Both my mom and my dad had terrible credit, so I took out $150,000 and paid that off. I’m rich. I can do these things.
The next thing I did was go to the Mercedes-Benz dealer and buy myself a car. I came home and my dad said, “Where’s mine?” so I went back and bought him one, too. And, of course, I’ve got to make sure my mother is cruising around town in style, so now I’ve bought three Mercedes-Benz cars in one week.
I then got a call from the bank. The man was very nice. He said, “Mr. O’Neal, I don’t want bad things to happen to you like other athletes we’ve dealt with. But I think you should know you owe us ninety thousand dollars.”
At first I was confused, but then he explained to me by the time you take that $1 million and deduct all the taxes, it really is only worth between $500,000 and $600,000. Damn. I hung up the phone and I told my mother, “I need an accountant.”
Leonard helped me set up the meetings. The first person, believe it or not, was the actor Wayne Rogers, the guy who starred in the television show M*A*S*H. He came in and told me, “We’re going to get you this and get you that,” and all I could think of was that book about Kareem that my dad gave me and how he lost his money in soybeans and if something appears too good to be true, then it probably is.
Scratch off the M*A*S*H dude. Another guy came in wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit, and he was too slick. The next guy was wearing a cheap suit, and even though I’m fresh out of college and I don’t know anything about mortgages or money markets or municipal bonds, I still know a decent suit when I see one—or don’t see one.
We talked to a lot of people with their fancy brochures and their big plans, but none of them hit me right. I was getting tired and cranky and hungry (I’m always hungry) when this little guy with curly hair and glasses walks in.
We tell him to put his brochure over on the desk with the rest of the pile and he says, “I don’t have a brochure.” His name is Lester Knispel and he starts talking to me about savings bonds. He talked about potential investments, but mostly he was very conservative in his presentation. At one point he said, “We can learn together how this should work.”
Here’s what made my mom fall in love with him. She asked every other guy about letting her see the books. She told them I was young and she wanted to help me along. They all said, “Mrs. Harrison, trust us. We do this for a living. Let us take care of it. You don’t have to worry or bother with it. It’s our job.”
Now if you tell that to Lucille you might mean well, but all she’s hearing is “Butt out, Mom.” And that’s not going to work.
Lester was smarter than that. He told my mother, “You can see the books anytime you want. Same with Shaquille. You are the client. I would be working for you.” He was no dummy. He knew all the numbers and figures were complicated and boring, and after a while my mother would learn to trust him and wouldn’t want to be bothered with poring over my stuff. And that is exactly what happened.
I liked Lester because he was straightforward and very smart and not too slick. Not only that, he represented some rappers.
We hired Lester Knispel, and it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Lester was my sounding board. When I got one of my crazy ideas, he talked me out of it—most of the time. When I started buying too many cars, handing out money to too many relatives, and going off the edge in general, he reeled me back in.
He was very successful and he had saved a lot of money, so I asked him how he and his family did so well. He told me, “We have annuities.” I asked, “What the hell is that?” He explained to me, “It’s when you pay a life insurance company a single premium, which they will pay back years later in the form of a fixed sum.”
That sounded like something I needed. When I started making all the big bucks and I had more money than I could spend, I put big hunks of it into annuities. I bought them for myself, my parents, for my brother, and for my two sisters.
What it meant was when I turned forty years old, which back then seemed like light-years into the future, I would receive a nice monthly sum for the rest of my life that would keep me in excellent financial shape. Thanks, Lester.
My father was very happy with Lester. He was also happy that I was learning how to conduct business. Sarge was proud of my basketball accomplishments, but he always threw the same thing in my face. “You aren’t going to be some stupid fucking African dunking basketballs the rest of your life,” he’d say. “You are smarter than that.”
Well, sure. Most of the time.
I knew the big money was coming, so I told my father, “Get out of the army. Come with me.” At that point both of my parents were lucky to be making $30,000 a year. I hired them both to run my fan club at $100,000 each. I said to them, “This is my gift to you.”
I bought them a house in Orlando. I did what any son would do when he finally made it big and he wanted to thank his parents for their love and their support.
Lester worries about me sometimes, I know that. He says there is such a thing as being too generous. My feeling on that is you can’t take it with you. My parents don’t ask for much. I want them to be happy, to enjoy this time of their life. Same for my brother and sisters. My family is everything to me. Now that doesn’t mean if some distant cousin from Georgia who claims we’ve got the same hairline shows up that he’s getting put on my payroll. I’m not that stupid.
As the actual draft day approached, the people in Orlando were getting nervous because I hadn’t said anything about their team, their city, or their players. It was a big moment for them and my silence was kind of spoiling it, I guess.
It didn’t help there were rumors floating around that Leonard was going to try to pull off a trade to send me to the Lakers, which wasn’t true at all, even though Leonard would have loved that.
