He can't help it, he's a Texan, a native of Houston. And though he married my Utah native daughter, his passion for the Rockets, Astros, and yes, even the Texans, knows no bounds.

He even stayed loyal when the Texans blasphemed by passing on native son Sir Vincent Young, and he's standing by the Rockets, although their fuel tanks are unquestionably all but fizzled.

Aaron Bales, I love him, even in his Rocket mourning.

My wife left for Houston Wednesday to see Aaron's offspring, my grandkids. This gave me a perfect opportunity to call and peek inside the mind of a die-hard Rockets fan, see what's ticking, how bad it's hurting. Just how close to a meltdown are folks in Houston on this day of Game 3 with the Jazz, up 2-0 and back in their hornets nest of a bailiwick?

Aaron agreed to bleed. And let me examine the drip.

Now, don't castigate Aaron for speaking his mind — it was my dime. Just accept him as a nameless blank-faced Rockets fan, willing to open up.

You have to understand, Rockets fans seriously dislike the Jazz. Even before John Stockton's bomb snatched the 1997 playoff series, the Houston contempt for Utah knows no bounds.

Example?

After Utah's win in Game 1 in Houston, radio and TV talking heads reflected back on the 1994 playoff game between Utah and Houston in Salt Lake City. About 13 seconds remained in the game, Utah had an inbounds pass to try and tie it or take the lead, and seven to eight seconds ticked off without the clock starting.

"People brought it up, not to say the official working the clock had made a mistake, they brought it up to say, 'See, this is how the Jazz people cheat, this is what we have to face next week,"' said Bales.

Aaron provided a Youtube link to the incident and a Houston TV sportscast reviewing it again this week. It is found here on the Internet, or if you do a search, it's titles, "The Utah Jazz home-court 'advantage'" on the famous cyberspace video site.

If you review the broadcast, you get the flavor of Houston hatred for the Utah Jazz.

While Aaron's little family lived with me this past year as he finished his degree, one day I put a Karl Malone jersey on my pixie-faced, 3-year-old grandson, Jackson. Aaron came home, took one look at his first-born son and I might as well have placed the kid in a scalding bathtub. He immediately got on eBay and ordered a Yao Ming jersey, banned Jackson from ever donning Jazz colors again, and began indoctrination parrot sessions for the kid to say, "The Jazz stink. Goooooo, Rockets."