Marching Into the Melt
Todd Swank's Diary Entry for March 23, 2025
We spent a lot of time at Timberwolves games this week—three in eight nights, all from the same seats, which by now have perfectly molded to the shape of my buttocks. At this point, I know the people around us better than some of my extended family. The usher gives me the nod like we’ve been through something together. If this pace keeps up, I’m gonna start forwarding my mail to Section 130.
Monday night we were back at Target Center to watch the red-hot Minnesota Timberwolves bring their eight-game winning streak into a matchup with the Indiana Pacers. The Pacers were missing four of their starters, so we figured this one would be a walk in the park—maybe even one of those power walks with hand weights. But as Wolves fans, we should know by now: nothing is ever that simple.
Miss Sheri was my guest for the night, which was a nice change of pace from yelling at the TV together—we got to do it live, with 18,000 other people. She smiled through the chaos, cheered for the good guys, and didn’t even complain once about the overpriced beer. That’s love.
I’ve always been a fan of 50 Cent, so it was pretty surreal to spot him in da club sitting courtside at a Timberwolves game. The man who used to dominate my car stereo is now out here yelling at refs and cheering on the home team. Minnesota’s never felt more gangsta.
The Pacers came in down four starters, lost another to an ejection, and watched one more foul out—and somehow, we still couldn’t shut the door. Instead of coasting to a win, we got dragged into overtime on a Monday night, only to watch the wheels come off in the final minutes like we were auditioning for a cautionary tale. You know it’s a rough night when the other team’s using a G League roster and still walks out with your dignity.
Friday night brought us back to Target Center—because why not round out the week with another emotional rollercoaster? It was Luke’s turn to join me, but Miss Sheri didn’t want to miss out, so she bought her own ticket like some rogue superfan. Sure, she didn’t get to sit with us for most of the game, but I’m starting to think that’s her preference. Let’s just say she has a “colorful” basketball vocabulary, and sitting solo means she can unleash it without having to explain herself to her children.
The Wolves were hosting the New Orleans Pelicans and trying to redeem themselves after getting embarrassed by the same team just two nights earlier—a team with six road wins all season, mind you. They’d just rattled off eight straight wins, only to follow it with two clunkers that made us wonder if we were fans of a contender or just extras in an extended blooper reel.

When we heard Joe Ingles was in the starting lineup, our first reaction was, “Wait—Joe Ingles??” The guy had barely played all season, and suddenly he’s out there for tipoff like it's 2018 again. Naturally, our brains went to panic mode—injury? load management? aliens? But it turns out, this one had nothing to do with basketball and everything to do with being human. His autistic son Jacob was in town and had just attended his first NBA game—only Joe didn’t play. So Coach Finch made sure this time, Jacob got to see his dad out there under the lights. Not gonna lie, that got us right in the feels. And for one brief, shining moment, basketball took a backseat to something way more meaningful.

The Wolves finally delivered the kind of win we’d been craving all week—a 134-93 smackdown that made up for two gut-punch losses and a whole lot of pacing around the living room. Julius Randle led the way with 20 points, Ant chipped in 17 (and survived a scary thigh tweak), and the defense showed up like it remembered how to play basketball again. We even outscored New Orleans in second-chance points, which is usually their thing. After two straight head-scratchers, it felt good to watch the Wolves actually finish a game with energy, purpose, and dignity still intact.
This week our local Macy’s went out of business, so I did what any fiscally responsible person would do—I bought a clearance jacket. Of course, getting the sleeves shortened cost almost as much as the jacket itself. I guess that’s just one of the hidden benefits of having funny arms.
We saw another sign of spring this week. For me, daylight savings time is always the first clue the seasons are shifting. The ice leaving the lake is usually the second. Blue was ecstatic when I asked if he wanted to go swimming—it's been months since his last plunge. But when we got down there and saw a thin sheet of ice still clinging to the shoreline, I hesitated. Not Blue. The dog was already vibrating with anticipation. So I gave in, launched the ball, and watched as my golden retriever turned himself into a one-dog icebreaker barge.
Unfortunately, the ball wasn’t strong enough to break the ice, and my third throw somehow rolled way farther than physics—or common sense—should allow. Blue gave it a few valiant charges, but eventually decided this was a job for the humans. He turned back to me and started barking like I was the one who fumbled the mission. I had to calmly explain we were abandoning the ball. We walked home in silence. He was mad at me the rest of the day.
We made a quick stop at Memorial Park in Shakopee and were greeted by what appeared to be the Duck Convention of 2025. I’m not sure what was on the agenda—maybe arguing over pond rights or comparing breadcrumbs—but they were out in full force, soaking up the sun like they just survived winter in Minnesota. Oh wait… they did.
This little loner wasn’t interested in the group meeting up the hill. He seemed perfectly content doing his own thing—just floating quietly, like he had better places to be and no intention of telling anyone where.
We drove past Canterbury Park and were excited to see how fast the new amphitheater is coming together. Hard to believe that by this time next year, 19,000 people will be crammed in here pretending lawn seats are comfortable while waiting for Dave Matthews to finally play “Crash Into Me.”