Jilted Affection

What up world,

It's time that I address the biggest news story out of Minnesota since...well...

there was that bridge thing...

and there was that wrestling governor...

and that mall...

But each of those things seem to pale in comparison to the recent developments in Eden Prairie. The events that occurred Tuesday will impact the state, and myself, in ways that will be difficult to comprehend hundreds of years from now. We will be able to look back at August 18th, 2009 as the day that the Minnesota Vikings mattered again. It was the day that number 4, Brett Lorenzo Favre, finally donned the purple and gold.

Brett and I have had a difficult relationship throughout my lifetime. Since I became conscious of sports, and the amazing highs and lows of fandome, Brett has always been there to crush my dreams. Since the fall of 1992, I've watched Favre continuously beat up on the Vikings. I cursed his name, cheered his interceptions, and prayed for injury, while watching him lead the Packers to two Super Bowls and multiple MVPs. I would sit, alone, in the basement of my parent's suburban Minneapolis home, seething at the sight of Brett, running around the field after yet another touchdown pass. It was awful.

But there is something that I have not disclosed earlier. The thing is...I'm sorry, it's difficult to say....It's just that.....I was raised by a pair of Packer fans.....

I know! Don't judge me for it! Don't immediately close your internet tab. I didn't ask for this. It was the hand that I was dealt. There were so many Sunday nights that I fell asleep, hoping against hope, that I would wake up in a Vikings friendly household. Unfortunately, God never listened to my prayers, and I continue to be tormented by the choices that my parents made.

But wait, there's more...

In addition to my parents, my entire extended family are fans of the Cheese. My grandparents have owned season tickets for approximately 100 years. My aunts, uncles, cousins, even sisters are Packer fans. I went to the University of Wisconsin-Madison for college, and even became friends with other Packer fans. It's awful, I know. I'm a small glimmer of Purple Pride in a sea of Green and Gold.

So, for years, I've watched the Packers destroy the Vikings. I watched as Brett became a folk hero among Wisconsinites. Number 4 jerseys chased me around campus for five years, providing reminders of the most recent failure of the Vikes at the hands of the Pack. I would watch Packer games with my family and friends, trying to injure Brett with the death lasers that were being emitted from my eyes. I made fun of him when he lost games, ridiculed his acting skills, and made endless comments about his appearance during the "Braces Years". I despised Brett Favre.

At least that was what I said to the Packer fans that surrounded me. However, on the inside, in the deepest, darkest corners of my heart, I loved him. He represented everything that I wanted in a quarterback. He took risks, was a leader, and seemed to enjoy himself every time that he took the field. While I was trying to cheer for Dennis Green, Daunte Culpepper, Mike Tice, Randy Moss, the entire Love Boat crew, and every other shady character on the Vikings, Green Bay was winning games with my secret crush at the helm.

So, for years, I've studied Brett from afar. I would make comparisons to him with every quarterback that we drafted over the years. Here is a list of our drafted qb's since 1992, the year that Brett took over the starting job:

1992: Brad Johnson
1993: Gino Torretta
1995: Chad May
1999: Daunte Culpepper
2006: Tavaris Jackson
2007: Tyler Thigpen
2008: John David Booty

I have not loved any of these men. I had a bit of affection for Brad Johnson, early on. Daunte was a giant tease. I wanted to love T-Jack, but he never delivered on any of his promises. Compared to Brett, none of these men stood a chance.

And then, Tuesday arrived. After years of torment, the one person that I had desired for so many years, was in my house, wearing my uniform, and throwing to my receivers. It was like the plot of an 80's romantic comedy.



I'm willing to look past the waffling. I don't care about his giant ego, or need to let everyone know that he is a "normal" guy. Bring the wife, Brett! Bring the kids! Win us some games, and all of your past sins will be forgiven. I promise. At least from all the Minnesota fans. I can't imagine how the Packer fans feel about this...

Ok, I can, because I have heard it. From my family. From my friends. They may be a little upset right now. Maybe a little angry. Livid even.

But that's okay, Brett. Don't worry about them. You are in good hands now.

Welcome to Minnesota!!!!

