When Danny Green entered the NBA as the 46th pick of the 2009 draft, he already knew what it meant to be part of a championship culture. Fresh off a storied career at North Carolina, the transition to professional basketball should have been another step in a journey he’d been preparing for his whole life. But nothing—not even the pressure cooker of March Madness—could have truly prepared him for the whirlwind that was his rookie year with the Cleveland Cavaliers, and more specifically, with the legendary Shaquille O’Neal.
The Arrival
Green landed in Cleveland with a sense of awe. The city itself may not have the glitz of Los Angeles or the buzz of New York, but to a young rookie, it was the center of the basketball universe. LeBron James was already a deity in Northeast Ohio, and the Cavaliers’ locker room was filled with veterans who had seen it all. But towering above them all, both literally and figuratively, was Shaq—the Big Diesel, the Most Dominant Ever, a four-time NBA champion, and a man whose presence could fill any room, any arena, any city.
“I was the only rookie,” Danny would later recall, the memory still vivid. “We had another guy, but he got sent back overseas. So, it was just me. And Shaq—he didn’t hold back.”
The Hazing Begins
NBA rookies have long been the subject of hazing, a rite of passage that ranges from harmless pranks to outright humiliation. For Danny, being the lone rookie meant there was no one to share the load, no one to deflect Shaq’s attention. The big man’s reputation preceded him: he was known for keeping the locker room light, but also for making sure rookies earned their stripes.
It started with the donuts. Every morning, before the sun had even considered rising over Lake Erie, Danny was up. There was only one Krispy Kreme in the area, and it was a 40-minute drive outside Cleveland. It didn’t matter if the team had a late game the night before or if snow was piling up on the highways—Shaq wanted his donuts, and Danny had to deliver. If he didn’t, there were consequences.
“They’d kick the balls in the stands,” Danny laughed, remembering the absurdity. “If you didn’t have the donuts, you’d be running all over the arena trying to collect them. And you had to be early, too—two and a half hours before everyone else.”
Pledging to the Vets
But the donuts were just the beginning. Shaq, ever the showman, decided Danny needed to “pledge” to the vets, turning the locker room into a fraternity house. Every day, Danny had to greet each veteran in a specific way. If he got it wrong—even a single word—he faced the paddle. Fortunately, this wasn’t the wooden board of old-school hazing; Shaq and the others used a foam roller, but the embarrassment was real.
“Brother Shaq, Brother Mo Williams,” Danny would intone, trying to keep a straight face, hoping he remembered everyone’s nickname. “If I messed up, I’d get the paddle. Shaq would just laugh. He was always laughing.”
The pledging went beyond greetings. Shaq’s imagination knew no bounds. Some days, Danny would walk into the locker room to find Shaq running around, towel barely hanging on, trying to wrestle unsuspecting teammates. Other times, Shaq would sneak up behind him, light on his feet despite his 300-plus-pound frame, and tackle him to the ground.
“You never knew what was coming,” Danny said. “Shaq was just a big kid. He kept everyone on their toes.”
Lessons in the Locker Room
Despite the hazing, or maybe because of it, Danny found himself learning more than he ever expected. The Cavaliers’ locker room was a masterclass in professionalism and camaraderie. Mo Williams, Booby Gibson, Anthony Parker, Jamario Moon, Anderson Varejao, and Zydrunas Ilgauskas—each veteran had something to teach.
LeBron, for all his status, was a clown in those days, always ready with a joke or a prank. But he was also fiercely competitive, and Danny could see how seriously he took the business of winning. “I think he learned a lot when he went to Miami, playing under Spo and Pat,” Danny reflected. “But even then, he knew when to flip the switch.”
Shaq, for his part, was more than just a prankster. He was a walking, talking encyclopedia of NBA history, and he made sure Danny understood what it meant to be a pro—on and off the court. The hazing wasn’t about humiliation; it was about building resilience, about teaching a young player how to handle pressure, how to stay humble, how to earn respect.
The Push-Up Rule
One day, in the middle of a team meeting, a phone rang. Instantly, the room erupted in laughter. Shaq had instituted a rule: if your phone rang, you owed 25 push-ups, right there, no exceptions. The offending player—dubbed “Ringing Rotisserie Ray”—had to drop and give them 25, even if he was in the middle of rolling a joint or tying his shoes.
It was silly, it was juvenile, but it brought the team together. “Even the bad moments were good ones,” Danny said. “I appreciated all of it.”
Looking Back
Years later, Shaq would apologize to Danny for the hazing. “He still brings it up,” Danny smiled. “But I accepted it. It was all love.”
For Danny Green, that rookie year was a whirlwind of donuts, foam rollers, and push-ups. But it was also a time of growth—a crash course in what it meant to be part of something bigger than yourself. He soaked up every lesson, every prank, every moment of awe watching legends like LeBron and Shaq up close.
“I was a sponge,” he said. “I learned so much from everybody. And honestly, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
Because in the NBA, as in life, sometimes the hardest lessons come wrapped in laughter—and maybe a box of Krispy Kremes.
