A Letter to Ron Artest from a Houston Rockets Fan

(Photo by Stephen Dunn/Getty Images)

Dear Ron,

This will be a lot harder for me than it is for you.

In mere months, you will try to help a franchise with 15 championships win its 16th. The Los Angeles Lakers nabbed that latest trophy in mid-June.

So much for not letting the obese go through the buffet line again.

My hometown team, the one you just left, could suck for the next decade. Your departure will be as responsible for that as Yao Ming’s career-threatening injury or Tracy McGrady’s alarmingly lengthy medical bills.

I understand why you did it—taking mid-level money to play for the defending champs and alongside future Hall of Famer Kobe Bryant. Any 29-year-old of your ability level with a title satiation would do the same.

That doesn’t mean I like it or that I won’t hate you for it.

See Ron, I grew to love you in Houston Rockets red.

More on that later.

Daryl Morey wants me to get excited about Trevor Ariza, but he should know better.

He’s young, lean, and athletic, but he’s also nowhere close to being an All-Star. He can’t change a team’s aura the way you can.

A competitive defensive team with you on it could land a superstar-caliber player next summer. Such a roster would promise title contention.

A lottery team with Ariza on it will get jack squat.

And while we’re on that 2010 subject, I hate the idea of mortgaging an entire roster or tanking a season just to throw money at a wet dream.

I don’t think Chris Bosh is a superstar, and I don’t want him on the Rockets.

Amar’e Stoudemire and his overpriced stupidity can apply elsewhere.

LeBron James and Dwyane Wade—the only two guys from that “marquee” list who might be available and are capable of carrying a team to the NBA’s mountaintop?

They are not coming to Houston and they never were.

When the Houston Chronicle first reported that lopsided trade with the Sacramento Kings, I was too shocked to come up with a thoughtful response.

I didn’t think the Rockets’ front office had the courage to make such a deal, and before last summer, I didn’t want you here.

I once said I would disown the San Antonio Spurs or Rockets if one of them signed you.

I called you a "thug" and a "cancer" and wondered how such a talented two-way player could waste his career dabbling in malevolence.

Then, you put on a Rockets uniform, and I realized I was wrong.

You played as ferociously as any athlete I have watched and cared as few of them have.

The Rockets already had defensive testicles. You encased them in titanium and flaunted them for the irritated rest of the world to see.

I put up with those wild fadeaways at the end of the shot clock, those Steve Francis dribbling tributes and refusals to run the called play because at least you played hard.

A certain “No. 1,” who will again usurp $23.5 million of the team’s payroll, sucks at that competition part.

Remember that double-overtime game against the Detroit Pistons in April that had no business lasting that long?

The Pistons nearly stole the game with Rasheed Wallace, Richard Hamilton, and Allen Iverson on the injured list. None of those three were even at Toyota Center.

On the last possession of regulation and the first overtime, you opted not to get the franchise center the ball—and he was shooting 80 percent from the field—so you could win it like Kobe or D-Wade.

Clang. Clunk. Brick.

Second overtime.

Barely a win.

I forgave you for that and the other times you reverted back to that Sacramento, one-on-five offense.

On the flipside, there are memories of that 93-74 spanking of the 66-win Cleveland Cavaliers in February. LeBron James, with you haranguing him for most of the night, shot an abysmal 7-for-21 and failed to record an assist for the first time in his career.

That defensive clinic counts for something, right?

I loved you.

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