Lula’s Diner wasn’t much to look at. Its neon sign flickered like a bad memory, and the coffee was strong enough to wake the dead. But every morning at exactly 10:13, Shaquille O’Neal—Big Shaq to the locals—walked through the door, nodded at Miss Jodie behind the counter, and claimed his usual booth by the window.
He always ordered two breakfasts. One for himself—scrambled eggs, turkey sausage, wheat toast, black coffee. The other plate varied: pancakes, steak, soup, banana bread. It didn’t matter what it was. What mattered was where it went.
A few minutes after Shaq sat down, a man the town called Dusty would slip through the door. He wore three layers of clothes, a battered Marine Corps cap, and boots that had seen more miles than most cars. Dusty never begged, never spoke. He’d sit at the far bench, near the exit, eyes always on the door. Shaq would rise, carry the second plate over, set it down, and return to his seat. Dusty would nod, and that was all.
At first, folks thought it was charity. Maybe a publicity stunt. But weeks passed, then months, and the ritual never broke. Curiosity turned to gossip. Some said Dusty was Shaq’s brother, others a war buddy. A few whispered that Shaq was paying a debt only the two men understood.
One morning, Dusty limped in late, a fresh tear in his coat, eyes more haunted than usual. He left a napkin on Shaq’s table—a sketch of a desert, a downed helicopter, two men, one dragging the other to safety. Shaq stared at the drawing for a long time. The boots in the sketch matched Dusty’s.
Miss Jodie, who’d seen more secrets than most preachers, watched the exchange. That night she found another napkin in the trash. This one showed Shaq, injured, being dragged through smoke and sand. The name on the wounded man’s chest: ASHA. She folded it, slid it into her register, and said nothing.
The next day, Dusty didn’t show. Shaq waited, two plates cooling. He left a tip and walked out into the quiet, the absence of Dusty sitting heavier than any words.
That night, four black SUVs rolled into Belleview. No plates, tinted windows, engines humming low. They parked around the square, silent and watching. Townsfolk noticed. Troy Banister, a retired Marine with a limp and a loud mouth, muttered, “They’re not here for pancakes.” Miss Jodie locked the doors early.
The following morning, Shaq arrived before dawn. Miss Jodie poured his coffee without asking. At 10:13, Dusty appeared, more alert than usual. He didn’t sit. He laid a napkin on Shaq’s table—this time, a sketch of Lula’s, four black SUVs parked outside. Then he vanished.
Later, a stranger in a gray suit entered the diner. He showed Miss Jodie a photo: a younger Dusty, clean-shaven, in uniform. “Joel Briggs. Sergeant First Class. Missing in action, Kandahar. Took sensitive materials, abandoned post.” He left a business card, a stack of cash, and a warning: “He’s not what he looks like.”
The diner fell silent. Shaq picked up the photo, stared at the name. Joel Briggs. The man who’d dragged him from fire and sand. The man who’d vanished so others could live.
That evening, Miss Jodie found a flash drive hidden under Dusty’s bench. She plugged it into her old register computer. The file was grainy helmet-cam footage: a firefight in the desert, chaos, Briggs dragging a wounded man—Shaq—through gunfire. Later, in a tent, Briggs’ voice: “They called the strike anyway. I’m not letting this one disappear.”
Miss Jodie called a meeting after dark. Shaq, Troy, Lucy from the flower shop, even the mayor’s aide. They watched the footage in silence. Troy spoke first: “He didn’t run. He stayed long enough to know too much.” Miss Jodie nodded. “Heroes are harder to bury when they stay visible.”
The next day, the diner filled at noon. Locals, the mayor’s rep, Sheriff Carter in plain clothes. Miss Jodie dimmed the lights, played the footage for all to see. Shaq spoke quietly: “A man you called Dusty didn’t just carry scars. He carried the truth. He saved me, then disappeared so others wouldn’t be buried under lies. We don’t bury the truth in Belleview. Not anymore.”
Outside, the SUVs idled. But inside, the town had made its choice. The secret was no longer theirs to hide.
By dawn, Dusty was gone. No note, no trail, just an empty bench. Miss Jodie arrived first and found the back door ajar. Everything was untouched, but everything had changed. Shaq came in, sat at his booth, nodded at Miss Jodie. She brought two plates, same as always. The second plate became a fixture, a silent memorial.
One morning, Shaq found a napkin under the bench. The drawing was gentle: Lula’s diner, golden light in the windows, people laughing. In the center booth, Shaq sat across from a man with a scar over his left eye, both raising their cups in a silent salute. No words, just the image.
