Thunder Go Boom

     "It's important. But I would like to see us get to a point where this is not a big deal. 

It's a big game against the best team, but this is something we can do.''

-Rick Adelman

     Lovin' this quote by Coach A after the T-Wolves' 99-93 homecourt victory over the Oklahoma City Thunder, owners of the current best record in the NBA and, until last night, a 12-game winstreak. The Wolves need Adelman to talk like this, and the team needs to think like this in order to contend--and not just be happy to rebuild and maybe make the playoffs--this season. With the personnel and coaching assembled on the Minnesota roster, there's no reason that--if at full strength--the T-Wolves couldn't be right there in the Western Conference Finals playing against the Thunder for a trip to the NBA Finals. 

     Five shout-outs from last night's game go to:

JJ BAREA

     It was nice to see JJ Barea display the cojones. His 14-point fourth-quarter explosion was just the kind of thing the Wolves signed him for, the kind of thing he occasionally did for the 2010-title-winning Mavericks that earned him the four-year NBA contract with Sota. It can be frustrating watching him pound the ball 17 times in a single halfcourt possession without passing only to drive to the hole and throw up some non-foul-getting trash. But when he's hitting that lovely threeball and dishing and gnatting it up on D all while being only 5-foot-8, he's fun to watch. 

ALEXEY SHVED

     Alexey Shved is shaping right up to be the T-Wolves' missing link at the 2-guard. I'm still salivating at the thought of Shveddy and Rubio eventually getting in sync out there and one-upping each other by flicking beauties to each other and their teammates. Last night's career-high 12 assists to go with a solid 12 points and 7 rebounds was another big step for this 24-year-old rook.

WOLVES INSIDE PLAY

     Made the Thunder look a bit pansy last night. But when the rugged likes of Nikola Pekovic, Andrei Kirilenko, and a less-whiny, more carom-collecting and defensive-minded Kevin Love are going to work for your team, tell me who in the NBA has three skilled bruisers to match? Throw in the woodsy shot-blocking charms of The Steamer and you've got some serious chest hair.

     Love (28 and 11) and Pek (24 and 10) had the stats last night, but here was a game where stats definitely don't tell the entire story because Kirilenko was most the Wolves most valuable frontcourt player. He only had 9 points, 4 rebounds, 2 assists, no blocks, no steals, and the man he was assigned to for much of the game was OKC's Kevin Durant, who scored 33 points. But AK 47,000 does the little things. Spaces the offense by being in the right place. Back cuts to keep the opposing D honest. Is a threat to nail a threeball. Wears on his man, playing straight up, don't need no help D. Fouls at smart times. Gambles at right times. Boxes out his man so somebody else can get the sexy rebound. Gets on the floor. Talks to Kevin Love at the free throw line. Smiles when it's appropriate--you know, like to lift your teammates' spirits. Hustles. Has an extra sensory mode he can call on with fellow Russian Alexey Shved. It wouldn't surprise me if, after the game, he runs down to the laundry room to get towels for the guys if they're short in the locker room, or double-knots Pek's snowboot laces for him, or gives an extra sweater out of his duffel bag to any teammate who hasn't dressed properly for the Arctic weather. 

We three kings of orient are
Tra-veled o-ver to Johan's Bar

CARR AND BEST

     Got in some one-on-one-on-one with two fellows of quality fabric. Even though neither drank enough beer for my liking, Thursday night be damned, they got me out of Katotown for some much-needed hangtime and discussion. 

     Sometimes I feel like if I could get in a gym and play just a single best-of-seven series of one-on-one b-ball versus these guys per week, each game by 1s and 2s up to 9 points (win by 2), my life would be instantly better. They'd have to get used to me beating them regularly again, of course, but the exercise would be good for them, would offset the pain of being defeated time and time again.

JOHAN'S SPORTS BAR AND GRILL

     Cheers to Belle Plaine's homey Johan's, last night's meeting den for the game. Never been there before, but after last night's visit I can certainly say I wouldn't hesitate to go there again. A good halfway meeting point between Kato and the Twin Cities, for sure. May I recommend the Beaver Burger? The Nordeast or Sam Adams on tap? Maybe some bingo against the locals?

