Shaq Uncut: My Story

by Shaquille O’Neal

  “I told the guys, ‘Just go with it, dawgs. Let’s ride this thing home. I can’t wait for the playoffs. We’re going all the way. I’m already thinking about what I’m going to wear for the parade.’ ”

  We beat Chicago, New Jersey, and Detroit on our way to the Finals. None of those teams really gave us much of a scare.

  So we got to the Finals feeling pretty good about our chances against the Dallas Mavericks. And that’s when we got punched in the face. Jason Terry dropped 32 on us in Game 1, and the Mavericks won. Then, in Game 2, Dirk Nowitzki had 26 points and 16 rebounds, and suddenly we were down 2–0 in the series.

  DWade reminded me a little bit of myself when I was in that first Finals against Hakeem. He was being too nice, too respectful of the opponent. I told him, “Get mean. Get hungry. You can take over this series.” They were fronting me and backing me, so I couldn’t do shit. DWade needed to step up and take over.

  I told him, “All we’ve got to do is win one game and then we’ve got them. Trust me, I know those boys from Dallas. They’re going to get tight. Jason Terry never did like pressure.”

  The Dallas owner, Mark Cuban, did us a huge favor. They were up 2–0 and he started talking about planning a parade. They actually published the route in the paper. Pat got ahold of it before I did.

  He came into the locker room all pissed off. He was banging the table and throwing chairs and handing out body slams and shouting, “After all we’ve been through, fifteen strong, are we going to give up? This fucking guy is planning a goddamn parade.”

  A little bit of it was for show, but he got his point across. I got my boys GP and Antoine and Posey riled up, and DWade took care of the young guys, and we were good to go.

  Yet somehow we still managed to fall behind by 13 points in Game 3. For a second I was wondering, Hey, maybe we’re not going to get this done. But, just as I was thinking that, I looked at Posey and he had this “It ain’t over” look on his face, and so did Antoine and GP and DWade. So we got in a huddle and I said, “Let’s keep doing what we’re doing.”

  Truth is, we were used to playing from behind. I loved that group of guys because they never panicked. We had our moments where we’d get mad at each other once in a while, but we believed in each other.

  Udonis Haslem was a hardworking guy who would do anything you asked him. Anything at all. He is Miami. He was born and raised there, and he would do whatever it took to stay there. He had a couple of free-agent offers after the 2009–10 season that would have paid him more money, but he wanted to stay put. He loved Pat and Pat loved him. If Riles told him to run into a brick wall he’d say, “How fast?” His body fat was always right where it should have been. He never complained, whether he got a lot of shots or no shots at all. He’s the kind of guy who helps you win championships.

  Alonzo Mourning was the same way. He sacrificed a lot to be on that championship team. He could have gone somewhere else and played more minutes, but he was willing to play behind me for the good of the team.

  In Games 1 and 2 I had missed 14 out of my 16 free throws. I was ticked off and embarrassed about that, so the night before Game 3, when we were back in Miami, I went to the gym to work on it. It was late—about nine or ten o’clock—and I heard music, and some noise.

  There’s DWade working on his fadeaways, his floaters. I was impressed. It was the first time since Kobe that I saw a young fella really working at it. I was just shooting free throws, but he was going full speed. He had a kid there throwing the ball off the backboard at half court so he could take off in transition.

  Wade turned the series around for us. He was fantastic. He just took over. In Game 3 he scored 42 points and dominated. I chipped in with 16 points, 11 boards, and 5 assists. GP hit a monster shot to win it for us, and Dirk missed a free throw in the final seconds.

  One thing about the Finals is, once you get some momentum, nothing can stop you. When Posey hit some threes, Antoine hit some big shots, and I finally knocked down some free throws, you could feel it all changing.

  Our fans were awesome. Everybody in white, waving those towels, making noise. Once the crowd got into it, the look in Dirk Nowitzki’s eyes changed.

  In Game 4 it was our defense that won it for us. That, and another fabulous game from DWade. We held the Mavericks to 7 points in the fourth quarter, which was a new record.

