Shaq Uncut: My Story

by Shaquille O’Neal

  There’s no question by trying to get my body fat down I became more injury prone. I never had any of the ticky-tacky injuries I got until I went to Miami. My massage therapist, Danny Garcia, who has been with me since I was with the Lakers, swears they made me too lean and my body couldn’t absorb hits the way it used to. I had no cushion, no buffering. Pat forgot to take into account the pounding my body took, day in and day out, going for those rebounds he wanted me to get. I was too much of a power player to take that kind of abuse on that lean of a body. I had more injuries in my time with Miami than anywhere else in my career.

  I didn’t see how I could get down to 10 percent body fat, but I didn’t want to hear the flack I’d get for not conforming. I was in a new place with a new team and a new coach, so I did it. I spent all day doing cardio and eating stuff I never eat. Salad, fucking salad—I hate the stuff. So I was eating salad, fish, and chicken. It was terrible. I drank water all day long. I’ve never had to make so many bathroom runs.

  The summer before I was supposed to report to the Heat training camp I got this letter from Pat. He told me he was looking forward to having me there and the team had a body fat requirement of 10 percent for centers, but because I was bigger he was willing to let me come in at 13 percent. At the bottom, there was all this fine print that tells you, “If you don’t make the body fat percentage, you will be fined $1,000. The next time you are fined again, and the third time you are suspended a game.”

  I’m reading all this and I’m groaning, because I know what my body needs. By the end of a long NBA season, my body is so tired, so sore, so abused, I don’t do much basketball stuff in the summer at all. For the first two months, I do next to nothing, to give my body a chance to recover. Sometimes I gain weight, sometimes I don’t.

  Around August, I start doing cardio and some basketball drills. I also do a lot of swimming because it’s easier on my joints. I rarely came into training camp in basketball shape. I need that recovery time. I’m lugging around a big body. I ain’t no little guard flitting around the perimeter hoisting up three-pointers.

  The way that worked best for me was to come in at 75 percent and work my way up. You can’t come into basketball season in basketball shape unless you play every day, and I couldn’t do that anymore without my body breaking down.

  Clearly I wasn’t going to be able to follow my regular routine and meet Pat’s requirements. One of the first things I did was call up my business partners who helped me run these twenty-four-hour fitness clubs that I owned. I told them, “Hey, I’ve got to work out every night—we need a couple of gyms down here.” So we opened up five of them in the Miami area right away.

  I was my own best customer.

  Even with all that work, I showed up to Miami in October 2004 with 16 percent body fat. Pat didn’t fine me but he did call me into his office. I told him, “Hey, look, I’m trying. I’m on the damn treadmill all day long. I’m working at this, I’ll do what it takes, but I’ve never been that low before.”

  I’m trying to also work into the conversation that I’ve been pretty successful at 18 percent body fat, but he’s not listening. He’s a dictator and he wants to do it his way, so I’m avoiding confrontation by yessing him to death. Yes, okay, whatever you say. The media asked me about Riley and I said, “He’s the president. I’m the general. Unless I want to get impeached, I’ve got to do what he says.”

  We get checked once a week by Riley and his staff. My body fat is going down, and by midseason I’m at 13 percent, but I start having all these little injuries. I’m also as tired as hell. I’m practicing my ass off and my body is complaining. Loudly.

  Of course, part of the reason I was tired was that Miami was such a lively town. I was out late, then up early eating horrible salads and having my waistline pinched. So some of that being tired, well, I guess that was on me.

  Stan Van Gundy was the coach during all of this, although you’d never know it. Pat overshadowed him so much it was hard for Stan to put his stamp on the team. Stan was a damn worrywart. He was always worried about what Pat was going to say. He worried about everything. He worried too much. I’m sure he worried because he cared, but it drove me crazy.

  There would be times we’d be up by 20 points with two minutes to go and a guy on the other team would hit a couple of three-pointers and Stan would call a time-out and start yelling at us.

  He’d get all worked up and I’d look at him and say, “Calm yourself, man. We’re fine.”

