I moved around a lot as a kid. New York. Pennsylvania. Maryland. Massachusetts. House. Apartment. Condo. School to school. Public to private. I never really felt settled, never felt completely home. I tried to stay in touch, but once you leave someone’s life, you can never totally get back in. The door isn’t locked, but it’s closed. They move on. You’re stuck on the past.
Whenever I could, I tried to go back. To the old YMCA where I used to hoop. To the funeral home where we played baseball. To the street I lived on as a baby. Going back always brought memories, always uncovered thoughts, ideas, pictures, moments in time. Sometimes, they stayed the same. Often it was random.
With Shaq, one memory dissolves into another. There are too many. 19 seasons. That’s what it does to you. 1,423 games. That’s when things get blurry. 33,846 points – regular and postseason. That’s when you know you’re old. When he was drafted, I hadn’t even discovered the game yet. When he retired, my career was already over.
Shaq was real. Fans will splatter criticism. He was never in shape. He didn’t care enough. He was too nice. Too fun. Too goofy. He was too real. Brad Miller knows ’bout Shaq’s real. So does Vlade. And so does every reporter who ever covered him or anyone who ever knew him. Shaq was the neighbor. He was the older cat who showed you the ropes on the playground. He was the varsity starter who put his arm around you when you were just a confused underclassman. He was all of that, except he was 7-1, 350. The M.D.E.
That’s why he failed so many times early in his career, a goliath with problems stepping away from teenage games. That’s why he could never totally be the selfish superstar, forgetting about guys like Jared Dudley or Mark Madsen. That’s why late in his career, he backed away, convinced of his descending value, doubting himself.
Sometimes we get so caught up in what a player should be and don’t acknowledge what he is. Time passes. Every moment is captured, released and never returns. We will never again see Shaq at 28. My childhood is over and Shaq isn’t the same guy. No more 40-20s. No more MVPs or championships. It’s all over. Did I take enough of it in? I don’t know.
It makes you miss the old days, the Star Wars with Kobe, the nights you didn’t know whether the big dog was going to come out and guard the house or whether he was going to sit back, aggravated and annoyed, and watch Showboat go. It makes you miss watching Orlando come of age, Jordan vs. Shaq, the original.
Shaq was the adhesive that kept it all together, the NBA from Jordan to Duncan to Kobe to LeBron. He was there all along, the one constant, the biggest and most entertaining mouth in the league.
I wonder what Kobe will remember about him? What about Phil? What’s he going to think about? Horace Grant? Scott Skiles? Rick Fox? Penny? Pat Riley?
In a statement released yesterday by David Stern, the NBA’s commissioner had this to say: “For 19 seasons, Shaquille O’Neal was literally and figuratively an NBA giant. On behalf of the NBA, its teams, and his millions of fans around the world, I want to thank Shaq for everything he has meant to the league and to the sport of basketball, both on and off the court. We wish him and his family all the best.”
This December, I was in Boston checking in on Paul Pierce for a story in Issue 62. Perfect timing. I finally got to spend some time with the Diesel, ironically in his final season.
Now Shaq didn’t do much on the court that night; he played 21 minutes, scoring 11 with just five boards, and got lit up for 17 and 14 from Roy Hibbert. Back in the day, that would’ve never happened. But the Diesel took it in stride. His ego was hurt, but it didn’t kill him.
In the locker room afterwards, in typical Shaq fashion, he joked he wasn’t impressed with Hibbert. AT ALL. Repeated it over and over. “You know me,” he kept telling everyone. Then he went down the line of reporters there, most of whom were Boston media that talked to him nearly every day. “I know you. I know you. Y’all know me,” he was pointing his index joint in faces. “I know you, and you and…” Finally, he stopped on one reporter. Stoic. Silence. His finger hanging in the air, face locked-in. “But I DON’T know you.” C’mon Shaq? Why you gotta single someone out like that? I said to myself. Embarrassing wasn’t enough. After about five awkward seconds, he dropped the stone face and finger, and let out the widest grin you’ll ever see on a seven footer. He started laughing with us. Typical.
Shaq knew a whole lot of people, seemingly every person he ever came in contact with, and we felt we knew him. The biggest player ever represented all of us. Funny how things work sometimes. He was one of us. He was real. Nothing about him was scripted. He was ironically normal.
Shaq is gone now. Well, he’ll still be around (on TNT hopefully, and will have his jersey retired in L.A.). But the doorway to his playing career is all locked-up. The memories are frozen. With each passing year, another new class of youth gets introduced to the game and the memories of O’Neal fade further away.
Forget the all-time rankings. Forget the numbers and whether he could’ve been better. I won’t remember that, won’t immediately think, “He could’ve been better than Kareem.” If that’s the first thing popping in someone’s brain, then it ain’t right. Because if that’s what you saw, what you’ll remember, then you missed out.
What was Shaq’s best performance in an NBA Finals?
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