Return of the Rubio

     Isn't it nice to watch basketball played with ease? With flair? With joy?
     With leader of the pack Ricky Rubio back in place, the Timberwolves downed the Dallas Mavs in OT Saturday night at Target Center. Though the Spirited Spaniard played a mere 18 minutes out of the 48 minutes possible, he dictated the tone of the way this game was played, had a hand in the outcome, and reminded those who tuned in why basketball is the best game out there. I mean, really, beauty-wise in Minnesota sports, who can beat Tricky Ricky on the fast break? Maybe the Vikes' Adrian Peterson cracking off a long run complete with a juke or two, a broken tackle, or a stiff arm. A Twins' Ben Revere wall catch is now a thing of the past. But then when Ricky does that five or six times in 18 minutes of court time in his return from an ACL tear? No contest.
     Beyond the 9 assists, 8 points, and 3 steals Rubio put up, he repeatedly made his teammates look great by passing to them for open shots. Luke Ridnour's never had more open threes in a game, nor has JJ Barea, and the pass he threw to Greg Stiemsma between his legs was a unbelievable beaut. He fed Pek a laser for a lay-up that tied the game with less than a minute left and nearly won it with a gutsy threeball in the closing seconds of the fourth quarter before the game went to OT and the Wolves' defense took control.
     Absent from the game was one Kevin Love thanks to a sprained thumb suffered the night before in the win in New Orleans. Probably fortuitous for Minnesota, the way Love's been shooting (and acting). Other Wolves stepped up their games, including Kirilenko (who was all over the court), Derrick Williams (who had 16 points and 6 boards in 19 minutes after collecting a lot of dust on the bench the last couple weeks), Greg Stiemsma (three blocks, a pair of buckets, and some necessary toughness against Derek Fisher in a mere four minutes on the court), and Alexey Shved (18 points and 6 assists and the first two points of overtime, which set the tone for the Wolves' endgame runaway, in only his second career start).
     I love this team, and I had a great time watching the game in my living room with my minis and my wife. Archie, in particular, (wearing TWolves headband and shorts) logged more than two hours of time on the TV room hoop, throwing 48 behind-the-back passes to me in the rocking chair and throwing down 213 dunks on the night.
     We love Ricky around here. Ricky loves the game and treats it right.

P.S.: Saw an emotional moment from the closing seconds of the Boston at Houston game Friday night where Kevin Garnett paid a visit to the opponents' bench to offer love to his former GM and mentor Kevin McHale, current coach of the Rockets who recently lost his 23-year-old daughter to lupus. Yeah, these guys never fulfilled promising expectations as main cogs in the Minnesota Timberwolves franchise from the mid-90s through the mid-2000s. But sometimes, you have to stop and appreciate, especially in the midst of sorrow, which is certainly on all Americans' minds in the wake of yesterday's Connecticut schoolshooting, which is now dominating the news.
     Kevin Garnett was a great player with the Wolves for 12 years, and he brought fans a lot of joy.
     Kevin McHale and his wingman Flip Saunders had a great run of winners in Minnesota, a franchise that was in tatters before them and has been after them. I imagine the pain McHale's feeling these days is as close to unbearable as it gets.