  During Game 4, Jerry Stackhouse was called for a flagrant foul on me. He was upset because in Game 1 he came to the hole and I just stood there, and he rammed into me and broke his nose. He probably wanted to get me back. The good thing about me is I’m groomed to take the punishment. Sarge made sure of that by the tactics he used on me growing up.

  I was breaking to the basket in transition, and Stackhouse went up and put his elbow in the back of my head. I didn’t even feel it. When someone comes at you with everything they’ve got and you don’t even make a facial response, you have them.

  I learned that from Hakeem in my first Finals. I bowled him in the stomach and he said, “That was a good one.” He never talked trash, never got mad. He came down on the next play, threw five moves at me, and hit a fadeaway. As we were running back down the floor he said, “You’ve got to hit me harder, big fella.” I remember thinking, Damn, so that’s how it’s done.

  When I went to the basket and Stackhouse tackled me, my first thought was to come up swinging, but ding! ding! ding! I can’t do that now. The best thing I could do, especially being a terrible free-throw shooter, was just get up and knock down both free throws, which I did.

  After the game they asked me about the play and I told them, “My daughters tackle me harder when I come home.”

  I’ve always known how to fight, but also how to take a punch. People ask me, “Who hit you the hardest? Who was the toughest?” I tell them, “It’s my father. No one else is even close.”

  So we come back from being down 2–0 in the series to tie it 2–2, and Jerry Stackhouse gets suspended for Game 5 because of his attempted takedown on me.

  Game 5 goes to overtime. At that point it seemed to me Dallas sort of panicked. DWade was destroying them and they had no answers, so they started blaming it on the refs. They claimed they weren’t allowed to touch DWade and were getting nailed with “phantom fouls.” DWade had 25 free-throw attempts in that game, which was as many as the entire Mavericks team, so maybe they had a beef, but they really lost their composure.

  After DWade won the game for us on two free throws, Dirk kicked the ball in the stands, and Cuban was going after the referees and talking about conspiracy theories, and it was all falling apart.

  The Mavericks started arguing on the court. Eyes never lie. That fierce look that Jason Terry had in Games 1 and 2? Gone. All that chest pumping—it stopped. In Games 3 and 4 the eyes of the Maverick players got bigger, and by Game 5 they were bug-eyed open. I actually heard one of them say, “The pressure’s not on us.”

  Right. You’re cooked.

  What I always do during the national anthem is start with my head down, then I look up to see who is watching me. A couple of Dallas players were staring at me before Game 5, but as soon as I looked up and caught their eye, they looked down.

  Same thing with Chris Webber when he was in Sacramento and Arvydas Sabonis in Portland. They’d look at me and I’d look back as if to say, That’s right. I’m coming for you.

  After we won three games in a row to go up 3–2, we had to fly back to Dallas to try and close it out in Game 6. Pat came in and said, “Everybody better pack only one suit. We’re finishing this up in one game.” He was serious. He told the guys, “If you pack two suits, then you might as well stay home. I’m not letting you on this bus.” He actually checked our luggage as we got on.

  I packed myself a black suit with a black shirt, because in my mind we were going to kick some ass and then have a funeral. Once we got to Dallas, Pat separated us from our families. He put them in one hotel and moved us somewhere else.

  We beat the Mavericks 95–92 to wi
n the championship. There was one guy I felt sorry for, and that was Dirk Nowitzki. Dirk was no front-runner. He’s a great player. He’s always done what he’s supposed to do. He’s a good guy, a hard worker. I’m one of those people who understands you can’t do it alone. I knew what was about to happen to the poor bastard. It was going to be all his fault, even though he had played great.

  After we won we had a fabulous party at the Crescent Court Hotel. We partied all night. Pat Riley was a dancing fool. I really enjoyed watching him let loose. A lot of guys got up on the mic and said what they loved about our team. I didn’t say anything, though. It wasn’t my show. It was DWade’s night. I was so happy for him and Udonis and Zo. It was my fourth championship and they don’t ever get old, but there’s something about the first one that is always special. So I kind of hung back and watched the guys who had never gotten one before, like Antoine and GP and Posey.

  Of course when we got back to Miami we were South Beach royalty. Everybody loved us. We ate free at every restaurant. We were offered free condos, free cars.

