We like taking public transportation. Specifically, we like taking public transportation to the Target Center. A bus picks us up half a block from our house. It drops us off about two blocks from our destination. There is no parking hassle. We can usually spend either 1) an anxiety-free 25 minutes thinking aimlessly or B) a fun-filled 25 minutes listening to the chatter and dialogue on the bus. On Friday, it was option B. The highlight: a man, roughly 60ish, gets on the bus and immediately declares to the driver, “It’s been a long day” as he fumbles for a transfer pass that it turns out has expired. The bus does not move. The man keeps digging, finally finds the right transfer, and sits down. The bus driver continues on his path. And this was a driver who would not have done well in the movie “Speed.” That bomb would have gone off immediately. This bus never seemed to top 23 mph. But we digress. The passenger asked the bus driver to stop at 8th street downtown. Keep in mind, we were still several blocks from that destination. The driver told the man that he would call out all the stops, one by one, just like he always does. The man, confused, pulled the “request stop” cord about three blocks too early. Driver: “Sir, did you just pull that cord?” Man: “Oh, sorry.” Driver: “Sir, did you just pull that cord?” Man: “It’s been a long day.” Driver (still into the intercom): “A long day? A long day is driving this bus until 2 in the morning. But we all have to stick together and hang in there if we’re going to get through this recession.” That put an end to that conversation.

We arrived at Target Center right around tip-off. We did not realize, until we read the next day’s paper, that Stephon Marbury and his $20.8 million, waiting-to-be-bought-out salary were at the very same game. He wants to get out of his Knicks contract and go play for a winner in Boston. That put the bus driver and the man having a long day in perspective. Now there’s a man: Stephon Marbury. Now there’s a man just trying to get through this recession.

On the court, the Wolves looked pretty decent. They are who they are, but they at least look like they are starting to form a sensible identity and rotation. Brian Cardinal brings 10-15 minutes of hustle and fundamental play. Rodney Carney brings 10-15 minutes of athleticism. Rashad McCants brings 0-5 minutes of jacking up threes (he was booed during a hoist-filled seven minutes Friday and then didn’t play at all against Chicago, another Wolves victory). Al Jefferson is a beast inside. He looks like someone gave him a body language talk. Much more positive, hand-slapping Kevin Love now, delighting in the good plays of others. It’s a recent change. Past 5-10 games. But it’s apparent. Love is gaining confidence and starting to put up nice numbers. Ryan Gomes had one of the strongest games we’ve seen him play. Sebastian Telfair can at least show flashes of cousin Marbury at his best, getting to the basket and creating for others. Foye is still not Brandon Roy, but he is much more effective as a combo guard who can shoot, slash and sometimes create. Mike Miller is still hobbling and doesn’t look like himself, but he is the shooter. Craig Smith is the bulldozer, a great matchup against some teams and a bad matchup against others.

Our greatest praise, though, goes to Cardinal. You might say, “On a rebuilding team, why is a veteran like Cardinal getting significant minutes?” Our answer: Because leading by example is a valuable thing. He is almost always in the right place on the court. He won’t take bad shots. He will set good screens. He will hustle. And those things rub off. You don’t need five scorers on the floor. It’s a mix. And right now, Cardinal is a nice part of the mix. He’s leading the team in +/- efficiency with a +37. Granted, that’s still in limited minutes. But still. It’s a sign that solid things happen when he is on the court. Our next game is Wednesday. We hope to track his every move for a more detailed report. (And in case you didn’t notice, McCants has the worst +/- per minute of anyone on the team. Last year, however, he was actually pretty decent in that category.).

Back to Friday’s game: the Wolves started to pull away quietly in the third quarter. MC Creme Fraiche, still fuming about a running kid bumping him, causing him to spill his beer on his shirt (seriously, he wouldn’t let this go), suddenly looked up and said, “The Wolves are up by 11?” Indeed. MC washed out the stain in the bathroom. The Wolves locked things down late, allowing us to see our first in-person victory of the season. And we got back on a (different) bus wondering which will be declared back from the dead first: the local NBA squad or the economy.

Things got a little crazy here for a while. For all the “regulars” looking for someone to hug, look no further than Roughkat, who ends the day with a Wolves recap from not one, but two games. Roughkat?