  Here’s the other thing: I don’t like to be jinxed. You know, the whole Spooky Wook thing. Stan would come in before the game and say, “You guys aren’t focused, you aren’t going to play well tonight.” I’d hear that and go nuts. I’d tell him, “Stop saying that!” and he’d say, “I’m serious. You’re not focused.”

  He didn’t like all the silly stuff I did, like doing jumping jacks naked to get the guys to smile and relax. He didn’t understand it was good for our team to be loose. He hated me and Damon Jones because we were always pulling a prank or getting the guys to bust up laughing.

  Stan would come into the locker room with a hundred different things written on the board and we were all supposed to have our mean faces on, and I’m not like that. Every game was Armageddon and depended completely on this stat and that stat, and I’m sitting there thinking, We’re playing Milwaukee. I know Andrew Bogut is pretty good, but their record is something like 3-25. Why are we doubling this guy? So we’d go out and double Bogut and the other players would hit open shots and we’d lose.

  We all knew Stan was a dead man walking. I kind of felt sorry for the guy. He didn’t deserve to get fired. My first year, in 2004–05, we went to the Conference Finals and lost to Detroit in Game 7. They let Stan go in December of the following season. I was injured at the time, but I was just about ready to come back. One of the things that ticked me off was people said I got Stan fired. They said I wouldn’t play for him and I waited to come back until he was gone. I can tell you there wasn’t an ounce of truth to that.

  Are you crazy? Did you really think I wanted to play for Pat Riley instead?

  Stan got fired because Pat wanted to take over, not because I wanted him out. I had no control over it—not a smidgen of control. We all kind of knew it was coming because Pat and Stan were always arguing. Pat would come down and tell Stan how to do something and Stan would want to do it his own way, and that was a fine game plan if you wanted to get yourself fired.

  I will say when Riley finally did take over as head coach, he was tremendous. I had never seen him like that in my life. Guys who had been there before were commenting on it, too. He was the best that year. He even moved practices back to twelve o’clock. He said, “I know you guys like to do your thing, so let’s start a little later.” We were stunned. No one could believe it.

  Pat was big on his motivating tactics. One of the first things he did when I got there was take us all to a private screening of Glory Road. He was involved with the movie somehow. He knew the producer and his name was in the credits. It was a team-building thing, and I have to say it was a very inspiring movie.

  There were times when Pat did some nutty things, and some of them didn’t make a whole lot of sense. One day he gave us a speech on how no team can truly succeed unless people are willing to sacrifice. He walked into the locker room with a freezing bucket of water. He put his head in the freezing water for something like two minutes. Everyone was trying not to laugh.

  Riley also did some things that I was expecting, because his past players had tipped me off about them. He would storm in at halftime and break the chalkboard or trash the VCR or throw the remote across the room. He kicked more than a few trash pails while I was there. A lot of those outbursts, I’m sure, were premeditated.

  It was all about intensity with Pat. He never let up and he wasn’t going to let us ever let up, either.

  For the first forty-five minutes of practice, we did this drill that I absolutely hated that was called the Indian drill. H
ere’s how it works: Let’s say three people are running. Pat blows the whistle, and DWade has to run full speed and come behind me with his hands up. Then the whistle blows and I run full speed behind him, hands up, then the whistle blows and it’s Udonis Haslem’s turn, running full speed with his hands up.

  We’d be in a jog and he would blow the whistle and the last guy had to sprint all the way back around out in front of the guy.

  We did all sorts of drills, very basic stuff, over and over and over again. My drills were jump hooks and rebounds, high school stuff. High school stuff I didn’t need to do. We’d do that, get some water, then scrimmage full speed for an hour and a half. I was taking this terrific beating from Michael Doleac every day. He was the backup center trying to earn some playing time, so he was just killing me in practice, hacking me, bodying me, pounding me. By the time I got to game day I was all beat up.

  I wanted to tell Pat, “This isn’t going to work,” but there was no way to reason with him. Coaches couldn’t, the front office couldn’t, the owner couldn’t. No one could. So I wasn’t going to rock the boat.

