Never let 'em see you sweat

Let me tell you a story.

A vendor took some friends and me to last Friday's Timberwolves game against the Lakers. Or Lakers game against the Timberwolves, given there seemed to be more cheering for the visitors. The announced crowd was 20,020, a figure that seemed legit as the seats were full to the top of Target Fiel— er, Center.

We sat in the front row, 10 feet from the Lakers huddle. (We don't have a lot of business, but this vendor gets all of it. Don't tell him.) Here's what I observed: Deep into the second quarter—and I'm about to use the word "literally"—literally not a single player had broken a bead of sweat. Let me say that again: In the late second quarter of an NBA game not a single player was perspiring.

When players came off the floor for time outs Keekley would stand and scream at the towel girl, "THEY'RE NOT SWEATING! DO NOT GIVE THEM TOWELS! THE PLAYERS ARE NOT SWEATING!" I'm pretty sure I went through more strenuous game-day walkthroughs getting ready for Concordia Moorhead.

Now this is theft in my view. Many of these players are pulling down six figures per game. Shouldn't they give that money back?

And the Wolves? You don't have to sit close to see this franchise is headed nowhere. There is no plan. No vision. No players around whom to build. Kevin Love is a fine player, but guess what: He doesn't want to play here, and it shows. Neither does anyone else. Why would they? For the tradition? The tradition moved to L.A. in 1960. To play for a great basketball mind? Rambis, now the worst coach in Wolves history (worse than frizzy Jimmy Rogers at 0.183), will be gone before many of the players. For a chance to play alongside . . . ?

The franchise has acquired the same stench as the Clippers, limiting our ability to attract other than purely mercenary free agents. We're 21 seasons in. Only four NBA clubs have a worse all-time record than the Wolves, and one of them is the Bobcats, est. 2004.

Meanwhile, back at Saint John: Two Saturdays ago a couple carloads of 30-40 year old hacks drove down from St. Cloud for a chance to play our like-minded, like-talented group of hacks. What a blast. Guys sweated, hustled, politely declined fouls, and generally showed what love of the game looks like long after your knees stop caring.

With the clock running, our crew got out to a big lead over the team that had to get up at 6:00 a.m. But a late first-half flurry by St. Cloud closed the gap and made a game of it. The Bad Guys had but one sub to our complete second line, but in the second half it didn't matter. With Carl running the clock and providing increasingly frantic play-by-play, the second half became a see-saw battle. Would it be too much to compare it to Duke-Butler? Time simply ran out with St. Cloud up by two baskets.

Thanks awfully, men, for making the drive, playing a competitive but fun-spirited game, and helping to expand the global supply of hoops camaraderie. Thanks especially to Andy Pearson for cooking up the whole thing. Will we meet in St. Cloud next year, hm?

I don't know about you, but I'm getting too old for this. Which is why I'll never stop. How about you? Let me know if you will or will not be playing tomorrow. We tip off at 8:00 a.m. Or around then.