-Sota

Losing Faith

What up world,

It's come to this. After 116 games, I'm willing to admit that the 2009 Twins are not the team of destiny that I had dreamed of in April. They are 5 games below .500 and 6 games behind the division leading Tigers. They have lost consecutive series against the Royals and Indians, and are currently getting crushed by the Texas Rangers. Our starting pitcher tonight is none other than Saint Francisco. Even in all of his holiness, he can't manage to string together a quality start. Things are starting to look extremely bleak.

For months I've been ignoring the writers and bloggers of Twin Nation. I've always maintained hope that something would happen. That something would click. That a light would turn on. That we would turn the corner. And any other number of cliche sport's phrases that you can think of, but the team never seemed to come together. They never gelled. They didn't form a cohesive unit. They didn't pick each other up. They spelled team with an "I". They were a group of individuals...

Sorry, it's a tough habit to break. Moving on...

Throughout the last couple of seasons, there has always been a point that I've realized that things have grown hopeless. It's depressing each and every time. After months of following box scores, watching the team on tv or in person, and hoping that the White Sox limbs will fall off, when you realize that you are going to have to wait through another offseason, it crushes the spirit.

It not only signifies the end of the baseball season, it also means that summer is coming to a close. Having a post-season bound baseball team can provide some distraction from the ever cooling winds of fall. Not that I have to deal with these changing weather patterns in the idealistic world of Southern California, but I can still sympathize with the citizens of my home state.

For anyone reading this, I would like to offer my most sincere condolences. Baseball, and summertime, are coming to a close for 2009. However, I would like to offer each of you a small glimmer of hope. While everyone has been focused on the increasingly poor play of the Twins' starting pitchers and the miserable performance of our infield of tiny superheroes, there has been another team gathering and preparing for the start of their season.

That's right! The purple clan heathens of Scandinavia have landed on the shores of the Minnesota River, in a small town called Mankato. For almost a month, they have been raping and pillaging this sleepy metropolis, preparing to make the move up-river to Minneapolis. It just a few short weeks, led by a hairless, socially awkward chieftain, the Vikings will take up residence in the current home of the Twins, preparing to wreak havoc among the entire National Football League.

Monday, October 5th. There will be green and gold blood running through the streets of downtown Minneapolis. The Vikings are hungry for cheese and overweight women. Beware Green Bay fans. I can hear the war horns of the Vikings, even here in the southwestern portion of the country.

So, while one season is slowly dying, faith is renewed in the birth of another. Bring on football!

-Sota

The Drug Trade

What up world,

As promised in my last post, I am still planning on reviewing the past year that Sota Love has spent with other Minnesota franchises. However, due to time constraints, I am going to have delay those posts for another day. Additionally, there is some news coming out of the dungeons of the Metrodome that is too great to ignore. Prior to the trading deadline last Friday, the Twins were able to acquire Orlando Cabrera from the Oakland A's, hoping to improve the miserableness of our middle infield hitters.

I have watched Orlando over the years, and have been fairly impressed with his performance. He helped the Red Sox to their first championship in 2004, played for the Angels from 2005 to 2007, and, in a clear effort to help the Twins, nearly imploded the White Sox clubhouse last season. In the past, he has been a fairly consistent batter, base runner, and defensive presence. I'm hoping that he will be able to provide more consistency as shortstop than our current rotation of tiny superheroes.

I've known about Orlando for several seasons, as the Twins have flirted with acquiring him for quite some time, but I wanted to know more about the man. Where was he from? What has he experienced in his life that would make him a good fit for our team? Could he singlehandedly destroy Ozzie Guillen and the rest of the White Sox?

In order to answer these questions, I fired up the Sota Love research laboratory. Here is what I found:

Name: Orlando Cabrera
Nickname: O-Cab, The OC
Born: November 2, 1974 - Cartagena, Columbia
Career Numbers: .272 average, 107 hr's, 704 rbi's, 186 sb's.
Distant Relatives: Pablo Escobar

Wait. What?!? Pablo Escobar!!! That's right. O-Cab is the grandson of the infamous leader of Columbia's drug cartel. The Twins now have a connection to the drug trade, possibly adding another revenue stream for our small market team. Will the team start fueling cocaine driven, discoteca parties in downtown Minneapolis? Possibly. If we start seeing sharp dressed Columbians hanging around the corners of Target Field next season, we'll know that we have a problem on our hands.

