My rookie year, I was very immature.
I don’t fit into the mold of the NBA man, and I think I’ve been punished financially for it.
I felt like calling attention to AIDS. I had the AIDS ribbon colored into my hair during the playoffs in ’95.
I learned a lot I wouldn’t have learned roaming the streets of Dallas.
The life I was leading was changing me into someone I didn’t even know.
The Bulls talked to just about every person who ever met me.
Sometimes I’m not even satisfied when I got 6 points and 22 rebounds, because I’m always looking to do more.
Some people want to have controversy between the races.
People are threatened by me. Rich white, rich blacks, it doesn’t matter.
I didn’t want to be known as Madonna’s playboy, her boy toy.
I can’t begin to describe the amount of crap I’ve taken for being a lousy free-throw shooter.
Death has always had a prominent place in my mind. There are times when I think somebody might kill me.
I went from five foot eleven to six foot eight, and the more ball I played, the more I caught on to the game.
I couldn’t care less if the guy I’m guarding has HIV. I’m going to slam him anyway.
With me, everything’s right on the table.
Wherever there’s money, there’s drugs, so to say drugs don’t exist in the NBA would be stupid.
When they gave me that trophy, bro, I cried.
Karl Malone’s too high-class for a bum like me.
They didn’t have a problem with me being wild and crazy when it came time to fill the arenas.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be an NBA player. This is all some fantasy world that I have no right to live in. I was just a kid from the projects who was always too skinny or too funny looking to be taken seriously. I was the kid they called the “Worm” because of the way I wiggled when I played pinball. Me, living this life, with women and money and attention everywhere? It didn’t seem real.