  Everything I had promised the city of Miami had come true. We won a championship, we owned the city, and I had proven I could win anywhere—not just with some shot-happy guard in Los Angeles.

  I wasn’t the only one who had Laker baggage. On the night we won the championship, Pat Riley, who had won all of his championships in LA, grabbed me and hugged me and thanked me and then said, “We’re back.”

  As I watched him dancing all around, this man who is all about being cool and staying cool and never letting his guard down, I remember thinking, I guess Pat Riley isn’t so bad after all.

  Like I said before, my mistake.

  AUGUST 2006

  Beijing, China

  Shaquille O’Neal surveyed the thousands of Beijing citizens clamoring to get closer, craning their necks upward to steal a glimpse of his imposing seven-foot-one frame. The Chinese had dubbed him “the Big Shark” and consistently requested two things during his tour of their country: to touch him once, and to snap a photograph.

  “It is almost like you are not real,” confessed his translator.

  Still basking in the glow of his championship with the Heat, O’Neal signed a deal with the Li Ning Company to sell his own brand of sports apparel.

  Much like NBA Commissioner David Stern, Shaq had been looking to capitalize on the globalization of the game of basketball. Asia, Shaq determined, was a lucrative, untapped market. “As usual,” noted one league official, “Shaq was one step ahead of his peers.”

  The Big Shark bowed respectfully to the swelling crowd in Beijing and announced, “Hello. I’m Shaquille O’Neal and I love China.”

  Clearly the feeling was mutual. Olympic gymnastics legend Li Ning, for whom the apparel company was named, chose O’Neal as his spokesman after studying data from a poll that showed Shaq was not only one of the most recognizable stars in China but also boasted one of the highest favorability ratings.

  This was true in spite of a major faux pas by O’Neal three years earlier, when, in an attempt to be humorous in answering a question about the beloved Chinese basketball hero Yao Ming, he said, “Tell Yao ching-chong-yang-wah-ah-so!”

  Shaq’s Chinese gibberish was immediately condemned as disrespectful and racially insensitive. Yao graciously tried to diffuse the controversy by joking, “Chinese is hard to learn. I had trouble with it when I was little,” yet the furor persisted. Shaq had caused an international incident.

  Within minutes of Shaq’s blunder, his father, Philip Harrison, called him in a rage.

  “I thought I taught you better than that!” he thundered. “That stuff isn’t funny! Don’t you do that to Yao Ming. He’s your brother. Show him the respect he deserves.”

  “Shaquille, shame on you,” his mother scolded him. “You owe that nice young man an apology.”

  The apology soon followed. Three years later Shaq also extended his regrets personally to Yao’s parents in a private meeting.

  Yet the people of China had clearly already forgiven him. Li Ning announced he had commissioned a fifty-foot-tall statue of O’Neal to be built just outside Chaoyoung Park to enthusiastic roars of approval.

  In subsequent years, Baron Davis and Evan Turner would follow Shaq as spokesmen for Li Ning, which aimed to be the Asian version of Nike.

  Yet neither would have the same impact as the big man in the summer of 2006. Chinese journalists peppered him with questions, then posed for pictures afterward. One admiring reporter asked, “Can you win more rings with the Miami Heat?”

  “I hope so,” Shaq answered. “My body is a little beat up right now, but it’s nothing a little rest can’t cure.”

  More than 7,500 miles away in Miami, Florida, coach Pat Riley caught wind of the comments and grimaced.

  WHILE I WAS ROLLING OUT MY NEW CLOTHING LINE IN CHINA, Pat Riley was busy sending us letters about our body fat. He had come up with some new and improved threats, but I didn’t even open my letter. I knew I wasn’t going to make my number.

  Pat was concerned winning it all would make us too comfortable. And, to be honest, he was right. It did.

  We celebrated a little too long and a little too hard. There were too many parties, too many commercials, too many celebrations. We lost our edge.

  My trip to China was business, but it was also a chance for me to make things right. I felt so bad about what I had said about Yao. It was meant as a joke and it was wrong because the Chinese people are so honorable. It bothered me for a long time afterward. Yao was such a nice guy, and even though I was doing my usual thing by building up our rivalry in the media, I should have left it alone.

