My Mea Culpa

How I learned never to doubt these Houston Rockets

Jason Friedman
Rockets.com Staff Writer

Houston - I hate being wrong. I mean I really, really hate it. In fact, even the added emphasis within the previous sentence probably falls far short in accurately conveying the utter contempt I feel upon finally seeing the error of my ways. It’s almost as if the English language lacks a word powerful enough to capture the essence of the emotion I’m attempting to describe; “hate” just doesn’t cut it. Because while I love being right, I positively loathe being wrong.

Not the most attractive personality trait, I’ll readily admit.

Why, then, would I go through the trouble of volunteering this ugly little truth? For one reason and one reason only: So that readers might fully appreciate the enormity of the situation when I reveal that I stand here today positively giddy to have been proven so wholly and woefully wrong by this year’s edition of the Houston Rockets.

Yes, I picked Portland in seven. Yes, I feel like a fool. And, yes, I have suffered the consequences (something having to do with “America’s worst haircut). Yet I couldn’t care less about any of those things right now. Being wrong never felt so right.

Oh, I’ve been sadly mistaken before. I recall bemoaning the day Houston passed on an opportunity to draft Harold “Baby Jordan” Miner and instead chose some lanky nobody by the name of Robert Horry. I once went through a stage when I wore two Swatch watches on the same wrist (at the same time, too, of course) thinking that was the very height of cool. I even remember predicting that Nicolas Cage would eventually star in a movie that wasn’t horrible. Oops.

Yet those were mistakes borne of youth and ignorance. I have no such excuses to offer in my defense this time. For if anyone should have known better than to underestimate this team’s talent, heart and resilience, it is I – a person who’s had the pleasure of following this club for seven solid months and witnessing those aforementioned characteristics up close and personal on a daily basis.

I’ve seen firsthand the dedication of Yao Ming, the passion of Ron Artest and Shane Battier’s attention to detail. I watched as this unique amalgam of talent and disparate personalities persevered through a litany of mid-season torments and travails only to rise above the turmoil by banding together and becoming a team in the truest sense of the word. And I’ve witnessed the calm, experienced and steady presence of Rick Adelman, the man who continued to believe when believers were scarce, and whose unflappable personality and unshakeable conviction made so much of this team’s eventual accomplishments possible.

Reflecting upon those things now, it seems inconceivable that I would have bet against this rather remarkable collection of men, to say nothing of the hundreds of other Rockets employees who also live and die with the results of every action which takes place on the court. From Daryl Morey’s tireless basketball operations staff, to the incredible work put in by the various departments that keep this extraordinary machine running smoothly, it’s difficult to fathom a finer assemblage of talent, devotion and creativity. A pick against the Rockets was a pick against them all. Little wonder, then, that I ruffled more than a few feathers with my selection.

Yet the fact that I was even allowed to do so offers further proof that I work for one of the best organizations in the world. The creative freedom I’m allowed is something I cherish on a daily basis and do not take lightly. I daresay there are very few teams which would have allowed its own writer to go public with such a prediction, especially on its own website. That I was permitted to write honestly and submit such an unpopular stance speaks volumes about the franchise for which I work.

It also explains why I don’t feel the need to apologize for my painfully flawed prognostication. The only thing I deeply regret is the sentiment shared by some that my pick serves as an indicator of my loyalty (or lack thereof), when, in fact, the exact opposite is true; for the same principals that implore me to stubbornly – and, in this case, stupidly – stand by my beliefs are precisely the ideals which would compel me to staunchly defend the incredible people of this organization come what may. Predictions are often nothing more than 50-50 propositions – my loyalty is not.

All that having been said, I’ve definitely learned an important lesson over the past two weeks: Doubt this team at your own peril. The national media may have already broken out the shovels in an attempt to bury the Rockets’ season, but I will do no such thing. Sure, the mighty Lakers present the most formidable challenge possible and there are myriad reasons to believe LA will emerge victorious. But after seeing how this Rockets team responds to being written off and having its back against the wall, I simply refuse to dismiss its chances.

So no predictions of doom and gloom this time. In fact, I’ll offer no predictions at all. Don’t mistake this as a cop-out or an act of atonement - some want me to keep a good thing going by picking against the Rockets once again; others suggest I make amends for past transgressions by hopping aboard the Houston bandwagon. I’ve simply decided to take the Brett Favre approach and spend my summer in semi-retirement contemplating my future. Maybe I’ll resume the prediction business this fall. Then again, maybe not. An anxious nation holds its breath awaiting my decision, I’m sure.

In the meantime I’ll continue savoring the memories of a night which proved me so laughably incorrect. The Rockets and the city of Houston got what they deserved that evening and it was a beautiful sight to behold; euphoria and relief both blended together into one deliciously intoxicating cocktail. Watching the celebratory scene unfold on the court and in the locker room, it was impossible to avoid the realization that everything – the pain of past disappointments, the rehab, the sleepless nights, the grueling hours – this team and its fans suffered through was all willingly done just for the chance to experience four such nights per year. It’s a rare thing in life to encounter that degree of dedication and passion, and only a fool would dare doubt the power of such a potent combination after having witnessed it firsthand. Lesson learned.

Last week I wrote about the importance of learning from one’s mistakes. Now I suppose it’s my turn to practice what I preach. I have seen the error of my ways. This team has proven me wrong and I love it.

So bring on the Lakers and dismiss these Rockets at your own risk. I did and now sport the world’s worst mohawk as proof. Yet I’ll wear it with pride because it not only serves as a reminder of how painfully wrong I was, but also how deliriously happy I am as a result. And if I, of all people, can honestly say those words, then surely absolutely anything is possible and nothing is out of reach.

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