Pinky Ring

Oh, how rare a feeling, this. To stand at the edge of it, to see it spread before you, to be strapped to this chugging train towards the peak. How rare it becomes as we age. How rare, in this climate, to feel anything but crushing gloom. How rare? I can count it on 3 fingers.

We were here in May of 2004. Our basketball team was rife with gangsters and pranksters. The ghetto just oozed from their pores. Sam Cassell would sometimes make a shot and run down the court juggling his incredible Astro Balls. KG would hit a turnaround in the lane and scream into Duncan's face, telling him, in no uncertain terms, how much of a bitch he truly was. And Spree? He drove a Murcielago. I watched it pull out from the bowels of Target Center one frosty night. I went to 17 games that year... and witnessed a total of 2 losses. I was there for Game 5, over Denver, when they finally escaped the first round. Destiny seemed to tip. Suddenly, it was inevitable: we were going all the way.

We all know how that ended. Sam's back went wacky-world, and the Lakers were still the Lakers, downing us in 6 games, despite a heroic game 5 where both Mr. Bliznawski and I were wearing Hoiberg and Mad-dog jerseys (respectively) at two different casinos in Vegas. Down in flames... not only for the season but the franchise. They haven't sniffed it since. Honestly, typing these memories are the only time I am happy with respect to this franchise. They are dead to me now.

We seem to walk up to the base of the mountain every year for the MN Motherfucking. Somehow, someway, we find ways to emphatically defeat the Bitch Sox and send them back to Smelltown, and hope springs eternal. Sometimes, we have MVPs and Cy Young winners on our team. But it matters not. Because we go to the dance, grab a cup of punch, and proceed to unleash a diaperful of dia-rear all over the gym floor. Cuddyer hits a home run, and the sun peaks out for a moment, but the truth is eternal night. Down to the dark, only to rise again in March. Eh, it could be worse. We could be Kansas City.

I was 12 when the Motherfucking took it home against the Braves. I think I was still figuring out how showering worked. A baseball fan, I was not. So I don't count that. I remember it, yes, but my appreciation was minimal. It would be like the Wild winning now. I'd be happy, sure, but I wouldn't be on board, fully invested.

The truth? I've been through two winners in my life... actual winners, invested from beginning to end, with all of the perks that go with being a champion.

The first time was my 'Backs. Oh hell, that was so much fun. Clinton in the press box, Nolan on the sidelines, and motherfucking Scotty Thurman like WHAT BITCH HOW DO YOU LIKE THIS THREE IN YOUR MOUTH??? Cheering for a team through a long NCAA tournament run is likely never going to happen again in my life (of course, I didn't know that at the time) and it was really something. How can you replicate that level of intensity? They win a "must win" game... and then have to play another in 2 days. And at any given time, they could be dashed, and the waiting game would begin anew. But no. They kept winning, kept playing that awesome brand of ball, and eventually, I found that bliss. There were no more games to play... and the Razorbacks had won the final game. They could ascend no higher. They would go to the White House.

In 1997, I was in my senior year of high school in Wisconsin. You can guess how that worked out.

And so here we go again, barreling towards that unknown, the train increasing speed and promising us nothing.

As I age, I realize how rare this gets, and feel the need to live in the moment; to soak in this nervousness and anticipation. When it is not there, it is replaced by apathy and cynicism. That's why I like to revel in failures. That's why I mock the CFL. But when your boys are going for the pinky ring, nothing else matters.

Dear me, we're back to the edge. There are two ways to fall... and Sunday doesn't come but once a week.

Sometimes, once a decade.