Saturday’s game against the Magic had quite a few things going for it heading into the game.

1) The Wolves were coming off a road win against the Knicks.
2) My lawyer, S.U. Perrookie was accompanying me to the game.
3) Goldmember was sitting behind us.
4) We were headed to Gastof’s after the game no matter what happened.

The Wolves started very slow, had the lead and halftime, then decided not to play in the 4th quarter. Mad Dog only played 4 minutes during the game, despite the pleas coming from Section 203 demanding he get more playing time. I’m not going to say that free throws killed the wolves but shooting 57% from the line was terrible and we openly reminded the team of that.

The only other points of interest from the night was the general feeling of being underwhelmed by Dwight Howard’s play. He had one semi-exciting dunk but otherwise seemed very uninterested in the game. Didn’t he win the dunk contest last year? Why doesn’t he at least come out wearing his cape for the lineups? Also, my lawyer is thinking about filing suit against the Target Center for the discrepancy between lower and upper level concessions. We walked around the entire upper level and there is literally nothing open on one half. That must be how they stay in the black for those all-you-eat nights.

Last night’s game was a completely different story (except the upper level concessions still stunk). Except for three other people in the Twin Cities, I was really excited to see Kevin Love show us why we traded Mayo away. I didn’t get a chance to paint #42 on my chest before the game because I was spending my time on hold to talk to Mike Rand at AM1500. I was also bringing my SELF (Special Engaged Lady Friend) who had been to 50% of the Wolves home wins so far this season. Her Home Victory Attendance Clutchness (HVAC) is off the charts.

I was bothered by the number of cheers that Mayo got during starting lineup announcements. He was on the team for like 5 hours. I don’t get it. The Wolves actually started the game off well. The second quarter had me worried that we were going to see the same old Wolves. McHale tried out a new game plan last night allowing Brian Cardinal to shoot three 3s in the second quarter in which the wolves scored only one field goal. I think McHale is trying to get fired. After I kept complaining about everything the wolves did, SELF asked me why I liked sports if I’m so upset all the time.

The second half required some drastic changes. SELF and I moved down to the lower level and sat about nine rows up. They were the best $3 seats I’ve ever had. Although I did have to restrain myself from saying anything to the guy behind us that kept yelling at McHale every time Mayo touched the ball. I especially wanted to say something to him when Mayo threw up an airball 3 when his team really needed a basket.

The other big change was McHale realizing he should play Love and Jefferson together more. Maybe he wants to keep his job after all. The crowd was more excited than I’ve seen them all year, not counting the t-shirt tossing and the guy that carries the backboard backpack. We all know the outcome. Love 1, Mayo 0. And that’s why I like going to games. I get to watch our team win a gutty game.

Brandon seems to have outdone himself, a regular occurrence that will certainly earn him a Pulitzer before the year is up. He even answered the age-old question via text message: when did Target Center “run out” of hot dogs on dollar dog night? One minute into the second quarter. Lame. The best news is that of the numerous erotic images he painted with his words, we only had to eliminate one. Yay, less censorship. Brandon?

It was “LeBron James Night” over at the Target Center this past Wednesday as the 7-foot-tall, 15-year-old phenom came into town with his team (the Cleveland LeBronBrons) to take on the Minnesota Timberwolves. A packed house greeted The Pope, oohing and ahhing during his warmups, which consisted of halfcourt swishes and alley-oops to himself using a medicine ball. Adults and children alike cooed with anticipation of watching The Chosen One destroy the evil hometown team. There was excitement in the air. Passion as well. And more than a little sexual energy.

This was LeBron’s night.

James sat out the entire first half in an effort to prove that his team was able to beat the lowly Wolves all on their own. While relaxing on the bench, James knitted an exquisite winter scarf, painted an exact replica of the Mona Lisa, and impregnated two nearby fans simply by making eye contact (one of whom was a dude).

