Two Sides to Every Star

There are two sides to every story. Two sides to every person. And when it comes to Ron Artest—now Metta Sandiford-Artest—most people only remember one.

I recently watched Untold: The Malice at the Palace on Netflix, a documentary revisiting one of the most infamous moments in NBA history—the 2004 brawl between the Indiana Pacers and the Detroit Pistons. The film pulls back the curtain on the chaos of that night, the raw emotions, the consequences. It shows the Ron Artest that much of the world has come to know—the one who laid on the scorer’s table, who went into the stands, who sparked a melee that would define his career in ways that felt inescapable.

But there’s another Ron Artest the world rarely sees.

When I interned with Pacers Sports & Entertainment at what was then Conseco Fieldhouse during the summer of 2003, we were fortunate enough to have access to the practice and main courts during lunch and after work. It was a perk, a chance to lace up and share the floor where Reggie Miller drained threes and Jermaine O’Neal patrolled the paint. I even got to play with Chuck Person once, an experience I’ll never forget. Looking back, I wish I’d stayed after work more—stuck around for those pickup runs, built more relationships with the staff, and maybe even crossed paths with more Pacers legends. 

There was one rule, though. No matter how much fun we were having, if a current Pacer or Fever player stepped on the court, we stopped. No questions asked. It was their space. We were just borrowing it.

One afternoon, Josh, a game operations intern, was getting up some shots on the practice court using the moment for himself before heading back to the grind of his internship. Then Ron Artest walked in.

Josh knew the rule. He grabbed his basketball, ready to leave. No hesitation. That’s how it worked.

But Ron stopped him.

“You wanna work out with me?” he asked.

Josh hesitated. “I don’t think I’m supposed to.”

Ron shrugged. “I need a partner. It’ll be fine.”

And just like that, Josh wasn’t an intern anymore. He was Ron Artest’s training partner.

For the next fifteen minutes, they ran sprints together, side by side. Then, Josh rebounded as Ron took shot after shot, working on his form, his touch, his rhythm. And when Ron was done, he did something that caught Josh completely off guard. 

“Now it’s your turn,” he said.

And for the next fifteen minutes, Ron Artest, one of the toughest, most feared defenders in the NBA, rebounded for an intern.

Not because he had to. Not because cameras were rolling. But because Josh had given him his time, and I expect in Ron’s world, loyalty goes both ways.

As I watched Untold: The Malice at the Palace, I couldn’t help but think about that moment. The world remembers the Ron Artest who threw a Gatorade jug in frustration the year before. They remember the man who went into the stands, who ignited a riot that changed his life and the Pacers franchise forever.

But I remember something else.

Sometimes, the truest measure of a person isn’t found in the chaos of their lowest moment, but in the quiet acts of kindness that no one sees. And long after the world moves on from the headlines, those moments—like a star NBA player rebounding for an intern—are the ones that truly last.