Read Shaq Uncut: My Story for Free Online

trying to improve my flexibility, especially in my hips.
    There was only one problem: I still hadn’t dunked in a game yet. I was getting close, and physically I finally had the coordination to do it, but part of it was psychological. I just wasn’t sure about it. What if I missed? I didn’t want anyone laughing at me.
    Joe was trying to help me out. We started out by dunking a sock. Once I got comfortable with that, I tried dunking a tennis ball. Next it was a softball, then a volleyball, and then, finally, a basketball.
    But dunking in an empty gym with my friend Joe was a lot different than pulling it off in a game in front of fans and family—especially my father.
    Early in my junior year we were trying tobreak the press, so Doug Sandburg threw the ball to me in the middle, and I decided to take it all the way. I’m dribbling up the floor and I lay in a nice little finger roll, only there’s a little too much spin on it, so it kind of falls off the rim. All of a sudden I hear my father in the stands yelling, “Call time-out! Call time-out!”
    I refuse to look up at him. I know it’s him—everyone knowsit’s him—but I’m not the damn coach, so how the hell am I going to call a time-out?
    But Sarge isn’t taking no for an answer. Now he’s coming down out of the stands, and thank God the other team calls time-out. We’re about to get in our huddle but my father grabs me and says, “What’s with the finger roll?” I told him, “I’m trying to be like Dr. J.”
    “What the hell did you say to me?” he screamed.He grabbed my uniform and hauled me through a side door out of the gym. My coach is standing there and all the players are watching, but no one is going to mess with my father.
    We are standing in the hallway and the buzzer is sounding because the time-out is almost over but Sarge doesn’t care. He’s banging me in the chest. “The hell with Dr. J!” he roared. “You start working on being ShaquilleO’Neal. Now you go out and dunk the ball!”
    He knew. He knew I was afraid to dunk it. He knew the only way he was going to get me to do it was shame me into it.
    I went back on the court and I got the ball and I threw down a monster dunk. I mean, it was vicious. And then I realized,
Man, this isn’t so hard. I can do this
.
    Once I started dunking I couldn’t stop. I loved the power of it, andIwas addicted to the looks of terror on guys’ faces when I slammed that sucker over them.
    It couldn’t be the only part of my game, I understood that—but it could be
the
part of my game.
    My learning curve was still going up, up, up. When I wasn’t in the gym I was stealing a little bit of something from all the great players I was watching on TV.
    One of the first guys I can remember paying a lotof attention to is Patrick Ewing. I just loved him because he was so mean. He ran around the court with a scowl on his face, and he always looked like he was ready to beat the crap out of everybody. You could tell people were afraid of him. I’d watch him and think,
Yeah, I need some of that
.
    When I was in high school and stuck inside on punishment because I did something Sarge didn’t like, I’dsit back and watch Michael Jordan and Ewing and take all sorts of mental notes. Now when I closed my eyes, I wasn’t dreaming about the Hulk or Superman anymore. I was dreaming about Ewing and Jordan.
    At this point people are saying I’m not going to make it as a basketball star, but they don’t know I’ve decided to kidnap Patrick Ewing’s mean streak.
    I was a rookie with the Orlando Magic the firsttime I ever met Patrick. We were playing at Madison Square Garden, and my plan was to shake his hand and say, “Hello, Mr. Ewing,” but before I got the chance he punked me. I went to shake his hand, and he wouldn’t. So I went to put my fist out and he hit me real hard on my knuckles. Then he said, “I’m going to bust your ass, rookie.”
    Ewing was mad because everyone was talking about me like Iwas