Here is the reason I didn’t say much. I’m very superstitious, and I wasn’t going to talk about being the No. 1 pick until I actually was drafted as the No. 1 pick.
The Magic kept pestering us to meet with them, so finally, a couple of days before the draft, my father, my brother, Jamal, and I flew in to Orlando.
They gave me a tour, and I met with the team officials, and then they ended up having a nice dinner with the owners, the coaches, and some front-office people.
It was fine, but it had been a long day and Jamal, who was only thirteen, was bored. He started messing around a little bit at dinner. He’s talking smack to me, he’s drinking my water, and the next thing you know we’re flicking rolls at each other. My future coach, Matt Goukas, was horrified. To be honest, I was having so much fun with Jamal I didn’t notice. When Pat Williams asked Matt Goukas later what he though
t of his No. 1 pick and his brother, he said, “I wanted to send both of them to their rooms.”
On draft night, Orlando jammed ten thousand people into their arena for their live announcement that they’d be selecting Shaquille O’Neal as No. 1. They had a platform and Pat Williams was going to make the call to the NBA in front of all these screaming fans, but somehow the transmission malfunctioned. They had only five minutes to make the pick and meanwhile that clock was clicking down, so Alex Martins, the public relations director, called in on his cell phone to let Stern know they were taking me.
When Orlando drafted me, that little Florida city went nuts.
We flew in from Portland, Oregon, the day after the draft and it was insane. I couldn’t believe the greeting I got when I landed. People were jamming the airport terminal. The Orlando Magic mascot was there. There was a Dixieland band playing. They had some of the most beautiful cheerleaders I’ve ever seen lined up on both sides.
There were signs welcoming me to Orlando, signs saying, SHAQUILLE IS NO. 1.
Pat Williams organized the whole thing. He was there and so was Bob Vander Weide, the son-in-law of Rich DeVos, who owned Amway and the Orlando Magic. Vander Weide was in basketball operations at the time, but he became president of the team a couple of years later. The team did a great job of making me feel welcome, I can tell you that.
It reminded me of how I felt when they turned that spotlight on me at the LSU football game.
Dennis Tracey and I are looking at each other and saying, “Okay, so this is what it’s going to be like.”
I was twenty years old.
The truth is, before that I wasn’t convinced I was going to be the first pick. That was what everyone was saying, but in my mind I was thinking about Christian Laettner and how much more fundamentally sound he was than me. Even though it was supposed to be a slam dunk that I would be No. 1, I kept wondering if it would really happen, because Laettner had it all—the jumper, the footwork, the rebounding, the mental edge. Even at that point of my life, when my career was about to take off, I still wasn’t 100 percent sure of my ability. I didn’t share my fears with anyone, but they kept me awake at night.
My father’s voice was ringing in my ears: “Stay humble, stay humble.”
When it all shook down, Alonzo Mourning ended up No. 2 and Laettner ended up No. 3. I was thinking, “They got that wrong.” But history tells us they got it right after all.
It was a big step for me to move to a new city, buy my own house, make my own decisions, but I was ready.
Of course my mom wanted to be near me so she could keep an eye on me. In her mind, I was still her Shaquille and she needed to protect her “little warrior.” The first thing she did when I moved to Orlando was go to Walmart to buy me kitchen glasses, towels, toasters, and a bunch of other things that I probably didn’t need.
I moved into my new house in September. One day we were talking to the mailman and he told us about a cornerback from the Green Bay Packers who had lost all his money and was trying to dump his place. We got my mom over there and she loved it. She would have loved anything, really. My mom wasn’t that picky. So Lucille and Sarge moved in—right across the street from Bo Jackson.
My mom is such a kind, caring person and she doesn’t get impressed by anything. She’s sort of like my grandmother Odessa. When I got my first paycheck from the Magic I wanted to buy my grandmother a $6 million house. She said, “No, baby, there’s a nice house down the road there, it will do just fine.” So I bought her that house and fixed it up for her.
Same thing with my mother. When I bought her that new Mercedes, emerald green, she said, “That’s nice honey, but I don’t want a Benz. I’ll take that little truck over there that costs twenty thousand dollars.” It was a used truck! I said, “Sorry, Mom, but you are going to take this Mercedes.”
Now that I had some money I wanted to buy myself some decent stereo stuff, so my mom came along with me to a place called Sound Advice. I got in there and I was like a little kid. I wanted everything! I’m telling the guy, “We’ll take that TV and that turntable,” and my mom is panicking and she’s saying, “Son, slow down!” I tell her, “Mom, it’s okay, I’ve got this. You want something?”
Word gets out I’m shopping in the store, and now there are fans everywhere. I’m off to the side signing autographs, and I see my mom talking to the manager. When I finally get to the counter to pay for my stuff the manager says, “Your mother has signed you up for the Lay-A-Way program.” I grabbed her and gave her a big kiss and told her, “Mom, I promise. Those days are over.”