The Trouble With Mr. Double-Double

   
     In 1998, 22-year-old Stephon Marbury was the second-best player on a Minnesota Timberwolves team that was on the brink of something special. The Timberwolves had just come off the first winning season (45-37) in franchise history the previous campaign, and with budding superstar Kevin Garnett and leading scorer Tom Gugliotta by his side--with excellent veteran players Sam Mitchell and Terry Porter (who would both later become head coaches in the NBA) there for support--Marbury, the team's high-revving point guard, held the keys to a very sexy automobile.
     Then the NBA owners locked out the players--in part because the Glen Taylor signed Garnett to a $126 million dollar contract, which was more than the team, or any team, could afford. When the lockout ended, the Wolves made numerous mistakes (see this excellent article by Steve Aschburner written last year, about it) and Marbury realized that the most he could make under the newly-reached deal was $71 million, or $55 million less than Garnett, and demanded a trade because he couldn't handle making so much less than someone he saw as his equal, in terms of star power. Which led to the Wolves giving in and traded Marbury to New Jersey. Which led to a plummeting of the Wolves' potential. Which led to them never finding another point guard with the same zoom, a chemistry with the same verve, or much success in the playoffs.
     And what did Marbury get out of it? Well, he stunk enough on a cruddy New Jersey team to get traded to the Phoenix Suns where he played well but never had any teammates at the level of, say, a Kevin Garnett, and then he got traded to the Knicks. But by that time, his greed and poor attitude had overshadowed his ability, and then he subsequently got a bold head tattoo and was soon eating Vaseline and crying on the Internet at the end of his NBA career.
     Fast forward to today, and the issues Minnesota's having with Kevfon Lovebury.
     By now you may've read Adrian Wojnarowski's story over at Yahoo Sports that features Kevin Love unloading on T-Wolves management, decrying the lack of respect with which he feels he's been treated since Minnesota signed him to a four year, $62 million contract rather than the maximum five year, $80 mil deal, and suggesting that the Wolves don't get him any help or know what they're doing. I have a number of issues with Love's gripe. Let me bust out some roman numerals to list them off.
  I. You signed the deal, Kevin. You. Signed. The deal.
  II. You signed the deal last year. Your chance to complain has long since expired.
  III. You have a $62 million contract over the next four years. Sixty-two million dollars is a lot of money to make in four years. A lot of people, including me, would be thrilled to make one-quarter of a million dollars in the next four years. Thrilled. You will be paid 248 times the amount that I would be thrilled with making while doing a job I would be 64 billion times more excited doing than the job I have now. A lot of Americans don't have jobs since the recession. Try not to be 248 more times out of touch than you should be.
  IV. The max deal is for Ricky Rubio, not you. Rubio's the one who comes in and makes the whole team look better, including you. This is a big part of this problem of yours, I sense--that you're not the alpha wolf. Fair enough that you want to be. But look how the team did with you "leading the way" before Rubio came. Look how the Wolves instantly improved when Rubio showed up last year. Look how the team has fared since you came back this year. Watch how it will play when Rubio gets back. Marked contrasts.
  V. That hand injury still stinks, and you launching flat-assed threeball after threeball while attempting to work out the kinks in your broke stroke isn't helping this team. You think Rubio's going to come back and try to break a bunch of ankles on his repaired ACL? No. He's going to throw sweet passes and take care of the ball. You, Kevin, should park your ass down low and hit the boards.
  VI. You need to play some defense. The one-on-one D isn't scaring anyone. The help D is virtually non-existent. The greats play both ends of the court. Until you buy into that, you're not fooling anybody who really knows the game. Which makes me wonder...if you really know the game.
  VII. You're young. You're 24. Earn something before bitching so much. A playoff victory would be nice. And double-doubles don't count. I'd like to contend that the double-double crap is the most overblown, empty stat out there. Any self-respecting big man should get a double double each and every game by simple virtue of not sucking.
  VIII. That broken knuckle injury that cost you the start of the season is still pretty fresh. And complaining that nobody believed you when you said you did it working out was pretty lame. I, for one, don't believe it, not when those two knuckles are the most commonly broken when throwing a punch. Even if you did break them doing "knuckle push-ups..."that was dumb. Let's see, you missed more than 10% of the season. What's 10% of your salary? And you made that for doing nothing? And you have the audacity to insinuate that the Wolves are shortchanging you?
  IX. You need to consider your fans. You know, the people that make your salary possible. You wanna have a gripe with management, you better separate that from the way you treat the fans. An interview with Adrian Wojnarowski is going to be read by the fans. You need to remember that. Or have personal manager or trainer remind you. Unless you recently broke your hand on their face punching them and they don't work for you any more.
  X. You're too into yourself. When you hit that three-ball for the win vs the Clippers last year, I was really excited...until I saw your celebration, which should have won an ESPY for most most self-serving display of the year. Go ahead and watch this video that shows your fatal flaw--if you can stomach it. Observe the video closely from the 10-second mark to the 21-second mark in particular. You know, the part where your teammates mob you and you leave them all hanging, refusing any hug or even eye contact, complete with a re-thrusting of the arms-out, I-Am-The-Greatest pose at the 21-second mark, in case we didn't get it the first time.
  Gross.
  You want to raise your stock? Be more aware of your teammates. Throw that sweet full-court outlet pass for a lay-up more often than once a month. Pass the ball to Pekovic out of the high post. Kick it out to Shved for a three more often. Hit Kirilenko on a back-cut like everybody else on teh team seems capable of doing. Guard your man instead of cherry-picking someone else's rebounds. Quit hanging out under the basket complaining to the refs about a no-call while your man beats you down the court. Shut the pie hole. Play some ball.
     Damn.