Shaq folded the napkin, slipped it into his pocket, and walked inside. Miss Jodie set the two plates down with a look of recognition. Shaq moved the second plate closer to his side of the table, just a touch.
And for the first time, he spoke, voice steady: “To some folks, it’s just a meal. But it was never about the food. It was a debt—not one I owed out of guilt, but one I carried out of respect. You never really know what war a man’s fighting. Could be bullets. Could be memory. Could be silence. And you sure as hell don’t know what piece he’s paying forward.”
The diner was quiet, but not from fear. It was reverence. The second plate stayed, a promise kept, a story told not in words, but in ritual.
And Belleview remembered.
From franchises to Frosted Flakes, Shaquille O’Neal has changed what it means to be a retired athlete
Shaq is everywhere.
Laughing it up with Charles Barkley on TNT. Serving as the post-crisis face of Papa John’s pizza. Fist pumping for Carnival Cruise Line. Hawking Epson printers, air fryers, Icy Hot, car insurance, cereal and Shaqtoberfest.
“I’ve always been a businessman who is athletic,” he said during a 2013 interview on CNBC.
There have been greats. There have been savvy athletes-turned-businesspeople. And of course, there have always been big personalities.
But none have melded it together into a multimillion-dollar, airwave-dominating, viral moment-making empire quite like Shaquille O’Neal.
Current and former L.A. Times staff members selected the 75 greatest Lakers players as the club prepares for its diamond jubilee.
The legendary NBA big man is now known to an even wider audience from the plethora of products he endorses, his basketball commentary on TNT and his extensive business portfolio, including such unrelated firms as the Majority ad agency, Ring doorbells and his own fast-food chain, Big Chicken.
“I think his brand is stronger now than it has ever been,” said Natasha Brison, an associate professor at Texas A&M who specializes in athlete branding. “He’s literally reshaped what it means to be a retired athlete.”
O’Neal’s sweeping interests make him ubiquitous in the business world and on your television screen.
He’s a big believer in franchising, and over the years has owned 40 24-Hour Fitness gyms, 155 Five Guys restaurants, at least one Krispy Kreme doughnut shop, 17 Auntie Anne’s pretzel stands and nine Papa John’s pizza places. His Big Chicken chain will soon have 18 locations across the country and on two Carnival Cruise ships and offers its own franchise opportunities.
He’s appeared in commercials for Icy Hot, the General insurance, Buick, Frosted Flakes, Novex Biotech, Reebok, Google, Pepsi, Ring, Gold Bond, JCPenney, PointsBet sports betting and Tonka.
Shaquille O’Neal’s fried chicken chain Big Chicken opened a Valencia location in 2022 and will soon have 18 outlets across the country and on two Carnival Cruise ships and offers its own franchise opportunities.
(Big Chicken)
He’s worked with live events companies such as Thirteenth Floor Entertainment Group and Medium Rare to produce Shaqtoberfest Halloween carnival at the Queen Mary in Long Beach and the Shaq’s Fun House Super Bowl festival.
He’s partnered with Zales, Macy’s and AriZona Beverages to put out his own Shaq-branded lines of products, including Soda Shaq, a giant can emblazoned with O’Neal’s grinning head.
He’s a board member at Papa John’s, a founding partner of Majority, which focuses on diversity in advertising, and a shareholder in Genius Brands International, a children’s media company with which he’ll have an animated show titled “Shaq’s Garage.”
He’s a strategic advisor for Forest Road Acquisition Corp. II, a special purpose acquisition company that looks for companies to merge with and then take public.
He’s a brand ambassador and strategic consultant for mobile sports betting app WynnBet, a deal that forced him to sell his minority stake in the Sacramento Kings last year to conform with conflict-of-interest rules.
Shaquille O’Neal surprises an Atlanta resident at her home during a campaign to publicize a Papa John’s education initiative in July 2022. O’Neal owns several Papa John’s restaurants and sits on the company’s board.
(Todd Kirkland / Associated Press)
He’s the second-largest independent stakeholder in Authentic Brands Group, a brand management firm that owns the likenesses of celebrities such as Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley and O’Neal himself and also buys distressed apparel and athletic brands and tries to turn them around.
The company owns Reebok — one of O’Neal’s earliest endorsement partners acquired in a deal he pushed for — and earlier this year, Authentic Brands said it would acquire surf brand Boardriders, which includes Quiksilver, Roxy and Billabong.
(He’s also a DJ, though that reportedly isn’t a moneymaker.)
O’Neal’s business holdings are indeed so extensive that his team has hosted a “Shaq Summit” for several years to get representatives from all of his brands and partnerships together in one room and plan out their campaigns.