  At the time I said it, my father was in charge of my fan club mail. He called me up and chewed me out, then he told me that Yao had been sending me Christmas cards for years. Every one said the same thing: “You are my favorite player.”

  Damn. I can be such a jerk sometimes.

  When I met Yao’s parents, they were so gracious. They brought me gifts, treated me like a king. I spent five hours with them. Before I left, I told them I thought their son was a warrior. They told me he was only trying to live up to his idol.

  I felt even worse after that.

  I showed up to training camp without any chance of making my target of 13 percent body fat. I wasn’t the only one. Antoine and Posey both missed their target number and were suspended.

  The body fat crusade was on overdrive and I was tired of it. Tired of walking around drinking water twenty-four hours a day. Tired of eating food for rabbits. I told the guys, “Do you honestly think Riley was doing this in LA? Do you really think he was pinching Magic Johnson’s waistline every day?”

  Pat was pissed that we didn’t come back in top shape, so that meant he needed to crank things up.

  The workouts were longer and more intense. After a hard practice we’d have to get on these exercise bikes around the court. They hooked us up to heart monitors and had these television sets with everyone’s name on it so they could measure our heart rates. Each one of us had to keep it at a certain level depending on our age, weight, and height. Pat would pace back and forth checking the numbers, and if they weren’t what he wanted, he’d yell, “Shaq, pick it up. Pose, pick it up.” Each bike had a chip in it, and it recorded everything.

  The idea was to embarrass you into keeping your heart rate at that level. It was demeaning, but we figured out to a way to rig it. Me and GP realized if you kept tapping and rubbing the monitor on your arm it would speed up the heart monitor even if you weren’t pedaling that hard. DWade and Posey knew about it, too. Some days, we actually were smiling while we were on those bikes. I’m sure Pat was suspicious. He was probably wondering, What the hell are they up to?

  Our team got off to a terrible start. On the night we raised our championship banner, Chicago crushed us by 42 points. We lost eight of our first twelve games.

  Pat wasn’t handling it well. He was big on suits and ties on the road, but after we won a title we g
ot him to relax a little bit and go with jeans and sports coats. But once those losses starting piling up, we were back to suits again.

  DWade had a bad wrist, so he wasn’t 100 percent. Absolutely everyone was gunning for us because we had just won the title. On top of that, I hurt my knee against Houston just six games into the season. At first we thought I had hyperextended it but it turned out to be torn cartilage. I had arthroscopic surgery and missed thirty-five games.

  I was only back for three and a half weeks when DWade dislocated his shoulder. Even Pat was hurt. He took a short leave of absence because of hip and knee problems.

  Honestly? I think he really just needed a leave of absence from us.

  We were a mess.

  The media was having fun writing “I told you so.” We were too old, too “fat and happy,” too spoiled. We betrayed the discipline that got us there in the first place. Blah blah blah blah. I had to tune it out so I didn’t haul off and punch somebody.

  I resorted to what I call my SHAM strategy. SHAM stands for Short Answer Method. That’s when I start talking in very low, soft tones with one-word answers so the sound bite is practically useless. Note to media: when I do that, it means I’m sick of the same old questions. It means I don’t want to talk to you anymore. It means I’m SHAMming you.

  Even though I had been injured for a big chunk of the season, the fans still voted me as the starting center for the 2007 All-Star Game. Some reporters were squawking that I didn’t belong there, but once again I will say it: give the people what they want. They wanted Shaq. They always have. I tried not to get mad about it. When someone asked me how I felt about making the team even though I missed so many games, I told them, “I’m like President Bush. You may not like me, you may not respect me, but you voted me in.”

  As usual, the NBA was counting on me to provide some All-Star entertainment, and I didn’t let them down. We were having a “practice” at one of the All-Star jam sessions, and I started doing my break dancing at center court. I was spinning and turning on my head and doing my thing, and then I made my way over to LeBron and challenged him to a dance-off. Next thing you know the two of us are jamming together, wiggling and moving and shaking our booties. Then I shimmied over to Dwight Howard and challenged him. He answered with a few lame moves of his own, but there was no doubt who the crowd was digging the most.