Dear Ricky Rubio,
In my last blog I said that it was time to trade you. I didn’t mean it. I mean, I meant it for like three days. But three days in six years isn’t that big of a deal. One time in college I lost my mind and thought I liked The Counting Crows for a week. Mistakes were made. Sometimes I get depressed and forget what’s real and if white people with dreads is a good idea.
I’m firmly back on the Ricky Rubio Is Embodiment Of The Minnesota Timberwolves Train. That’s a compliment, if you’re wondering. You’re not perfect. But who is? The greatest team in the history of the NBA was the Chicago Bulls and they did it with Luc Longley and Bill Cartwright, a Judge Reinhold lookalike and a man who I believe was physically incapable of bending his elbows, respectively.
You’ve been playing like the Ricky of old the last half dozen games, and we’re starting to show signs of life. Somehow, we are only three games behind the #8 spot in the playoff race. I don’t know how that is even possible. It feels about as deserving as Hayden Christensen getting for an Oscar for his “I don’t like sand. It’s coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere” scene as Anakin Skywalker. But I’ll take it!
I don’t care that you can’t shoot. I can’t cook or fix things around the house or perform basic adult functions but my wife lets me stay married to her. What kind of hypocrite would I be for blaming you for doing just one thing badly? Hell, you still TRY and shoot at least. I have not attempted to clear the gutters due to my deathly fear of ladders and the squishy hill by the garage that certainly has a hidden ninja dog poop that I’d fall onto.
So brick away, Ricky. You have my blessing. Throw up shots that risk hitting the nosebleed section more than the rim. You’re amazing at assists, steals and looking like a Hatchimal. I love you. Minnesota loves you.
Stay gold, Ponyboy.
Next up we play the Kings at home on Friday. Let’s try and limit DeMarcus Cousins to only 54 points and four ejections.