A few seconds into the third quarter, The Pope stood up, removed his fur coat and cashmere warm-up attire, took a bow and strutted on to the court. The 15,000 attendees began hyperventilating in excitement. The PA system cued “Dream Weaver,” the lights turned off and a lone spotlight shone on James as took the inbounds passed, dribbled for a few beautiful seconds and rose at mid-court, doing four slow-motion somersaults in the air while winking at/impregnating fans, before finally slamming the now-solid-gold basketball through the hoop, shattering the backboard and causing a nearby ballboy to spontaneously combust out of sheer joy, which was the first in what would be nearly a thousand joy-deaths on the evening. This was just the beginning.

As the game progressed, LeBron (who scored 175 points in the third quarter alone, wearing a 12-carat diamond eye patch) wowed his disciples time and again. After a no-look pass, Kevin McHale swallowed his tongue and offered The Pope a “call me” hand motion while sensually licking his lips. Immediately following a beautiful give-and-go, no less than 500 men fainted on the spot. And after his patented blindfolded cartwheel slam-dunk, women of all ages threw their underthings on the court and stormed the floor in the hopes of touching just a hem of The Pope’s garment.

None were successful, however, because at this point in the game LeBron was permanently suspended 15 feet in the air, delighting the crowd with pelvis thrust dances that made the ladies swoon and Mike Miller’s sneakers fill with cement. Bron’s teammate would toss the ball up to him in the air, and James, hailing from Heaven on Earth, Ohio, would lazily float towards the hoop, texting Jay Z to let him know he had decided to steal Beyonce from him while simultaneously updating his Twitter account with the most hilarious one-liners ever conceived, before dropping yet another biscuit into the basket.

As the final horn sounded, The Pope touched down on Earth one last time, packed his entire organization on his back and flew up into the rafters, lifting the Target Center roof with a simple flick of his finely manicured index finger, and the LeBronBrons made their way to Denver for their next game.

The remaining attendees who had not either died of elation or curled into the fetal position wiped hot tears of euphoria from their face as they waved goodbye to LeBron and made their way to the exits, knowing full well their lives had just peaked and everything following the LeBron sighting was forgettable and pointless. But that if this was it, if the high point in a human’s lifetime was to witness a fellow man for one glorious evening, well, that was quite alright with them.

We put out the text message Thursday evening to 10 male friends with a healthy interest in sports: Who wants to a ticket to Friday’s Wolves/Spurs game with us? First one to chime in gets the extra ticket. MC Creme Fraiche, fresh off going Tuesday, responded immediately: “I don’t want it.” Local Quipster responded in the negative. And then, a whole string of silence. Getting desperate, we updated our Facebook profile, hinting that we might be looking for someone to attend the game. Finally, at 4 p.m. Friday, our pal whom we’ll call Clifton responded. He’d love to go. Now, Clifton enjoys sports. But Clifton is a professional photographer (a very good one at that) who comes at these sporting events with a different eye and a different interest level. So we knew it would, at the least, be a delightful adventure.

We arrived around 10 minutes before tip-off, and Clifton was adamant that he was both 1) starving and 2) not going to miss tip-off. So we wandered around the lower level, scouted out the concession stand we wanted to hit, and walked into a lower level section to stand for a couple of minutes to catch tip-off. Remember: our seats are in Section 203, Row X. By standing in a much better section for a few minutes, we started to look like we belonged. Clifton chatted up the usher and we decided that, after getting our concessions (a frustratingly long process that must have been something like a Cold War-era Russian bread line), we would attempt to claim some of the many, many vacant seats in the section. We returned, the usher didn’t ask for our tickets, and we were set. The above picture is from our vantage point (and from Clifton’s snapshot photo blog, which is comprised exclusively of iPhone pictures that he takes and uploads to the blog in seconds. It’s freakishly efficient).

In any event, the game begins: it’s competitive for a while, but we note that it appears that the Spurs are just toying with the home team. Clifton agrees. He later asks whatever happened to Kevin Garnett. We tell him he was traded to Boston. He asks if Boston has been any good with Garnett. We tell him they won the NBA title last year. And it occurs to us that Clifton has a head so uncluttered by useless sports information that we cannot fathom it. What a strange and different place his brain must be than our brain.

Another friend, Li’l Dice, comes and sits with us for the second half. The Spurs slowly and methodically pull away. Most fans are either leaving early, moving to better seats or yelling at Rashad McCants. The outcome, really, is never in doubt.

