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Remember playground ball back in the day?

You used to toss alley-oops up to yourself and throw it down just like Michael. No, you couldn’t dunk; rather you pulled of the dunk-lay-up maneuver, then checked to see if anybody was looking.

You used to shoot the three with Reggie. You watched the shot clock in slow-mo until it finally got down to the final seconds, and fired the trey for the buzzer beater.

Sure, you might have missed, but in that case you got fouled.

If you’re a kid today, you’re probably doing the same thing. You’re Dwyane Wade, squeezing between the opposition and dishing to Shaq for the one hand finish. You’re Dirk Nowitzki, landing the turn around J over three defenders.

You might even be Ben Wallace sending shots into the stands beyond the chain-mail fence.

But you’re not Ron Artest.

Nobody plays backyard ball as Ron Artest. Not even the darndest little Indy fans, complete with their Pacers backpacks and pajamas and bed sheets, are Ron Artest.

And why should they be? First of all, everybody wants to be Jermaine, maybe Tinsley or Stephen Jackson, maybe the rest of the starting five… hell, you might see the youngin’s shooting the 8 footer with Scot Pollard before you catch them balling in the #23 jersey.

What would they pretend to do? Huck TV monitors across the driveway? Start fights with any spectators that walked by? Maybe they’d just ask to change teams and play with the other kids.

Artest needs guidance. I don’t know who should give it to him, or whether he needs discover these things for himself, but please Ron, get real.

The last thing the Pacers need, in the midst of very-attainable championship hunt, is a parasitic demeanor like that of Artest’s obliterating any hint of chemistry. We don’t need to talk about the man’s skill. Any NBA buff not hailing from Indiana can tell you at least one story about their go-to guy getting shut down six ways to Sunday, and any scout could show you how he went from an offensive afterthought to a twenty-point-scoring beast, but all of that is inconsequential once you cross the boundaries Artest has become so used to crossing.

To sum everything up, Artest has made it him against the world.

He knows he needs help. He knows he’s hurting the team.

He knows that he’s finally reached that forbidden point in his career where every GM that might have wanted to make a trade for him has to contemplate how much its worth to bring an ideological and physical threat to their team. Because that’s what Ron Artest is - a threat - and there’s no two ways about it.

And there are plenty of teams that would take Artest. I’d be willing to bet any sum of money that the Celtics would move right up the standings if they traded Artest for Paul Pierce, straight up. I guarantee they would win at least 40 games and make the playoffs with relative ease.

And then something would happen. Something, some catastrophic calamity that only Artest is capable of brewing up, would ensue, breaking all chances of a championship run. And I’m not talking about the Detroit Pistons.

It’s a pitiful state of affairs, the fact that a player with such potential could squander a career without the hindrances of drugs or alcohol, or even lack of a decent team. What John Stockton and Karl Malone could never make up for in teammates Ron Artest might never do with his own sanity.

But there might be a glimmer of hope for Artest - just look at Rasheed Wallace.

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