  Pat gave a lot of motivational speeches. After a while, when he launched into one of them, my eyes kind of glazed over, to be honest. I can’t tell you one speech he ever gave, because I knew it was all BS. I knew what I had to do as a player because I had already been given the blueprint by the great Phil Jackson.

  Pat Riley was a big film guy, so after we lost we’d have an hour-long film session pointing out all our mistakes. He picked on DWade in those sessions. Pat always wanted us to fight over a screen, and DWade would always shoot the gap instead. Those sessions could get tough. We heard a lot of “See what happens when you don’t rebound? You guys aren’t in shape!” So then we’d go upstairs and practice for another three hours. Every time something went wrong, it was because we weren’t in shape.

  Even though the practices were hell, I really did love playing in Miami. I loved playing with DWade and I loved the guys on our team.

  One of the best things was, we were able to get Gary Payton to come play with us. I felt I owed him a championship since things hadn’t worked out in LA. You got to love GP. He’s mean, he talked a lot of trash and he wasn’t afraid of anybody. He was a fabulous player who was stuck going up against the great Michael Jordan, otherwise he would have had more rings.

  Payton had a chance to come to Miami ten years earlier for more money than he ended up taking in Seattle, but he didn’t want to play for Pat. GP figured he had a few years left, and he didn’t want to get worn down by Riley’s practices. By the time Gary came in 2005, he knew he was near the end. He just wanted the ring. “I’m coming because of you, Shaq,” he told me.

  James Posey was another one of my guys. I called him my designated hit man. If Dallas star Dirk Nowitzki was killing us I’d tell Pose, “Go touch him up a couple of times.” Posey would foul him, put his foot on his ankle, whatever it took to make him uncomfortable.

  I don’t remember ever having a single bad conversation with Posey. He’s one of those guys I owe everything to, and I’ve probably never told him how much I appreciated him. Robert Horry is a guy like that. Derek Fisher is another. Brian Shaw and Dennis Scott. Those players won’t be in the Hall of Fame, but without them Hall of Famers like me wouldn’t have been able to close the deal.

  Alonzo Mourning wasn’t in Miami when I first got there. We had a history and not a very good one, so when Toronto bought out his contract Pat called and said, “Do you mind if we bring him in?” I said sure.

  I didn’t know Zo at all but I didn’t like him. He always thought he was better than me, or at least that’s how it looked from where I was standing, so I felt like I had to show him who was the top dog. When I got drafted No. 1 he was No. 2. We both had great rookie seasons, but I was picked Rookie of the Year, and he thought he should have won or at least been a cowinner with me.

  And, when he signed that $100 million contract, I made a comment in the press that if you paid a BMW this much money, how much is a Bentley worth? I was the Bentley. He was the BMW. That kind of fueled our feud a little more.

  Of course once I met him I couldn’t believe what a perfect gentleman he was. He was so generous and courteous and I thought, Okay, I had this dawg all wrong.

  Antoine Walker came to us in a trade. He was a veteran who could score. ’Toine called me up before he got dealt to Miami and asked me if I would be willing to take a pay cut so they could fit him under the salary cap. He told me he really wanted to play with me, so, being a team player, I took an extension that was a five-year deal for $100 million with the money spread out instead of the three-year deal which would have paid me over $30 million a season.

  We also had Jason Williams, who everyone called White Chocolate. I had always wanted to play with that dawg. He was a point guard, a tough little son of a bitch, and he could throw the perfect lob. I used to daydream about throwing down one of his passes.

  Miami was a great city with a lot of potential. When we moved there I bought this big, beautiful house on Star Island. It was Rony Seikaly’s old house, and since Rony was a seven-footer I didn’t have to do much of anything to it. The showers were already the right height; the ceilings were good. My wife loved the house, my kids were really happy. It was all good.

