Shaq, take 2 aspirin and call next time

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© St. Petersburg Times
published August 20, 2002

Poor Shaq. Poor, poor Shaq.

The big lug had the sniffles. So get off his back, okay?

Yep, you all should feel pretty guilty by now, considering all those mean things you were thinking about Shaq. Here he is, at death's door, fighting to rebound. Talk about sick. The poor guy could barely endorse his check.

This is the trouble with being a star. No one understands. Shaq has places to go. Shaq has people to see. Shaq has Pepsi to drink. Wait! Shaq has a cough! Someone call a doctor!

Poor Shaq. Poor, poor Shaq.

Maybe someone should hold a charity event for him.

As diseases go, few people know about the horror of the Celebrity Flu. It's incurable, untreatable and, until the press clippings start to go badly, completely undetectable.

One minute, you think you feel just fine and then -- wham! -- your publicists are telling you that, hey, you've been sick. Maybe you should lie down, because if you're going to lie, what better direction? Why, you have a temperature of 101. No, wait. Make it 103! Thank goodness Shaq didn't find out on Monday he had lost a leg over the weekend, too.

Sick? Oh, man. This is worse than the West Nile virus. Scratchy throat. Pounding head. And a complete loss of conscience.

George Jones used to get the Celebrity Flu all the time. Remember Ferris Bueller? He darned near died from it.

Now, Celebrity Flu has claimed Shaq as a victim. He was so debilitated, in fact, he didn't even have the strength to call someone and tell them that he wouldn't be able to make three celebrity events over the weekend.

And furthermore, ka-choo.

Could someone get this guy a blanket? Now!

Personally, I believe Shaq when he says he is sick, and I believe that it's a lot tougher on him than, say, Dikembe Mutombo. (On the other hand, I also believe in UFOs and the comeback possibility of WorldCom.) If it were up to me, I would immediately stop all medical research and have all the doctors dedicate their time to helping. Because this is Shaq.

Now, a less trusting sort would suspect that, hey, maybe Shaq wasn't sick after all. Maybe a cynical, snide columnist would believe that Shaq couldn't be bothered to make the trip for pocket change such as his $50,000 fee. Maybe a skeptic would notice that this sudden talk about illness is awfully convenient, and that at least one member of the team of surgeons at his side could have made a phone call for him.

Not me. I have witnessed the horrors of the dreaded "fever." I have seen what happens to Kleenex. It isn't a pretty sight.

I have no doubt that Shaq pulled himself out of bed Saturday, looking like the front end of a NyQuil commercial, and in his raspy throat whispered, "I can't disappoint the kids, Doc. Give me a Contac."

Then, as he moved toward the door, a team of doctors swarmed over Shaq, physically dragging him back to his bed. Once there, they took away his cell phone and ordered him to stay there. (Someone should sign those doctors, because evidently, they're much more physical than, say, Chris Webber.)

Yeah, yeah. Say all you want about Jack Youngblood playing a game with a broken leg and Ronnie Lott cutting off the end of his finger to play a game.

Shaq was running a temperature!

Do they have a Purple Heart for basketball?

So go ahead. Suggest that, no matter what the measurements say, that Shaquille isn't such a big man after all. Suggest this is what is wrong with pro athletes, that they feel no kinship with their fans, and no responsibility when kinship has been purchased. Write this off as the cost of hero worship when it's aimed in the wrong direction.

Hey, Shaq is 7 feet 1. He doesn't have to look into all those eyes, 3 feet from the floor, who went there to see him. He doesn't have to listen to their disappointment. If heaven wanted these kids to see him, it would have turned them into Kobe, right? In the meantime, they can watch his commercials just like everyone else.

People came from a long way away? They paid a lot of money? It was for charity? Tough. Hey, he's Shaq. And he's busy drinking plenty of fluids. Not only that, but did any of them bother to send a card?

(I am certain that, at any moment, we will discover that Tracy McGrady, too, had a horrible affliction strike him. Psoriasis, perhaps.)

Big man, big target. It's sad, really, how many people expect Shaq to be, you know, a decent guy. How they expect him to care. How they expect him to honor his commitments.

Hey, he's Shaq. He's a star. He's bigger than commitments. He's bigger than charity!

Don't take issue with the guy. Take tissue.

Hey, I'm sure Shaq feels horrible, and it's worse than congestion. I'm sure that, any day now, he's going to refund the check and, in fact, match the figure with a donation of his own. I'm certain that he's going to find every person who had signed up and have them over to his place to play video games. I'm certain that he's going to show us a note from his doctor.

Just as soon as he gets over this nagging cough, you know?

Brave Shaq. Brave, brave Shaq.

And, big fella?

Gesundheit.

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