P.S.: Watching ol' crotchety Garnett hustle around last week in the Celtics' 104-94 win over the Wolves in Boston was bittersweet to say the least. Especially in light of this latest Love mouth-off, I miss the hell out of KG. Guy never really said much in the press against management over 12 years, even when trade rumors swirled. He still plays hard, plays hurt, plays D, works within the team framework, raises the level of intensity every game...and it sucks that he's doing it in green and white at the end of his career.
P.P.S.: Anyone remember that ESPN "All Nude" commercial with KG and Marbury before things between them went awry? So young. So much potential. So much magnetism. At least Marbury's had a rebirth in China. Good for him. And if you haven't seen this video where he hits a trio of ridiculously-long shots back-to-back-to-back, you should.
P.P.P.S: Good place to watch a game in 'Kato is Nakato bar and grill. A block off highway 169 into North Mankato for travelers passing through. Tasty beers on tap, an excellent steak sandwich, good TV screens, friendly staff, remodeled place. Caught a portion of the Wolves' Friday win over the Cavs there with Nick Healy, who, by the way, is a good guy to watch a game with. His stories about his own ball-playing career in St. Paul in the late '80s were cracking me up.

Irene Callender and the Big Assist

                               Irene and her boys

     Tuesday night I listened to the Wolves on the radio as I drove down to the small town of Alpha, Minnesota. The Wolves were in Philly taking on the 76ers, and from the sounds of it on WCCO, they were having themselves quite a first half. Threeball after threeball went through for them as they built a 20-point first-half lead and my Subaru ate up the miles on Highway 60 West, County Road 4 South, and I-90 West from Mankato to Alpha. Alexey Shved was heating up, JJ Barea was passing for easy ones and hitting his own shot, and the Sixers couldn’t buy a bucket. But I was thinking about the old days.

     The reason I was heading to Alpha (pop. 116) was to pay my respects to a great woman by the name of Irene Callender. Irene passed away December 1 after a bout with pancreatic cancer, but not until she had spent 90 and a half full years on this earth. You may not have known Irene (I only met her a handful of times, myself), but you know her type. She was one of those people who prop up other people, one of those people who step up to the plate, who get their hands dirty, who make things go. As her life pertained to mine, she was the lifeline for and grandmother of one of my best friends, Ronnie Gasca, and his younger brother Randy.

     I first met Ronnie when my high school hoops teams were whipping his high school teams’ butts in southwestern Minnesota. A couple years later, we came together to play on the same college ball team at Worthington Community College (now called Minnesota West), and we roomed together there, too, after Ronnie got kicked out of his apartment halfway through the year when his dipstick roommates failed to pay the electricity or some dumb thing and the management locked the doors and cut the lights (which Ronnie found out one night after practice when he arrived home to find deadbolts, gone roommates, and darkness). At Worthington, Ronnie was the only guy I ever played with who I didn’t mind bumping me over from the point to the two-guard, and as a result, I had the most fun and successful year of basketball of my entire life—we made the national tourney in Elmira, New York, and finished 7^th in the nation, best in Bluejay history to this day.

     But what I remember more about that year than Ronnie’s sweet dishes and Casey Werner’s automatic turnaround J and Adam Hale’s lucky jockstrap named Ol’ Blue were the good people I met that year. Coach Mike Augustine, who possessed the biggest heart of any coach I ever had, Mike and Karen Fury, Denny Hale, Arlo Mogck, Jerry Jansen, the genius Becky Potts, Muff Teerink, Weime, Reusche, the good folks at the Daily Globe, and yes, Irene Callender.

     I went to Irene’s house once after we watched Ronnie’s bro Randy play in a game for Jackson High. Randy hadn’t had a great game and his team had lost, but Ronnie and I went to go say hey to him at Gram’s house where he lived, because that’s what you did after those games—go say hey to the folks and have something to eat. Randy was in a foul mood, especially after Ronnie asked him why he’d missed so many shots that night—nice question, Ronnie—and soon they were about to start brawling. But before anything other than words could start flying, in stepped the littlest, sweetest old lady I’d seen. “Randy!” she said. “Ronnie!” And then, like dogs who hear their master, her grandsons ceased and desisted. I couldn’t believe such a sweet-looking grandma could have such an effect on a pair of wild young buckaroos like that.