I'm hoping that The OC ignores the tumultuous past of his relatives and concentrates on hitting gap doubles throughout the second half of the season. After getting swept this weekend, in historic fashion, we need some sort of spark. Something to get the team excited, off the bench, and ready to crush home runs. What could it be? What could provide that instant shot of adrenaline?

Could it be cocaine? No! Stay away from it Gomez! Your head will explode! That white powder is not candy Scottie Baker!

Concentrate on Orlando, guys. He's the only spark that we need.

-Sota

Mid-season Anniversaries

What up world,

My apologies for taking so much time between blog posts. I've been moving apartments, dealing with internet issues, and entertaining friends over the last week, causing me to be negligent in my writing duties. In addition, I've been doing my best to ignore the massive amounts of disappointment that the Twins are heaving upon us on a nightly basis. I was all set and ready to blog on Monday evening, mentally preparing for what I was going to write after a massive victory over the Oakland A's, and then the Twins promptly gave into their sucking tendencies. When you give up 7 runs in the 7th inning, it doesn't often lead to a victory, guys. Let's avoid these situations going forward...

I've now been offering these pieces of advice to the various Minnesota sporting teams for just over a year now. The All-Star game a few weeks ago marked the one year anniversary of Sota Love, giving me a perfect excuse to review some of the events over the past 12 months. I will attempt to break these events into a couple of different categories and different blog posts, beginning with Sota Love's first love; the Minnesota Twins.

Twins:

Throughout the last year, we've delved into the inner workings of the Twins organization, getting to know some of the characters that comprise the team that we've grown to love. Here is a brief list:

Jo Jo Ma: All-Star catcher, composer of beautiful symphonies, and all-around lady killer. Hearts and kisses Jo Jo.



J-Mo/The Mountee/Paul Bunyan Jr: All-Star first baseman, former league MVP, and future prime minister of Canada. J-Mo, although you may not be the greatest writer the world has ever known, you certainly can destroy a baseball. Keep doing that.



Scottie Baker: 12 year old Scottie, along with his favorite teddy bear "Cuddles", has not had the season that we expected of him, however, there is still time. I've been rough of Scottie at times; banning his videogames and not letting him stay up past his bedtime, but it has been out of pure love and affection. I know that he can be a top of the rotation starter, but he has to start believing in himself and not breaking down in tears when he doesn't do well, or when I yell at him.



The Saint: With the return of Saint Francisco at the mid-point last season, the Twins had new life. I was convinced that the Saint would return for 2009, raining sulfur and devastating sliders upon all opposing batters. Throughout the first half, the Saint has looked more loving and forgiving of AL Central teams than the vengeful spirit that we knew a few years ago. I'm hoping that he will deliver the anger of God in the second half, giving the good citizens of Minnesota renewed hope.



Ku-Bear/The Grizzley/More Ku-Bell: Jason Kubell has quietly put together an extremely effective first half of the season. Now that Gardy has allowed Ku-Bear to regularly roam free in the outfield, devouring fastballs and smallish, opposing players, he is beginning to turn into the fearsome beast that we knew he could be.



Lil Nicky Punto: It's hard for me to criticize LNP. He's all hustle, and I can't help but laugh like a baby playing peek-a-boo when he slides into first base. Still, he's been awful this season. Even with his defensive prowess in the infield, he should be spending more time fighting criminals in the Twin Cities at night, and riding the bench during the day. I heart you LNP, but if you don't start contributing on offense, I might have to break off this relationship.



Keiunta Denard Span: Keiunta is a warrior. A slap hitting, fast, defensive genius warrior. I never expected Span to evolve into this type of player, but after a full season in the bigs, I have every bit of confidence in the man, the myth, the soon-to-be legend.



