(Photo by Stephen Dunn/Getty Images)
This letter is also an assault on the Rockets’ brass for not believing in your talent as I did.
A relapse into locker-room and team-chemistry killing mode?
No way.
GM Daryl Morey didn’t make you any offer, according to the Houston Chronicle, because he worried that an underpaid Artest on a young team without its star foundations would corrupt a winning atmosphere.
He let you walk to a team that didn’t need any more donations.
When Morey realizes his decision was as bone-headed as Chris Wallace’s in Memphis last February, he’ll tell fans he’s sorry.
I move that both GMs be required to wear, “Yep, I’m a moron” t-shirts every time the Rockets or Grizzlies square off against the Lakers.
Remember that Morey landed Luis Scola, Carl Landry, Brent Barry, and eventually you for nothing.
Until this lapse of stupidity, the numbers guru was a front office deity.
How does one get the better end of lopsided exchanges or signings four times in a row?
Trading Rafer Alston, though he did reach the NBA Finals, also proved to be the right move since it stunted Aaron Brooks’ development.
That I’m slamming Morey now should show how much I think of you.
The combustible Artest on the defending champions?
It will work swimmingly.
Los Angeleans will rue those selfish spells where you think you’re better than No. 24—and let’s be honest—Kobe’s no more a professional than Shane Battier, so he won’t stop them.
They will groan every time you murder the defensive game plan with your own bad ideas.
Phil Jackson may wear 10 championship rings, but he can’t do any better with you than Rick Adelman did.
That would be Adelman, the coach you offered to give up money to play for in Sacramento.
You will woo them, though, the same way you wowed me.
Hear this prediction: By December, L.A. Times columnist Bill Plaschke will regret writing that you were the wrong choice for the Lakers.
I loved you. He will, too.
Trevor Ariza as a superstar?
Is this a comedy festival or a basketball forum?
I love what the 24-year-old UCLA product did as a role player in the Lakers’ postseason run, but he’s no you.
As I conclude this heart-spilling-onto-the-page confessional, I want you to notice that “love” is written in past tense.
When Rockets fans cascade you with boos, know that it’s the uniform and the circumstances of your decision, not you. Think Carlos Beltran and Roger Clemens without the dishonesty and doping.
No one can rule out backstabbing, though.
Any sensible fan appreciates what you brought as a tough-as-nails rental.
How many playoff series had the Rockets won after 1997, before you arrived?
Morey should chew on that for the rest of the summer and the duration of the miserable lottery season sure to await this doomed, cursed ball club.
I can’t love you in that uniform.
In this rocky evolution of our strange relationship, we have arrived back at the “hate” stage.
This time, the reasons are different. You are a better citizen than most think and a helluva teammate.
I wish my hometown team still felt the same way.
A fan of your toughness always,
Robert Kleeman
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