Paul George attempts to dunk over Ronny "The Happiest Journeyman Ever" Turiaf.  Photo by Mike Brody.

Paul George attempts to dunk over Ronny “The Happiest Journeyman Ever” Turiaf. Photo by Mike Brody.

Boy, how a few years can make a difference.

The last time I went to a Pacers-Timberwolves game in Minneapolis the place was so empty, I could have walked to half-court and asked to play.  I think half the people there were accidentally there for a Rod Stewart concert.  We lost.  This time around, the Pacers are arguably the best team in the league, the place was mostly full, and we won!  And most people cared!  (Except the two girls next to us who were there for a Rod Stewart concert.)

I love going to see the games live, because you notice things that you don’t on TV.  Such as:

– Corey Brewer starts leaking out for the outlet pass almost immediately.  It’s crazy to see in person because the camera is usually still on the players near the ball.  Most players practice free throws or three pointers.  I think Brewer just practices his lizard run.

Corey Brewer leaks out for another fast break. Photo from National Georgraphic.

Corey Brewer leaks out for another fast break. Photo from National Georgraphic.

– Without announcers, it’s easy to not notice everything that Kevin Love does.  I knew he had a good game, but I was shocked when I realized he had 42 points and 16 rebounds.  It’s productive and dull at the same time.  He’s like watching a really bland vanilla machine make more vanilla than anybody’s ever made.

– Conversely, Lance Stephenson is a freaking maniac. The man is all over the place.  He’s Indiana’s JJ Barea. Dribbling side-to-side, yelling, complaining, flopping around.  At one point I think he set up an omelet bar on court.  The dude is all bravado and NYC swag and I’m not sure if he’s the next superstar or the worst player in the league. He had ten points.

– Ricky Rubio tied the franchise record with 17 assists last night.  He also got hit on the top of his noggin and I swear every woman in the audience’s mother/girlfriend impulse kicked in immediately.  Women were instinctively reaching for band aids and looking for blankets to swaddle Ricky in.  That man is so adorable.  He’s like a Spanish baby who likes to share.

– Crunch is a pimp.

Photo by Mike Brody

Crunch and the Rod Stewart girls. Photo by Mike Brody

Next up, we play the Jazz in Utah.  Okay, Utah, you don’t like us and we don’t like you.  But you’re tanking and we’re trying to make the playoffs.  So how’s-about you lose and we win and we’ll both celebrate over RC Cola or whatever soda company the Mormon church bought even though they’re not supposed to drink caffeine so they changed the rule to HOT caffeine.  Phew!

Go Wolves!

Comments
  1. Love is paradox: largely due to his altogether un-dynamic athletic ability, he’s (as you rightly point out) the quietest prolific scorer I’ve ever seen. On the other hand–again, largely due to his altogether un-dynamic athleticism–practically every freaking shot he makes requires out-of-the-ordinary skill (because he’s never all that open). That post move he made (in the third, I think), the one where he feinted to his left, pivoted to his right, then banked a lefty sorta hook from about six or seven feet, was a series of common skills that added up to a move of uncommon beauty. I honestly didn’t know he had that shot in his arsenal, and I watch damn near every game. But that’s the thing: he seems to unveil a brand-new way to score quietly every week or two.

  2. José Eça de Queiroz says:

    I think I’m going to start a movement to finance you to go watch every twolves game. Some amulet you were

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s