What the hell were we thinking?
Did it really happen that way? Were the Timberwolves actually favored by many to win the NBA championship last year? Did Potsy really put down 50 dollars at 2-1 odds for the Wolves to win it all? How in the christ did that happen?
And now, look at us. After last season, we're broke and beaten, starved and confused. Spree is probably gone. Sam Cassell doesn't look like he wants to try at basketball anymore. Michael Olowokandi would play basketball, if it wasn't for that extra 10,000 volts coursing through his system (hey, you'd go back into the club for that sweatshirt, too). Eddie Griff was last seen popping shots from the perimeter, and no, we're not discussing basketball right now. And then there's the ever-whining Molly Szczerbiak. He whines off the court (all the talk about getting traded so he can get a "fresh start"). He whines on the court (clapping his hands like a jackass when he's open. Hey Wally, a lil tip for you; Sam Cassell isn't going to pass the ball to you, ever, so you might as well kill the monkey shines impression).
But then there are beacons of light. Bright, shining stars who's illumination sparks the Target Center and floods it with a magestical glow.
One of them is Kevin Garnett. He's the best basketball player on the planet. Probably one of the best of all time. He could tell me to sell drugs to 6 year old kids, and I'd do it. I mean, it's KG.
Another one is Mark Madsen. Ol' Dirt Dog, don't mean to be rude. I hope he plays for us next season. He's got the whole package. Note: In this instance, "the whole package" means "a desire to rebound, which is strangely lacking from anyone else on the team besides KG".
Another is Fred Hoiberg. I love the Mayor. I mean, seriously. Almost disturbingly, when you stop and think about it, which I rarely do. Eventually, Mr. Jacobvon is going to author an article called "Why Fred Hoiberg Kicks Your Goddamned Ass - A Play Told in 99 Acts", and it's going to be superb.
Of course, they had to saw open his sternum to correct an aneurysm in his aorta, which is just super! Get well soon Fred. Because without you, I have no center. You complete me.
The last shining star on the team could be Rashad McCants. Let's see, can he drive to the basket? Oh my god! What, he doesn't just dribble up the court and pop a shot as soon as he gets to the three point line like a certain point guard (I'll give you a hint, it's actually two guys. Their names start with "S" and "T" and end with "am Cassell" and "roy Hudson", respectively). And he doesn't just "ole" opposing guards past him into the lane for a free open shot? Amazing! He's like Spree, only he's trying!
Of course, he could end up choking Dwane Casey after practice. That might be a letdown. But he's no Isiah Rider. Bank on it.
But, you know, I'm a glutton for punishment. I like my basketball like I like my father; abusive and hurtful. I like the infighting, the contract squabbles, the fired coach and the GM who looks like he would fit in better at a mortuary, and I don't mean as one of the employees. I guess I'm just glad the Wolves are interesting to watch. Because I watched Tod Murphy play. I sat through Thurl Bailey. I've snapped awake in the middle of the night, unable to get the image of The Brew out of my head. At the very least, it's fun to follow this team.
So yeah. Sign me up, Timberwolves. Let's get on this crazy wagon again and see what happens.