  I used to host a party in every city while we were on the road. Basically I was showing DWade how it was done. I was also trying to get the team closer. The way it worked was, I had this guy named Money Mark who would deal with the clubs in cities when were out of town. They’d pay me to make an appearance and host a party. I got DWade to come with me, along with Damon Jones, Posey, GP, Antoine Walker, Udonis Haslem, and Dorrell Wright. Once in a while, if we were in Washington, D.C., or New York, Zo would show up wearing his little hat. Zo always had to wear a hat ’cuz he was bald.

  We called the parties our “team meetings.” We’d talk about having a “team meeting” right in front of the coaches. They thought we were sitting in a room talking basketball when we had those “meetings.” We all knew what “team meeting at eleven meant.” Be in the lobby ready to party.

  Pat didn’t like it because GP, Antoine, Posey, and those guys would go at it a little hard with the partying. Me? I’d be sitting in my little section drinking water. Damon Jones, who was only with us for one season, would grab the mic and we’d start rapping.

  Damon Jones was the first one to call us the Heedles. Those dudes in Miami who call themselves the Heedles now stole that from us. We were six years ahead of them. C’mon, DWade, come clean. You know that’s true.

  We had a great time at those parties and it gave us a chance to do some bonding. It made it easy on my bodyguard, Jerome, too, because we’d all roll in the same limo and be in the same little section so he could keep track of all of us.

  Miami was a young, fabulous city but they were a little short on young, fabulous people. I was just doing my Shaq thing, spreading the love.

  We had some great parties at our house on Star Island. I used to take my kids to the zoo once a week and I got to be friendly with the owner. I convinced him to let me have a zoo party and he brought all the animals to the house.

  When people drove up, there were the lions and tigers out in the front driveway in their cages so people could take pictures with them. We had camels and elephants wandering around the property. Monkeys, too. We had a big stage put up so people could dance and have fun.

  Another time we had a Midsummer Night’s Dream party. Guests had to dress like Egyptians. Everyone came—the actors, the politicians, the chief of police. We had superstars flying in from LA. Our guest list could have anyone from Donald Trump to Ludacris.

  For one of my birthdays we had a Scarface party. Everyone had to come dressed in white mafia suits. We rented the house in Miami where the movie was shot and we passed out cigars. Every week, my wife Shaunie and I were in the papers. It didn’t take long for me to take over the city. Zo called me “the Largest Human Wonder of the World.”


  But Pat didn’t come to many of the parties. The only one he came to was when I helped the Heat out of a jam. They had some major season ticket gala they were planning and something went wrong and they were scrambling for a place, so I offered Pat my house. We put on an amazing party and Pat was really appreciative. All these boats pulled up to the island to hear Gladys Knight and the Pips put on a show for us.

  Those were the memories of Miami that helped me get past how it ended in LA. Our team was stacking up Ws, the guys were gelling, I was in full Shaq mode, and we were going to win a championship. I could just feel it.

  When the 2006 playoffs rolled around we had won fifty-two games and were peaking at the right time. Pat came into the locker room with this bowl. They were index cards all mixed up in there with everyone’s name on it. His slogan was “15 strong.” Each card had a little saying on it. Pat made it clear he wanted the contents of the bowl to be a secret. Each time we opened the locker room to the media the bowl was covered. He threatened us with a pretty hefty fine if we told anyone what was in that bowl.

  One day he came in and said, “This is my championship ring, and I’m putting it in the bowl today.” Sometimes he put inspirational DVDs in there. Other guys put pictures of their families in the bowl. I never actually put anything in, but I understood what Pat was doing.

  Fifteen strong. It made sense to all of us. We bought into it, but I had to Home-Boy-ize it up to make it a little more interesting. The whole idea of it was kind of corny, so I made up a raunchy rap about the bowl so we could relate a little better.

  Because I was the only one with a ring, the guys asked me all the time how to prepare. My advice was simple: do the same thing all season. If you started the year going to bed at 2:00 a.m., then end the year going to bed at 2:00 a.m. If you have been going out the night before a game all season, then keep doing that. I’ve found through the years that kind of consistency matters. Your body gets into a certain rhythm and you want to maintain that.