Go Go Gomez, The Delmonic, and Alexi Casilla: I heart all three of you, but you are starting to play with my emotions. I was convinced that you would all continue to get better this season, but you seem to have gotten far worse. Here are a few, brief personal notes to each of you:

Lexi: After your game winning hit over the White Sox late in the season in 2008, I wanted to commission a statue of you outside of the new ballpark. But, in 2009, you can't seem to make those hits, or defensive plays, or anything else productive. I want to mold that statue Alexi, but you have to deserve it first.

Go Go: When I heard that you eat massive amounts of candy, and accidentally hit your face against doorways, and softly kiss and speak sweet nothings to your bats, I wanted to hang out with you more than anything. I wanted you to get on-base and score runs, but you seem to be more concerned with hitting homeruns and striking out. No more of that Go Go



The Delmonic: I've already discussed you in a previous post, and I don't feel like I need to heap any more criticism upon your massive noggin. Let me just quickly say this. Stop sucking. That's all. Nothing more than that. Stop sucking!!!!

Reddog: You are awesome, and old, and often naked. I think that you should accelerate your naked locker room time, your naked batting practice routine, and your general naked harrassment of Brendan Harris in order to spur on the rest of the team. My suggestion: All naked, all the time. Keep partying you dirty bastard.



With the painful end to last season, and the general disappointment with the current season, one would think that my love for the team would be wavering. That couldn't be further from the truth. I can't wait for the team to start their second half run and propel themselves to the top of the Central. I'm fully convinced that something is going to click at some point, causing me to do a little dance every time I hear any news of it. Our 10 game winning streak is going to directly coincide with the signing of Ricky Rubio and Brett Favre, and my head may explode from pure joy.

More on the other franchises of Sota Love in the next blog posting. Stay tuned.

-Sota

Carsten Charles

What up world,

I've been consciously trying to avoid writing about the Twins for the past couple of weeks. I've been hoping that the team would grow desperate for further Sota blog posts, and amid their despair, would start playing better. It has worked somewhat, in that the Twins have finally broken the curse of mediocrity, and are finally a couple of games above .500. They have had good series against the Tigers and Royals recently, but with the Yankees coming into town this week, there is a growing sense of dread that we are headed back into suckville.

The Yankees, with their pinstripes and Jeters and use of $100 dollar bills as towels seem to intimidate the pants off of the Twins year after year. Those evil bastards are undefeated against us so far this season and have won 16 of the last 22 meetings. Can't they let us have some hope of success? It's not enough for them to steal 12 year old's favorite Twins (Chucky Knoblach) or for them to crush our playoff dreams (2003). They must repeatedly beat us into the ground with every chance they get, causing us to question whether we can really compete in the first division of baseball with our small market tendencies.

With these thoughts in mind, I was dreading the Yankees arrival into Hubert H Humphrey. The feeling of despair only grew when I noticed that their starting pitcher with none other than Fat Mcgee himself. Our old nemesis, Carsten Charles Sabathia.



For years, the Pregnant Man had been tormenting our beloved collection of left-handed batters as an Indian. Even with our repeated attempts to make him bend down to pick up bunted balls, we never seemed to do well against CC. He tried to eat Lil Nicky on several occasions, and generally shut us down.



With his trade to Milwaukee last season, we finally felt some reprieve from CC's evil ways. However, everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before he ended up in New York. Talents of his caliber are always sucked into the dark side of the Bronx, eventually. Brian Cashman and the Steinbrenners build an apartment made entirely of cash for these type of players. Pure gold is injected directly into their blood stream (along with other items. What's up ARod), causing them to forever crave more and more money.

Carsten Charles was no exception. He is currently the highest paid pitcher in the game, and refuses to pitch unless his mound is made of cash and Twins fan's broken dreams. Last night he completed dominated our lineup, intimidated Scottie Baker enough to pitch his worst game of the year, and tried to consume LNP during the seventh inning stretch. We lost 10-2 and fell back to third place in the Central.


CC feeling faint. Must bring up blood sugar...

The only relief I can get from the CC related pain is to repeatedly make fun of him. Although I've attempted to throw out some barbs in this entry, no one could rip apart Fats McGee quite like Bat-Girl. Below is an entry from a couple of seasons ago, discussing the top ten reasons that CC had hit Justin Morneau with a pitch:

10) Sick of own mother shouting, "BOOTY CALL" every time she sees Morneau.