     I would meet Irene a number of times after that, and I’d hear Ronnie talking to his Gram on the phone in the years to come, going to her when he needed something: advice, food, a little cash, a laugh, love. She gave it all to those boys for many years when they didn’t have much else in the town they grew up in. I remember how Ronnie told me once that when Irene’s husband passed when those boys were still pups, he made her vow, just before he died, that she’d take care of those boys and see them through. I found it fitting that in the last three months of Irene’s life, Ronnie moved her into his family’s home.

So I made it to Alpha, and I drove around town three times—which took less than five minutes—the Wolves on the radio, looking for the funeral home so I could attend the wake. No luck, and not much going on. So I did what you do in a small town when you can’t find someone: just go to the house with the most lights on, most cars in the driveway, knock on the door, and ask. Might sound crazy, but the girl who answered the door got her mother and father without batting an eye, and the two of them treated me with care, the lady saying, “Oh, I always liked Irene,” and the father directing me six miles down the road to Jackson where I found the funeral home without a problem and met Ronnie, Randy, and Irene’s other loved ones. After the wake, we went out for some food, because that’s what you do in these small towns—you see the folks and have something to eat. I met Ronnie’s son Christian, and Randy’s son Preston, both two years old and full of the jumping beans. I talked to Ronnie’s wife Sonja and her daughter Maddie, beauties both. I talked to some of the old folks. When I got my wallet out to pay my bill, Ronnie told me it was already paid for.

     “What?” I said. “Who paid?”

     “Gram did,” Ronnie said. “She said she wanted to make sure we had something to eat.”

     Of course.

     Irene Callender was buried today, but she lives on in my friend and his brother. Bless her.

Alexey, Archie, & Violette

     Hit the Target Center last Friday night to watch the Pups down the Milwaukee Bucks. Took two of my humans-in-training, Archie, 4, and Violette, 6, which colored the entire experience as only taking a kid to a game can.

     Archie’s highlights for the experience included: wondering at the furry TV-shaped My29 mascot greeting fans as we entered the concourse, riding the escalators, sticking his hand between my hands when I clapped, and sitting in the “high” seats. I’d make fun of myself for being chintzy here by buying the cheapest tickets available…if the cheapest tickets didn’t cost $29 per seat, which Archie forwent most of the game anyway as he sat on my lap.

     Violette’s highlights included walking the streets of Minneapolis from the parking garage to the Target Center, riding the elevators and escalators, walking around the concourse deciding what concessions her tummy was most hungry for at halftime, choosing a Klondike bar (and eating about four bites before deciding she’d had enough—it was a lot of work, actually, for a person with no front teeth), and procuring a pair of those thunder stix thingies that she banged together the entire fourth quarter.

     The game was pretty lackluster, actually. Two teams of average record, Rubio still out, no awesome runs by either team. Kevin Love was sick, apparently, though we did not know that at the time. His shot sure looked like it had the flu—he was just 5-for-19 for the game, including only 1-for-7 from three-point land.

     Things finally picked up a little when the Bucks nearly evened the score in the fourth quarter and Alexey Shved took over, scoring 10 of his team-high 16 points and making great passes and generally taking care of the ball and the lead. In my opinion, he also executed the most admirable play of the season so far with 2:30 left in the game and the Bucks mounting one last late run. Working the shot clock down and dribbling between half court and the top of the key, he got double-teamed and retreated back and to his right. Just when it looked as if he might be penned in at the intersection of the half-court line and the sideline, he stopped and whipped a one-handed, 50-foot, crosscourt pass to a wide open Luke Ridnour on the left baseline, which Ridnour converted to put the nail in the coffin. Great vision by Shved, and admirable for its unconventionality, degree of difficulty, and clutch factor. I’m liking this guy more and more, and I can’t wait to see him paired with Tricky Ricky.

     With that, we soon left the game, the kids happy and me grateful for the rare chance to watch a game sans subpar, yammering announcers or relegated to poor camera angles that TV provides. It’s a good game, this basketball. Shout out to James Naismith.