By Jesse Marx
By Chris Parker
By Jake Rossen
By Jesse Marx
By Michelle LeBow
By Alleen Brown
By Maggie LaMaack
By CP Staff
We have watched from afar. We have found other things to do with our time. We have been telling friends that the game is dull and that the Target Center vibe is sterile, but mostly that we don't care. But then something happened a couple of weeks ago. We saw KG throw the ball into the stands at Utah. We watched the entire Sacramento game on TV and saw Spree almost kill Doug Christie on a lay-up and not get called for a foul. We saw Cassell hoist up shots and display more will to win than any Wolves guard since Bobby Jackson. We saw something we'd never seen before on the Wolves: badasses. And we had an inkling that, for maybe the first time, they cared more than we did.
We decided to go back. We went to the Seattle game, but on principle we did not pay face value. We scoped out the scalpers and ended up buying 10-dollar tickets and moving down to our old section, where there were plenty of empty seats, and where we saw a couple of our old section mates who told us that they miss us but don't blame us and that they've been thinking about bailing, too.
We had an okay time. Spree hit a three to tie it, which was as exciting as it got, then they lost at the buzzer. We got up in a pseudo-huff and walked down the same stairwell we have walked down after so many losses, out into the cold night, feeling even more impatient than we had before, but what are we going to do? We cannot let go, because we are sick and hooked and because we know it would be a much longer, colder winter if we stopped caring altogether.
We are rooting for the new uniforms. We are checking the box scores. We are looking forward to having Wally and Troy Hudson back. We think we can win it all. We are looking for freebies. We are fucked.