If you knew me in high school and ever found your way to my bedroom you'd find my walls were pretty bare. I wasn't one to fill a room with tons of pictures and posters - so long as it had a bed I was very much content.
However, up until I graduated and left for college, there was always one framed 18x30-inch poster that hung across from my desk - one I looked at every day and drew a bit of leverage from in my adolescent years. It was white, with the word "CONFIDENCE" stretched across the bottom frame, all supporting a photo of the 90's era Chicago Bulls big three - Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen and Dennis Rodman - on a three-and-one fast break, Rodman and Pippen setting up the offense, and as always Jordan taking the shot.
The only difference, unlike most of Jordan's finer moments, in an hardwood-induced allegory of the confidence the poster claimed, and hardly seen on any Jordan-grazed poster worldwide, this shot was being blocked. Every morning as I woke up and night asIi went back to bed I'd look at that blocked shot and find some way to regain my own confidence and something in myself - all because the player blocking that shot had always been a staple of confidence for me.
In more ways than one, I capped off a childhood of gathered support with my poster of Shaquille O'Neal.
Now, before I move on, let me be frank: I know I'm going to get a ton of flack for this. I live in Northern Utah, a geographical region where any faint smell of Laker purple is about as frowned upon as death by guillotine, and I'm sure there are times when I ask for it. In recent years I've tried to avoid playing the sports card in discussions with persons because trying to support my teams only to recieve the aura of betrayal stopped being fun. I've never enjoyed prancing through the streets and being labeled the "bandwagoner" or the fan who lacked judgment, and to be honest, who does? Basically, in this state if it's Pro-Laker or Anti-Jimmer, there's a chance you could get your license revoked, so you learn quickly to keep your mouth shut.
With that said, before you all role your eyes and shoot mental arrows as I take a moment to speak on the upcoming retirement of great player, bad actor, even worse rapper and all around fun guy was Shaquille O'Neal, I just hope you'll take a minute and let me share why this day is as somber for me as it is, and why Shaq, the "Big [insert here]" is one on a strong list of people who have given me reason to be who I am today.
My mother died in her sleep when I was nine years old, a mere three years after we lost my youngest sister in a car accident. My three older siblings and I were left with questions, concerns, and lots of broken-hearted words, and it didn't look like it would get any better any time soon.
And if I could be honest, it didn't.
No more than a week after my mom's funeral we packed up the little we had, leaving the firewood-laden cavern of Koosharem, Utah (I'm pretty sure we made up at least a quarter of the population) and made stay with our father in Los Angeles. Me, my sisters and my then one-year old nephew were all confined to a guest room in a make-shift garage, under the care of a father who wasn't there when I was born, never there when I was a kid and didn't show intense signs of being too affectionate then. In the years since my dad and I have found a better relationship, but there was no questioning that life at that point - to be blunt - just didn't seem worth living.
I hated LA. Loathed it. Blame it on the smog, the amount of people, possibly the dead palm fronds ever falling from the trees, but it took forever and a day for me to feel welcome in the town. For a long time, there was just nothing to look forward to. Was I scared? Of course. Was i ever happy? At times, but not often. Did I want to end everything? I'd be lying if I said I hadn't. And that was it. A small white kid in a black and Hispanic neighborhood with no mom to seek comfort, no camaraderie to get it off my mind, and nothing to accompany me but the ever-red lit Southern California sky. I hated it. Every little bit.
Fast forward to 2011. Sufficeth to say, things have picked up a little. I'm happier. I'm in college. Heck, there are even days when I catch myself smiling. There is no single aspect of my life that isn't better, and I can say with confidence that I can credit two things that got me on the road to finding worth in my life: membership in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and Laker basketball.
I remember when I first noticed the man that was the Shaquille O'Neal. My then close friend Cameron Newman, who was a limber giant in himself on the friendly confines of the Eagle Rock Elementary School playground told me all about this purple ad gold basketball team that did everything for the city of LA but fix it's plumbing. He'd brighten up as he'd go on about players like Rick Fox, Derek Fisher, Robert Horry, Glen Rice, a young prodigy by the name of Kobe Bryant and numerous others. And then he'd stop, look off for a moment, and talk about Shaq - the seven-foot, brick wall, power lane drilling behemoth whose talent and drive were as big as his smile.
I'd chat with my dad, who lived and breathed the colors as he watched Magic, Kareem and the boys in the 80's turn the team into the franchise it is today, and do everything to hide his faint smile while doing it. For years I watched basketball, but finally thist was starting to stick. And better yet, as I was looking into to it by myself, the team was getting good,mighty good. Twenty-wins-a-row good. Excitement filled the air, energy came into my life and chants of "this is our year" became a staple to a town full of hopefuls - all led by this talking tree who had quick hands, a quicker spin move and a presence that seemed to breathe life into his entire squad. Some days the guys would be down, but you'd be damned to see that of Shaq - if they were going to get anywhere it was going to be on his shoulders.
And that's where it started. I finally got excited about something. Something I could relate to and cheer for and use as a crutch. You can laugh, but for the first time in a long time I had a reason to live.
If I had time and space I'd go all into every single moment and memory accompanied with the joy of watching the then number 34 take the court. The blocks, the dunks, the smile, the on court antics, the off court antics, the antics performed to take breaks from the usual antics. I remember being in my living room when he scored 61 points on his birthday. I was in the stands when he hoisted his only regular season MVP trophy. I honestly remember giggling a little bit when he nearly took off Brad Miller's head, shoulders, knees and toes with his fist and forearm after a heard foul. I remember him leaping in the air to catch Kobe Bryant's absurdly perfect alley-oop pass and careen it in to the hoop with one hand and exuberantly point into the stands to cap off the 2000 Western Conference title, and overcoming a 17-point deficit to do so. I can still remember two weeks later when he walked off the court with soft tears in his eyes after winning the first of his four career NBA titles followed by his water gun-fueled rap sessions at the championship parades in downtown LA. And watching it? Good gracious, it just felt good.
Everything else in my life was a mess, but at least for a few months out of every year I got to enjoy the big man in his prime. I got to watch him be the first to prove basketball could move on after the Jordan era took it's bow. I got to experience him subliminally teaching me that it was okay to feel happy about something. When he was on the court, nothing else was on my mind. When he'd flash his always noticeable and dangerously infectious smile, I smiled along with him. Finally I was no longer the white kid with the dead mother. I was a fellow Laker fan, I was even a small part of something great. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
So,yes, maybe he should have retired a couple years ago. Perhaps he did make some sub par decisions because that evidently never occurs with human beings let alone professional athletes. But in full sincerity, I don't care a small bit for that. The man could have done far worse, but for the sake of his character, his devotion, his drive and his way of at least giving a ten-year old, scrawny lil' Mormon lackwit a reason to live and love living, I will forever raise my glass to the Big Diesel, the Big Aristotle, the urban-style genie, the rock-solid beacon of slam that was Shaquille Rashaun O'Neal. Love him, hate him, heck, foul him with under two minutes left, but none can doubt that as he leaves the sport, Shaq leaves as one of those who leave a profound dent in the annals of basketball history. But hey, better left there than on Brad Miller's dome piece.
So, thanks Shaq. I've found joy in my life over time, and I feel there is a road to success for me, and a small part of that I owe to you. You leave a legend of the game, and a vibrant character to be missed. And when welcome you to the Hall of Fame, we will know firmly that you were a very special part to a very special game.
And, yes, we can dig that.
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