9) Avenging history of Canadian aggression against home nation of Fatassia.

8) Aim off due to finger blister from spending two hours voting for Jordin Sparks after American Idol previous night.

7) Morneau didn't invite him to tenth bday party; had to stay home and "play with his Han Solo."

6) Temporarily taken over by spirit of crazed, obese lefty.

5) Brad Radke's mom called him a pussy.

4) Up all night: Sex in the City Marathon on TBS!

3) Ass rash.

2) Tried to hit fan behind Morneau that was eating a hamburger that he felt was his to consume.

1) He's a dick.

-Sota

Trauma at its Finest

What up world,

Throughout my life, I've experience my fair share of sporting heartache. As I've noted previously, the teams that I choose to cheer for are generally not the favorites to win championships or titles on a year to year basis. It would be so much easier to cheer for the Yankees or Lakers or Patriots, but then I would have to live my life without a soul. Instead, I continue to hope and pray that my sporting heroes will one day deliver success to its fans.

Other than a couple bright spots (87 and 91), I've never cheered for a champion. Most of my team's seasons end in heartbreaking fashion, many times a third or half way through the regular schedule. There are a few, however, that have been more devastating than others.

In this blog posting, I will list the five most disappointing losses that I've experienced in my life. While deciding on the complex rating system that determined the ranking for each of these moments, I found that there was an overwhelming factor that made certain events hurt worse than others. It was this: The amount of effort and attention that I put into each of these selected teams was directly linked to the amount of pain that I experienced. Essentially, the more I cared the more it hurt.

Without further ado (in reverse order), the five worst sporting moments of my life.

5. 1999 Wisconsin Badgers: In my first semester at Madison, I had quickly become fully immersed into the crazy world of college football. Over the first couple weeks of the season, I had learned all of the cheers, perfected my pregame drinking ritual, started envisioning the Badgers in the Rose Bowl, and above all else, learned to hate the Maize and Blue of the Michigan Wolverines.

Although Michigan doesn't realize it, Wisconsin fans consider the Wolverines to be our biggest rival. Not the Gophers, or even Ohio State. Over the years, they have routinely crushed our rose-colored hopes and dreams, and for that, we generally despise them. Our one loss in the previous season (1998) had been to Michigan. 1997 also. We didn't lose to them in 96, only because we never played them.

The Badgers had already lost to Cincinnati by the time the Michigan game rolled around, making a victory all that more important. We were all feeling confident. With Ron Dayne continuing to roll, our collection of "Ann Arbor is a Whore" t-shirts, and the pre-game consumption of enough alcohol to get a small African nation drunk, we didn't think that we were going to lose.



Tom Brady and the rest of the Wolverines had other ideas however. Michigan led by six late in the game, and their defense had held Dayne to negative yards in the second half, but we still had a chance to win. We were driving under the control of a young replacement quarterback named Brooks Bollenger. There was a long pass into the corner of the endzone to a wide open Chris Chambers. It was a sure touchdown. We were going to take the lead, and I began celebrating, jumping up and down on the aluminum seats, yelling like the drunken fool that I was.

Unfortunately, I was premature with my celebration. The wide open Chambers lost the ball in the late afternoon sun, letting it pass through his hands and effectively losing the game over the infuriating Wolverines.

Although the Badgers eventually headed to the Rose Bowl later in the season, at the time, the loss to our perceived rivals caused it to be a miserable weekend.

Pain Scale: High

4. 2009 USA Soccer: As I noted in a posting from last week, I love watching the US soccer team, especially on the world stage. The World Cup completely turns my life around. I will go without sleep, disappear from human contact, and work myself into a general tizzy with every game that they play. Throughout the past week, I watched every one of the US games at the Confederation's Cup, beginning with general sadness at the beginning and culminating in an overabundance of joy with Sunday's arrival.



