One thousand, seven hundred and sixty-eight Australian dollars. That’s how much it would cost for me to fly to Minneapolis tomorrow. And if the Wolves were playing the NBA Finals, I would do it in a heartbeat.
I was going to write some slightly mindless — and, if I’m lucky, mildly insightful — off-season piece this evening. But after a glass of wine and half a week of Milwaukee Bucks-based content, I’d rather write about something else. The passion that drives fans.
I’ve written before about the hope that we may be able to feel in the future of the Minnesota Timberwolves, but this is different. Hope is what brings in the masses; passion is what drives the faithful few through the long, cold night.
“You know you look ridiculous when you yell at sportspeople on TV,” my partner told me in the midst of a recent lover’s tiff. “You even do it in public.”
And it’s true. I will happily sit on a train in the city, watching the Wolves on my mobile, but I can’t promise I will keep my emotions in check. I’m immersed. I don’t really care if people see me. When the Wolves are on, I’m an open wound; those around me are free to see what’s inside. I’m sure many of you feel the same.
Sadly, it’s mostly exasperation and defeat.
“All those rough years are worth it.”
That’s what one Bucks fan I heard interviewed said in the wake of the win.
It got me thinking about all the times that may come to mind should the Wolves ever reach the pinnacle.
I remember the hope that Andrew Wiggins filled us with after his rookie year. I remember the Zach LaVine dunk contests. I remember the never-fulfilled-the-hype “next team to make the jump” Wiggins and Karl-Anthony Towns squads.
I remember the play that got me hooked on this team as a 15-year-old living so far from my place of birth. Kevin Love popped off two pin-down screens to bury the Los Angeles Clippers on their home floor. This was the 2012 iteration of “the rising Timberwolves.”
I remember the 2014 team going 40-42 and missing the playoffs by nine games. I remember the Kevin Love insanity that followed.
In my mind’s eye, I can see myself four years later sitting on the front steps of my share house in Melbourne, the only place that had good enough internet to stream the last game of the regular season, smiling from ear to ear as Jimmy Buckets reliably knocked down his free throws to send the Wolves to the playoffs.
I remember all the dreadful drama after that year’s brief playoff run, and I remember all years since and between the presence of those two stars, Butler and Love.
Some of the most worthwhile Bucks writing can be found in Mirin Fader’s forthcoming book on the rise of Giannis Antetokounmpo.
Fader recounts over 200 interviews that she conducted in her research. She speaks of a young Giannis, a pure athlete with glimmers of his true basketball ability, willing to speak his mind on just how good he thought he could be. Willing to proclaim his greatness.
Does that sound familiar?
Now we’re dealing with hope again. Anthony Edwards is no Giannis — not yet, anyway.
In an excerpt from Fader’s book published on The Ringer, she writes about a moment in Giannis’ first playoff run, when his passion became too much and he laid out Mike Dunleavy as the Bucks were in the midst of getting blown out in Game 6 of their first-round series with the Chicago Bulls.
It’s not a glamorous moment. In fact, it should have been an embarrassing one. But after he was ejected, and long after any hope could be clung to for the Bucks to come back in the game, the crowd stayed. They chanted. In many ways, it was the birth of what would become a championship era in a mid-sized Midwestern city.
I’m not saying this Wolves team is necessarily anything near that Bucks team. All I’m saying is I’m saving up for one day when I’ll hopefully have to get those plane tickets.
Until then, I’ll just embarrass my partner with my passion.
