Shaq (photo. Chenoa Maxwell)

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.