In elementary school, I spent too much time in the principal’s office. I was such a frequent visitor that I even knew where Mrs. Campbell kept the extra box of tissues—I often needed them. I knew that room so well that when I returned several years later, my first reaction was, “Mrs. Campbell, you rearranged your office.”
Ron Artest probably feels the same way about NBA commissioner David Stern’s office. He has spent so much of his career sitting in timeout in Papa Stern’s fancy Manhattan suite that he has a tent with a sleeping bag in storage.
But hopefully the next time Artest visits Stern’s office he will ask the same question I did, and maybe get his sleeping bag back, too.
The troublesome forward was traded last week from the Indiana Pacers to the Sacramento Kings for sharp-shooting Serbian forward Peja Stojakovic, ending a season-long saga of trade rumors and a nearly two-month long stint on the inactive list.
You would think Artest would be grateful, excited, and remorseful, but no one can figure him out.
The seven-year veteran was largely indifferent; happy to be moving on, but emotionless about his return to the court or his new or old team. One of his few comments was that Kings’ owners Joe and Gavin Maloof seemed like good guys.
Artest still appears not to understand that he is fortunate to still be in the National Basketball Association.
Two years later, the man broke the ribs of His Airness. That’s right—Artest took out Michael Jordan in a pick-up game in Chicago. I can only image the rage on Stern’s face when Artest endangered the face of modern basketball.
Just breathing on MJ was a foul. Injuring him was cause for eliminating Artest from the league, or worse.
Unfortunately, Ron-Ron’s run-in with Jordan was the least of his problems. Over his career, he has been suspended longer than Larry King’s pants. He boasts the record for longest suspension in league history; 73 games, thanks to his bullish charge into the stands in Detroit, which ignited one of the most horrific scenes in sports history.
It cost him—four million, nine hundred and ninety-five thousand dollars to be exact.
But Artest has paid his dues—literally and figuratively. People want him gone, but forget he is only 26 years old—not to mention a defensive specialist and one of the best all-around players in the game.
Once I left elementary school for middle school, I never revisited any principal’s office. I can’t even remember their names. I needed a change of scenery; new surroundings, new people, and a new life.
That could be exactly what Artest needs, too.
Editor’s note: The views expressed in this article are those of the individual author and do not represent the views of The Polytechnic or the sports department.