Here’s what happens when you are the No. 1 pick in the draft and your name is Shaquille O’Neal: you sign a $13 million deal with Pepsi, a $15 million deal with Reebok, and another $20–25 million from Kenner, Spaulding, and Scoreboard training cards.
Leonard was smart. He put us right in the middle of the cola war between Coke and Pepsi and the sneaker war between Nike and Reebok.
Obviously Nike was a giant. They had Michael Jordan, Charles Barkley, and my future neighbor Bo Jackson. They were really successful, but I wanted my own success story.
When I visited Reebok they were all standing out front waiting for me wearing T-shirts that said, WE WANT SHAQ. We had a great day with Paul Fireman, and they wanted me to sign right there. That sounded good to me, but Leonard said, “No, we promised Nike we’d visit.”
I’ll admit my heart wasn’t in it. My father and I met Leonard on the Nike “campus” in Oregon, and I showed up wearing a Reebok jacket. All the Nike people were very friendly, but after about an hour Leonard pulled me aside and said, “Shaq, you have to take off that jacket. It’s disrespectful. Phil Knight is going crazy over this.”
I took off the jacket, but I was going with Reebok. From that day on, those Nike dudes have had it in for me.
The summer before I reported for my first NBA training camp, I lived in Los Angeles with Dennis Tracey. I was trying to play basketball every day. I used to see Magic Johnson all the time, and he had a little game every morning at ten at UCLA. So I figured, I better get over there and get busy.
Leonard knew everyone in LA, so he got me invited into the game. I showed up the first day and I was all business. Let’s get to work. Tracy Murray was there and Mitchell Butler, and Magic, and Mike Dunleavy Sr.—not the son who played for the Pacers, but the father who coached the Bucks and the Lakers and the Clippers. At this point he was still playing and he was on my team. The first time down the floor I got a rebound and Dunleavy was calling for me to throw it to him, but I’m saying, “Screw that!” and I went coast to coast. Was I trying to impress people? Yes I was. I wasn’t nervous at all. I went in there planning to kick some ass.
Magic was very nice to me. We didn’t have a ton of conversations because I’m not a jock sniffer, but he kind of looked out for me. He gave me a lot of “Let’s go, young fella.” Those basketball games were really good, really competitive, and a great way to stay in shape. I played hard, but I wasn’t going to show them everything—just enough so they’d all go back to their teams worried about me.
So life is good. Better than good. I’m soaking it all in. I’m in Los Angeles, but not La La Land. I’m having fun, I’m a millionaire, and I know more is coming, so I’m living on the edge a little bit. I’m buying stuff I shouldn’t buy, like cars and clothes and toys.
When I go to those pickup games at UCLA, I’m walking in there thinking I’m a bad dude, but I’m not. I mean, Magic is there. He’s in charge. I’m just another guy.
Magic is picking the teams and keeping score. He’s there every morning running the show. In the games, he’d come at you with some bullshit move, and when he missed he’d yell “Foul!” We’d all roll our eyes, but he was Magic, so he got the call—just like in the real NBA.
I’d known him a few years, and I was at his charity event, the Midsummer Night’s Magic. I had just won MVP, and he said to me, “Big fella, you don’t want to be just a name. You want to own things.�
� Then he walked away.
I’m driving home and I’m wondering the whole time, What was he talking about? And then I realized what he meant. So we got to work on my own shoe. Then my own clothing line. Then my own reality show. Thanks, Magic. Another idea I incorporated into my own unique Shaq style.
I handled things a little different than the other top picks. A lot of them had expensive cars and multiple houses right away. The first summer after I got drafted, Dennis Tracey and I lived in Oakwood Apartments on Sepulveda in Los Angeles. Dennis rented a Volvo, and that’s how we rolled all summer.
We lived near all these fabulous clubs but we couldn’t get into any of them because I was too young. The Roxy was right there, we drove by it every day, but I never went inside. I had to work my way up to that stuff.
Sarge had warned me about becoming a “sudden celebrity.” All of a sudden you have friends you haven’t even met before. All of a sudden people like quarterback Doug Williams wants to have lunch with you. Luckily for me, Doug Williams was cool. He just wanted me to know he was there for me if I had any questions.
I was in LA and I was starting to get hot, and I kept running into Arsenio Hall, who had a really popular nighttime talk show out there. Every time I saw him he’d say, “Why don’t you come on the show?” I kept saying, “No, thanks,” because I wasn’t really sure what I’d talk about.
So now some of my commercials are coming out and I’ve just been named Rookie of the Year, and I’m getting recognized everywhere and I go back to Los Angeles for the summer again. Arsenio asks me again about coming on and I was kind of joking around and I said, “Well, if I’m going to be on the show, I’ve got to do something different. I don’t want to be like all the other athletes.” Arsenio said, “What do you have in mind?” Up to that moment I didn’t have anything in mind, but then this popped into my head: “Can I rap on your show with my favorite group?”
Shaq Uncut: My Story Page 8