The feeling that accompanies being undervalued can be understood universally, even among those of us for whom confidence comes in spurts and not in a continuous stream. That auto-response of thinking oneself can do a better job than what or whoever is ingrained in most people, probably spurred by sibling rivalries or parental disagreements that led to the realization that parents don’t know nearly as much as their children. Maybe the glow of arrogance can dim a little through maturity (or maybe that’s just what I’m hoping), but the same dynamic returns in work, personal relationships, new family structures… someone’s getting more than you when you do all the hard work. Right now, Aaron Brooks has to feel just like this. And he’s probably right.
From Brooks’ rookie year spent on the bench behind a player he would eclipse with a year to his current role of the closer/best late-game offensive option Houston can muster, Brooks has never had the kind of job security that would usually accompany taking over a team midseason successfully, almost beating the Lakers or scoring 20 points a game for an entire season (en route to a mostly meaningless Most Improved Player award). His game seems to imply the disrespect and dismissal that likely comes along with being a sub-6’0″ scoring machine, the kind of player that defensive players blame themselves for allowing to score instead of chalking it up to defending the best. As such, Brooks occasionally burrows into the lane only to rise and pop up an off-balance jumper or drive directly into the heart of the interior defense (leading to an inevitable block, as they always do), so as to prove that any athletically-gifted, poorly thought-out move that a player twice his size can make can be emulated just as brilliantly and pointlessly by Brooks. Even given his Napoleon complex and occasional pettiness, the Rockets have needed his production and creativity so badly that he has been given the green light, unleashed as all halfway “offensively minded” Rockets have been in these lean times. In lieu of respectable defense or court vision, Brooks has consistently brought his oversized heart and unquestionable swagger to a Houston team that’s identity has been so wrapped up in nameless sacrifice that even considering pull-up three-pointers seems selfish.
Regardless of the efficiency of his performance, Brooks has been an able, steadying presence in that Houston locker room for several years now, making his place on the team as secure as anyone’s. The problem is that security doesn’t exist in Houston in 2011, not even for the first individual year-end award winner the team’s had since Steve Francis shared a Rookie of the Year trophy with Elton Brand (yeesh, that actually happened). No, one Manu-Ginobili-provoked ankle injury, and suddenly even Aaron Brooks can’t keep a starting gig. As previously mentioned, Brooks has been here before; he spent his first year and a half as Rafer Alston’s understudy, distracted by the 22-game win streak and playoff bustle, but the smallest Rocket was but a rookie then, not at all the little warrior that saunters the hardwood these days. That Aaron Brooks was waiting, learning, understanding. The current incarnation also thinks he’s better than the player ahead of him, once again a poor-shooting, defense-first type, but this time, Brooks has earned his due.
I’ve never been a fan of superfluous respect for the experienced or the patriarchal indulgence of diva-types, but Aaron Brooks has been as good a Houston Rocket as any over the last three seasons. Through the endless trade talks (and actual roster-shifting trades) and myriad injuries, including his own major one this season, Brooks has provided a constant spark of hope, if not always offense, because of the kind of player he is. Brooks, through his tiny pores, oozes the machismo and casualness that this hungry, bloodshot-eyed squad of role players and bit parts needs so desperately, but the team has taken its stance on him. This organization likes him but doesn’t need him (if the reader cares to remember, Brooks made his distress over his lack of a contract extension known this offseason).
That remains a fair take on the little bugger, whose current injury has saddled him and left the mini-star without the lightning-bug-esque speed that was supposed to earn him a major contract this coming offseason. Brooks, especially the worn, broken one that couldn’t even attempt to jumpstart his team when facing his greatest foes Tuesday night in Los Angeles, exemplifies the type of player that Daryl Morey would like to see the market value of before handing a fat free agent deal; he likely won’t even bring back the haul he could have this year when his departure for greener pastures (that color mostly by virtue of the pile of money he would be sitting on in a new place) seemed imminent after the season. Instead, the Brooks bounty has been reduced to a small man trying his damnedest to work through injury, for pride, for playoffs, for extra zeroes come July.
Maybe that’s all he means to the team this year, but by frittering off this tiny titan and relegating him to the bench, the team might have a hard time convincing him that Houston is home come next year. Until then though, the little guy will fight and scrap and claw and shoot and shoot, waiting for his chance. His chance at a real starting job. At the playoffs. His first real grab at that contract. Or just for some damn respect.