I met with a few friends at a bar in San Diego to take in the upcoming Miracle on Grass. I had attempted to temper my expectations with each victory that the US attained throughout the tournament. After the Egypt game, I kept telling myself that they didn't stand a chance against Spain. After Spain, I continued to remind myself that they had been soundly beaten in the qualifying round at the hands (and feet) of Brazil. I continued to tell myself, "Don't get too excited. You'll only set yourself up for disappointment."

I had continued with this gameplan until the first goal that the US scored. At the time, I was a couple of beers deep and my high school-girl alcohol tolerance caused me to fully feel their effect. I was light headed and joyous, yet I still attempted to maintain a realistic outlook on the game.

After the second goal, all of these efforts were dissolved. I didn't know whether to stand up or sit down. I couldn't speak for a moment. I was on the verge of stripping off my clothes and running through the streets of San Diego in celebration.

They showed a clip of the Confederation's Cup trophy at half time, and I started envisioning Landon Donovan and Clint Dempsey holding it above their heads after the game. I saw ESPN headlines, and the rebirth of soccer madness in the US. It was all coming together.

And then the second half began. Each goal that Brazil scored ripped a portion of my heart out. After the first goal I still maintained hope. After the second goal, quiet dread started to creep into the bar. After the third goal, there was nothing but utter disappointment. It made me want to curl up in a corner and slowly cry myself to sleep, which is exactly what I did when I arrived home later on in the day.



Pain Scale: Torturous

3. 2008 Minnesota Twins: It has been nearly a year since I started writing this blog. During the All-Star break last summer, I decided to start writing about Minnesota sports, with my main focus being on the Twins. At the time, the team was mired in a similar situation to where they are currently. Late innings bullpen collapses, injuries, tempered expectations, and general ass-battiness occurred throughout the second half of the season, yet somehow, as the season came to a close, the Twins were tied with the worst collection of humans on earth. I speak, of course, of the Chicago Bitch Sox.

The two teams had the exact same records, both home and away, and within the division, and had to play a one game playoff to determine who would be the Central Champion. I had spent the summer watching the activities of the Twins on ESPN Gamecast, writing about them, and willing them to somehow catch Chicago in the standing. Hours spent trying to create nicknames and photoshop various players as superheroes caused this one game to mean more than any other baseball game in my adult life.

I was in Minnesota at the time, and went to a local bar to watch the game with friends. Through 6 1/2 innings, there had been no score. Then, in the bottom of the 7th, the beast known as Jim Thome unleashed a monster home run off of Rob Nick Blackburn, effectively winning the game. I couldn't look at ESPN or the Strib for a week. I couldn't even think about writing anything for a week. Here is a link to the first entry that I made following that game. Re-reading the entry still makes me shed a few tears and hope that the Twins won't put me through a similar experience in 2009.


Ughh...gross.

Pain Scale: Intolerable

2. 2003/2004 Minnesota Timberwolves: I love the Timberwolves above all of my other teams. Attending games throughout my childhood and an unhealthy obsession with Kevin Garnett have caused me to form a bond with the team that can't be broken. Even after every misstep of ownership, management, and players over the years, I will still return every season with hope in my heart.

The apex of my fanaticism for the team began in the summer of 2003. In an effort to bring a championship to Minnesota before the exit of KG, CoacHale (who was GM at the time) made some bold moves. He made trades to bring in Sam "Big Balls" Cassell, Latrell "Feed my Family" Sprewell, and Michael "Bustlicious" Olowokandi to surround Garnett with some amount of talent.

After a slow start, the team gelled throughout the season to earn the top seed in the Western Conference playoffs. Throughout the playoffs, my confidence with the team grew more and more. They soundly beat the Denver Nuggets in the first round, and eventually conquered the Sacramento Kings in an epic game 7 in the second round. At the time, I had all of the confidence in the world that KG and his boys would be able to find a way to win against the Lakers in the Western Finals.



Unfortunately, Sam Cassell's back, hip and groin were injured, causing his leg to fall off at the start of the series. Sprewell didn't intimidate any of the Lakers with his Predator locks and couldn't seem to hit a shot. Olowokandi always sucked, so his performance wasn't out of the ordinary. KG played well, but there was only so much that he could do against Shaq and Kobe.

