It’s hard to watch.
Dear God, it’s hard to watch. This season has been an abject disaster.
Not from a rational point of view. It’s been a disappointment by any measure. The Houston Rockets wanted to be better this year. They were supposed to be title contenders. Deep, structural roster flaws have been exposed. The trade machine’s server is being overloaded in Southeast Texas (and, to be honest, from one refurbished MacBook Air in Eastern Canada).
But it’s not truly a disaster. The Rockets are likely
to have homecourt advantage in the first round of a season where their starting point guard hasn’t played a game. They have a surplus of young players and future first-round picks. It’s only been disastrous from the perspective of how much fans expected to enjoy the year, relative to how much they have. Here’s the good news:
It’s not their fault.
The 2025-26 season has been cursed. The working theory is that the team made a deal with the Devil ahead of the 1993-94 season. The Prince of Darkness agreed to persuade Michael Jordan to play baseball. In exchange, the Rockets would be wildly disappointing once per decade from the moment Jordan returned.
I’m not crazy, you’re crazy.
Rockets suffer from a generational curse
Let’s go back to 1995-96.
I wasn’t even ten yet, so I can’t offer a firsthand account. I can tell you that Houston switched from the iconic ketchup-and-mustard jerseys that they’d thrived in for so long to the navy pinstripe duds that I loved as a child and retroactively identify as a downgrade.
Although only Bret “The Hitman” Hart tickles my nostalgia bone as strongly as that little cartoon Rocket.
Anyway, the rest is history. The Rockets were still good in 1995-96. It’s hard to point to any one player’s decline and explain their shortcomings. They were, seemingly, just marginally worse than before. They could not get past the (soon-to-be revived) Seattle Supersonics in the second round, and the dynasty that never was died.
The Rockets would inexplicably acquire Charles Barkley, get worse, get old, rebuild, draft Steve Francis, get even worse, (deep breath), draft Yao Ming, trade for Tracy McGrady, and start to get better.
The 2004-05 season was one for the books. Sure, the Rockets lost in the first round. Nobody cared. They were built around a 24-year-old Ming and a 25-year-old McGrady (which, in NBA terms, was younger at a time when Tim Duncan played in college for four years). The future was bright.
And then…
The Devil came collecting. It had been ten years since 1995-96. Ming and McGrady would both miss time with injuries, establishing a motif for their time together in Houston. The Rockets won 34 games.
They’d win 50+ games for the next three seasons. The Devil was indifferent. The curse was lifted. Injuries would eventually limit their star duo’s upside, leaving the Rockets to rebuild again. They toiled in mediocrity for a few years until James Harden entered the picture. He instantly established himself as a franchise-caliber talent. In 2014-15, he and Dwight Howard would lead the Rockets to the Western Conference Finals.
And then…
It was difficult to account for. The Rockets retained most of their key players. Ty Lawson was the can’t-miss acquisition that missed, but even if it was a case of subtraction-by-addition, he was quickly out of the rotation. As it was in ’96, the Rockets were kind of just… worse.
Defenses had figured them out. Stop Harden, and you stop everyone. Howard wasn’t getting post touches, rightfully or not. Houston didn’t have a way to generate offense if Harden wasn’t cooking.
That’s why they got Chris Paul. It’s why they made another Conference Finals trip in 2017-18, only this time, it actually felt like they might win. We all know what happened and how it got us to where we are now.
The last two seasons were fun. The post-Harden tank was over. A .500 season in 2023-24 was acceptable to everyone. A first-round exit after a 52-win season last year was defensible. The team was young.
This year? Nobody is satisfied. Blame Ime Udoka’s offensive ingenuity. Blame Reed Sheppard’s size. Blame Amen Thompson’s broken jumper, or Alperen Sengun’s broken touch. Blame whoever you like:
I’ll blame the Devil.
