MINNEAPOLIS — My father swore that no one liked the NBA.
For most of my life, he wouldn't be deterred in his belief that pro basketball has few, if any, fans -- not by a quick scroll through the TNT lineup or perusal of any national sports website, not even by the existence of an entire channel devoted to the league. But cut some slack for the man whose pro basketball knowledge centers mostly on the St. Louis Hawks, a team that ceased to exist in 1967, when he was 12. It may not be rational, but he's convinced.
So I was raised in a household where the NBA didn't exist. St. Louis of the 1990s, before widespread use of the Internet, before Twitter, was devoid of the NBA. Basketball, to me, was the St. Louis Billikens' games my dad took me to. It was a particularly miserable college game I was dragged to at my father's alma mater, Tulane, played in what I remember now as a windowless, sterile venue that approximated a high school gym.
But eventually I left the bubble of my childhood and went to college, where I joined the cult of college basketball at Georgetown. And when Jeff Green decided to go to the NBA after my freshman year, I remembered this vague notion that professional basketball existed, something I hadn't pondered since the boys in my fourth-grade class wore Michael Jordan jerseys on "no dress code" days. Following Green, I paid attention to the defunct Seattle Supersonics, then followed the Oklahoma City Thunder and then suddenly found myself interested in watching the NBA playoffs.
And, to my astonishment, other people cared about the NBA, too.
Through all of this, though, my parents remained in St. Louis, ignoring everything from LeBron's Decision to last summer's lockout. They were in Boston during Game 7 of the 2010 NBA Finals and wondered what sporting event seemed to be captivating the city. Were the Red Sox playing a particularly big game, or something? It was so bad that when a retired NBA player, Steve Stipanovich, moved in next door to them, they mentioned only that he'd played for the University of Missouri. It took several weeks for anyone to realize he'd played five years as a pro, as well.
But now, just months after welcoming their new neighbor, for the first time, my parents are interested. And for that, you can thank the Timberwolves, who this season have the mix of flash, winning and adversity that could make fans out of the most rigid NBA curmudgeons.
As someone who hasn't lived most of her life in Minnesota, I'm in the minority among the media covering the team. I'm the one who's asking for an explanation of the mascot's name -- think about it, though; there's no reason for a wolf to be named Crunch -- and making timelines that map out the years of the team's notable Kevins so that I can commit the history to memory. I'm the one noticing a framed jersey on the wall of the locker room, hearing the story of Malik Sealy's death and the team's reverent honor of his memory. I'm slowly learning what matters to this team and these fans, and to be honest, I'm impressed.
I'm impressed that Anthony Tolliver volunteered in Joplin, Mo., after last May's tornado, that Kevin Love's drive donated about 600 coats to the Salvation Army this week. I'm amazed at fans, who have welcomed Ricky Rubio to the team with excitement and frenzy and seemingly forgotten the two painful years of waiting. I'm even more thankful when I cover opposing teams and experience the atmosphere in their locker rooms, which might be more stable but is no doubt less fun that than in the Timberwolves'. I can't help but talk about it, this team that's shattered the vague notion of "Who cares about the NBA?" that I grew up with.
And so now I'm getting phone calls.
My mother: "Honey, I can't believe Kevin Love is a year younger than you. He seems so much older, so poised."
My father: "The team won. That's great." He's actually following, clicking through his news results and paying attention to the NBA, solely because of the Timberwolves. And frankly, I can't blame him. Everybody loves a comeback.
As an outsider, I notice things others take for granted, but I also haven't felt the sustained pain of losing. My only dose of the misery of recent seasons came last year, when I attended a Timberwolves game while visiting Minneapolis, and for me, it was plenty.
My inherent cheapness resulted in upper-deck tickets for a game against the Magic, a far-away view from which the only things on the court that looked large were Dwight Howard's biceps. The Timberwolves were 10-30 by the time I saw them, but they had a five-point lead at the beginning of the third quarter. I was excited, positive that my presence was just the winning spark the team needed. But as the fourth quarter approached and the team lagged, my companion said it was time to go. We had things to do, and after all, as a lifelong Timberwolves fan, he knew they were going to lose.
My optimism prevailed, and we stayed to watch the Timberwolves pull back within six points in the fourth quarter. Even then, my friend was not to be deterred. Let's go, he said, and we did. He was right, too -- they lost.
That seems like ages ago, a different team in a different time, and in many ways, it is. With just two hours of being a pseudo-fan, I got more than enough of the bitter taste of losing. I can't imagine what a couple seasons of that must feel like, and how sweet it must make this year's .500 record taste. But I do know one thing about this team: its personality and perseverance, its friendly and accessible image, have convinced two 50-somethings to follow the NBA after a lifetime of denying the league's relevance, and they're not the only people who have jumped on this bandwagon. In many ways, that's bigger than any record.
The highlight of my first Timberwolves game may have been placing my hand in the bronze cast of a basketball imprinted with Kevin Garnett's handprint outside the stadium. It was huge compared to my tiny imprint; I have a picture to document it. But what strikes me now about that basketball is not its novelty but rather its irrelevance. Fewer and fewer Garnett jerseys wander the Target Center every night, and that's as it should be. This is a new team, and with the seeds of a winning tradition for fans to rally behind, it may be time for a new massive handprint in a new bronze basketball.
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