Although they managed to stretch the series to six games, the Lakers looked in control throughout. I watched each of the games with a growing sense of dread. By the end of game 6, I left my friend's apartment and wandered the streets of Madison by myself, wondering if KG or I would ever see a championship in Minnesota.

Pain Scale: Chopped off limb

1. 1998 Minnesota Vikings: I thought I was ready for this, but I've decided that the pain is still too fresh. I don't know if I'll ever get over that team, or season, or playoff game. Tears are streaming down my face as I write this, and I have the overwhelming urge to hunt down Denny Green.


Why would you kneel?!? Why?!?

Let me just say this; if I ever hear the following phrases, I may revert back into the near catatonic state that I experienced the day of the loss:

-Dirty Bird
-Jamal Anderson
-Gary Anderson
-Playing for Overtime

Ugh. So much pain. A thoroughly depressing way to end a thoroughly depressing post.

Pain Scale: Heart Explosion.

-Sota

The Future Starts Now

What up world,

Tonight marks the beginning of something wonderful for the Timberwolves. With four draft picks in the first round, a young core of players, and a fresh break from Kevin Coachale, the team can only be headed in the right direction, right? No longer will we have to question the drafting abilities of the former management regime, and can begin questioning the drafts of our current one. David Kahn, your move.

The last time the team had the 5th pick (and kept it) was in 1995, when they chose to select my favorite human being of all time; my boy, KG. Although the Garnett years never yielded a championship for Minnesota, they still provided for some highly entertaining seasons of basketball. Since 1995, the draft has not been quite as successful. Here is a list of the first rounders over the last 13 years.

1996: Ray Allen (traded to Milwaukee for Stephon Marbury. Ugghhh, it hurts)
1997: Paul Grant
1998: Rasho Nesterovic
1999: Wally World, William Avery
2000 - 2002: The barren years. Damn you secret contracts!
2003: The one, the only, Ndudi Ebi
2004: No first rounder
2005: Rashad McCants (maybe not a great player, but a great poet nonetheless)
2006: Brandon Roy (traded for Randy Foye and cash. Bleh. Gross)
2007: Corey Brewer (probably should have just acquired a science class skeleton instead)
2008: OJ Mayo (traded for Kevin Love, current man crush)

During these years, the Wolves have drafted some quality players (Allen, Roy), but have quickly, and stupidly, traded them away before they've ever donned the blue and green. Other players have been fairly good in moments (Wally, Love, Foye), but would never, ever, in millions of years, be defined as superstars.

Now, in just a manner of hours, the Wolves have the opportunity to change all that. They have the 5th, 6th, 18th, and 28th picks, and have a chance to pick a slew of quality players. Maybe we get some solid talent with each pick and build a team that is decent from top to bottom in a couple of years. Maybe we will find a diamond in the rough with the lower round picks. Anything is possible.

However, regardless of the selections, if the Timberwolves don't manage to get Spain's Ricky Rubio, I will be livid. I don't care if you have to trade all four picks to move up to #2 or #3 to make that selection. You have to do it, Mr. Kahn. Trade your children. Give Memphis your kidney. Do anything you can to get the 18 year old phenom. If we stay at #5 and select Tyreke Evans or James Harden, I may break down and fall into the fetal position.

I've been watching Rubio highlights on Youtube for almost a full year, salivating at the thoughts of him as our point guard. Dishes to Big Al and Love on the inside, lobs to Rodney Carney for alley oops, and the occasional three pointer have haunted my dreams for months. He will make the team entertaining to watch again. Although I love Big Al's old school moves, you're never going to say that it's exciting to see his drop step or baby hook. Steve Nash-like passes, however, are a totally different story.

So, over the next few hours, I will be reading every piece of rumor that I can find on the internets, hoping and praying that a certain floppy haired Spainard will be headed to the frozen tundra for the winter. Imagine chanting "Rubio, Rubio, Ru...bi...oooooooo!!! from the stands. Never have a been so excited to yell out lines from Hook.

Make this happen David Kahn. Make a splash. Change our awful, forgettable, draft history with one fell swoop. Rubio!!!!!!!!!!