The surging Timberwolves lapping the whining Wild, twiddling Twins and vexing Vikings in playoff purpose and market madness is the greatest sleight of hand since Keyser Soze gimped out of an FBI interrogation into Kobayashi’s limo.
Four mere weeks for this forlorn franchise to steal Minnesota’s collective heart and feed its championship longing by roaring into the Western Conference Finals as favorites on the backs of its ascendant superstars, celebrated anti-heroes and a hobbled head coach pulling more mystical levers than Willie Wonka.
Forget about learning curves and playoff battle scars. The Wolves are not playing for the future. The future has arrived. That pilfered crown is theirs for the taking. They are the diverse, defensive-darlings of a league that has been selling us snake oil about player entitlement, marquee dream teams and the myth that raining threes and putting up 130 points a night is what puts butts in the seats and eyeballs on screens.
Not after Minnesota went on a 41-17 run in Jokic’s three-time MVP lair, otherwise known as Ball Arena.
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