Shaq’s about to eat five gyros. Autogyros, specifically: two red ones, two white and one blue, as if painted for a Fourth of July airshow. The stage matches the garishly patriotic colour scheme, Yankee Stadium’s field paved over with plinths daubed in stars and stripes. Shaq himself is dressed like Evel Knievel dressed like Uncle Sam, but without the beard or hat. With that grin and that enormous stature, it would be impossible to mistake him for anyone but Shaq. A hundred cameras pick up the sweat criss-crossing his brow, and a manic, queasy smile is smeared across the Jumbotron for a sold-out stadium crowd. The plinths with the gyrocopters are squatting on first, second and third base, with two in the outfield. Shaq himself is on Home, standing but not waving to the crowd, as if about to receive an Olympic medal. Anticipation, confusion and worry beat down on us like the August heat.
“He’s not gonna do it, is he daddy?” My son clutches tight to the hem of my basketball shorts. Like a lot of people, I dressed up to come here: the crowd is a sea of uniforms, with a few Cavaliers and Bulls scattered around and even a handful of Phoenix Suns, but most of us are Lakers. The yellow doesn’t suit me, but my boy said I could be Isaiah Thomas.
“There’s no way, even if he had one bite he’d get super sick!” my son adds, genuine worry on his face. He’s not the only one with concerns. When Kanye West’s ‘Power’ announced Shaq’s appearance onto the field, only a third of the packed stadium could find the heart to applaud. Maybe Shaq’s already sick, I want to say. Maybe Shaq’s been sick for a long time and this is just the culmination, the shark-fin above the water that we’re seeing too late to stop. Maybe we’re all sick for calling his bluff.