Dreaming Big May Have Adverse Side Effects, Light Sleeper Says.

A few months back I received an email. “You’ve shattered my dreams,” the first sentence read. Puzzled and concerned, I read on.

“The reason your blog shattered my dreams is because it’s SO GOOD, and I realized I have no hope of getting this writing opportunity I applied for, sad,” read the email.

As tone is lost in text, I didn’t know whether to feel victory or defeat. It was stirring. My dad sometimes tells me my blog is good, but this was an outside party confirming goodness. In my lifetime I have disappointed persons, I have made persons cry, but I’d never shattered anyone’s dreams before. This was somewhat of a landmark. It was inspiring, and was the first time I’ve ever created hope by simultaneously destroying it. That email still inspires me to keep this blog going.

This reminded me of the second time my dreams were shattered (the first was the full disclosure of Santa Claus). I was 12. We were on a family trip to Los Angeles to visit my Uncle Marcus. At the time, L.A. was home to 3-time NBA champion Shaquille O’neal.  Like many kids, I thought Shaq was the coolest human on the planet. He was funny. He was tall. And obviously, he could ball. Shaq was 7’1’’. I wanted to be 7’1’’ someday. 

We were staying with Uncle Marcus, whose girlfriend had recently been released from an administrative role with the L.A. Lakers.  She still knew the security guard and was able to get us into the Laker’s practice facility parking lot before the team rolled in one morning.

We waited outside the doors with our sharpies and sports memorabilia like hungry puppies waiting to suck the sweet nectar from the teat of championship glory. It was just me and my little brother waiting for Shaq with our parents looking on from a distance. I had recently watched all the subpar films starring Shaquille O’neal (Kazamm, Steel, Blue Chips). I had even wasted $4 of my parents’ money by renting his video game “Shaq Fu” when I already had a far better version of the same game (i.e. Mortal Combat).  I had his rap albums too, and I didn’t care if he sucked at rapping, or free throw shooting.

Regardless of the poor quality of Shaq’s alternative career pursuits, he could do no wrong in the eyes of my 12-year-old head. This was the day I would meet Shaq. Here I stood, on the stoop of my destiny in Los Angeles, California.

Sure enough, all the players came rolling in with souped up Cadillacs and oversized SUV’s. They were all there; Rick Fox, known for his dashing good looks and marriage to actress Vanessa Williams. Horace Grant, known as a legendary role-player to Michael Jordan, and of course Kobe Bryant, known by some as being better than Michael Jordan. Every one of them was friendly, signing our Laker caps and posing for a picture. We met the entire team, minus Shaq. We couldn’t have missed him?

It was 7:59 a.m., just one minute before the start of practice. Still no Shaq. Laker team policy stated that players would be cracked with a fine if they showed up late. It was something like $3,000. It was now 8:01 a.m. Shaq was definitely getting fined if he didn’t show up with a medical excuse from a doctor.

As time passed, my little brother and I began to lose hope. The Big Aristotle was a no show. As we walked to the gates to exit, a humungous Cadillac Escalade came trucking though the security entrance. We dashed back to the player entrance. This was it.

The Cadillac door opened. It was not Shaq, but a short black man in a shiny leather jacket. He looked hard as nails.

“What is this?!” he shouted at the security guard, pissed that two kid superfans would be delaying players’ entry. “They’re friends of the program”, replied the security guard, attempting to cover his own ass for letting us in. Little kid NBA fans were not permitted on the premises.

Turns out this short man was Shaq’s body guard. Another dark silhouette lurked behind the passenger side tinted windows. The door clicked open. Shaq emerged from the passenger side door in a grey jumpsuit similar to those sported by Vanilla Ice in 1990. I was starstruck and scared speechless. I feared Shaq would be pissed for showing up late and getting fined. And he was.

I remember trying not to pee a dribble in my pants as Shaq approached my brother and I. He towered over us, casting a Frankenstein-sized shadow over the parking lot. We were the only thing between him and the door. Just us and our sharpie markers. Shaq’s face was negate of smiles as his body guard bitched out security for letting us in. We shouldn’t be here.

I wanted to ask him questions, like why he let popstar Aaron Carter beat him in a game of one-on-one. How many backboards has he shattered? Did he take kung fu in preparation for Shaq-Fu? I wanted to ask these things, but fear manhandled the muscles around my jaw. This was not the smiley, huggable Shaq of mainstream media. This was behind-the-glory E Hollywood Story Shaq. The Shaq that rapped about thuggin’ and would later freestyle “Kobe How My Ass Taste?” on Youtube. This was the dark side of Shaq that allegedly cheated on his lady, (according to Kobe Bryant.) His giant yellow eyes peered into the bottom of my soul as my inner self said over and over, “Shaq hates me.”

I died a little inside that day, leaving the Laker practice facility feeling a little bad. It was all unnecessary anxiety. I had convinced myself of ruining Shaq’s day and costing him further fines from the Laker franchise. But my 12-year-old heart would later learn to understand that my hero hadn’t let me down, he just hadn’t lived up to my expectations. There was truly a valuable lesson to be taken from this.

Set the bar low. An encounter with Shaquille O’neal had been hyped up in my mind for years. Not to mention a young mind tends to magnify the fantastical element in a small-boy’s thoughts. The bar was simply set way too high, and that garners expectations. Expectations are usually synonymous with crappy things like stress, pressure, and let downs. People don’t go to a Bob Dylan concert expecting him to sound like he does on the old records. The show will have a greater probability of sucking. It sounds pessimistic, but it’s truly just realistic. People shouldn’t order the “Perfect Pushup” from an infomercial and expect to get a Fabio six-pack of abs. But they do.

When you’re little you dream big, and dreaming is dangerous no matter how old you are. From youth, we’re often told “Dream big, dream big. Follow your dreams.” While that’s said with good intentions, it’s the same stuff sold by motivational speakers exploiting mental weakness at three easy payments of $39.95.

“Dream small” may be the way to go. It sounds lazy, but it’s strongly vigilant after all. Shaq didn’t shatter my dreams, I shattered my own humongous, fragile dreams. The night before our encounter, Shaq probably dreamed about walking into practice unbothered, swishing a few free throws and dunking in some fool’s face. That is a small dream, an unshatterable dream that has led to great success.

I don’t want anyone’s dreams to be shattered for anything.  "Dreaming small" might be the answer. You can’t control the dreams in your sleep, but you can control the dreams when you’re awake. They’re powerful and shouldn’t be tampered with. A dream can get Beyonce into your bed, but it can also put Freddy Krueger underneath it. In actuality, almost everybody gets to dream, but almost nobody gets to sleep with Beyonce. Jay Z probably dreams small...and dreams often.