Later, we head to a local pub where we meet more friends for a birthday party. At the table next to us are three representatives from the Insight Bowl. They are in town for a press conference. They give us stickers promoting the big game between the Gophers and Kansas. We forget to tell them that we visited the Insight Bowl Hall of Fame in Scottsdale shortly after the Gophers lost to Texas Tech. We send a Facebook update via Blackberry and the world collapses into a deep, dark, black hole.

Question: Do you have fun at sporting events with people who don’t know sports like you do? Discuss.

That blurry image comes courtesy of the camera on our phone. That’s just before tip-off at last night’s Wolves v. Jazz game. It’s hard to get a feel for just how empty the place was, but know this: where you see blue, that’s not a person. And there were some sections of the upper deck in which a quick hand-count inventory of butts in seats could be taken. At one point before the game started, the lucky holder of the second ticket — MC Creme Fraiche — asked, “Should we start booing now?” After a first quarter that saw the Wolves take an early lead, only to give up a heap of points and trail 32-24 while looking just as disinterested as they did during much of the Wittman era, getting a head start on the catcalls might have put such an early adopter ahead of the curve.

But then a funny thing happened. Not talking funny ha-ha, as in the “Wow, it’s great that Wally Szczerbiak is back with the Wolves” joke that comes up every time the in-game promotions guy is shown on the big screen (the resemblance is uncanny, and the joke never gets old). We’re talking about the start of 2.75 quarters of aggressive, inspired and intelligent basketball. We’re talking about substitutions that made sense and had a positive impact (Rodney Carney needs 15 minutes a night). We’re talking about players coming over to talk to the coach and instead of tuning out immediately actually listening. We’re talking about reasons to be engaged in a game. Stunning, really.

Halftime: Lured by a vague promise of free tickets for filling out an All-Star ballot, we headed down to the lower level and found two things: 1) The food choices are exponentially better down there. Grilled options, delicacies, exotic brews, etc. Much better than choosing between a hot dog, the nachos, or a nacho dog. 2) The offer for free tickets indeed exists. However, one must fill out FIFTY ballots to get the tickets. They have them neatly arranged in stacks of 50, and even though voting for the NBA All-Star game is much easier than MLB (probably takes about a minute, if that, to fill one out) we were not amused by the ruse nor the obvious attempt to stuff things in favor of Big Al, K-Love or Mike Miller (the three Wolves on the ballot). Who’s behind this racket, the governor of Illinois?

The second half was completely watchable, if not downright entertaining. Laugh if you want. The final three minutes were tough, and there were a couple of garbage possessions that certainly didn’t help. Maybe some strategies were debatable (MC: Why didn’t they keep pressing and trapping with the game on the line? RB: Well, late in games when you have the lead such a tactic can lead to either quick baskets or cheap fouls, neither of which are desired. MC: Yeah, but neither of those things were happening with the press being applied earlier in the second half. RB: True. That might have cost them some of their energy]. But we didn’t even feel the sense of dread as the lead was slipping. We replied with confidence to MC that they would still pull it out, and when Foye made two freebies to put the Wolves back up by 1 with less than 8 seconds left, we thought we might be right. Quite simply, though, they were beaten by a better team on a tough shot. The only real disappointment was they didn’t get a shot off at the end.

Other mistakes, though, were correctable if not fluky (they shot 43 free throws after averaging 23.4 per game through the first 19. They will typically make more than 27 in that scenario, and if Kevin Love — who otherwise was a beast — doesn’t go an atypical 2-for-9 from the line, including four biggies in the closing stages [he was 82 percent, 55-for-67 this season, coming in], the outcome is different). The Wolves would have beaten a lot of teams last night playing the way they did. Moral victories, of course, do not count in the standings — though we could create a special statistical category if it would please Brandon. That said, this more closely resembled the team we envisioned when we committed $3 a ticket for two tickets to 14 games. Take that for what it’s worth (carry the one … $84!), but do not confuse the outcome with the same old thing.

Final note: We heard a “We want Mad Dog” chant last night, but fortunately no fisticuffs ensued. Maybe Brandon is part of the problem, not part of the solution?