We Have Always Lived in the Target Center
My name is not Mary Katherine Blackwood. I am 36 years old, exactly one year older than the Minnesota Timberwolves, and I live in Minneapolis with thousands of my brothers and sisters. I have often thought that with any luck at all we could see the Wolves parade down Nicollet Mall on a perfect early summer afternoon, because when I was six my dad took me to see Doug West and the T-Wolves beat the Charlotte Hornets and ever since then I’ve believed, but I’ve had to be content with what I have. I dislike refs, and the new-fangled all-star game format, and Devin Booker, and Jamal Murray. I like Crunch, and Anthony Edwards, and Red Panda, and the pine tree print on the old uniforms. Everyone in my family is lit AF right now.
This is not an exact word-for-word/theme-for-theme tribute of the first paragraph of Shirley Jackon’s masterpiece We Have Always Lived in the Castle, a book I read in my first year of grad school and have been delightfully haunted by ever since, but it’s close. A ‘We Have Always Lived in the Castle: Terry’s Version,’ if you will. My dad really did take me to see Doug West, JR Rider, Christian Laettner and the 1994-95 Timberwolves beat the Charlotte Hornets at Target Center and I can assure you that not a single day has passed since then (exactly 10,706 days at the time of this writing) where I haven’t thought about the Minnesota Timberwolves for at least a second or two. Usually for much longer, though. Many years later, I read Jackson’s final novel for the first time in my first MFA in creative writing class and hardly a day has passed since I haven’t thought about it for at least a second or two. Usually, for much longer though, too.
Mary Katherine Blackwood, affectionately and unaffectionately known as Merricat, is the 18-year-old protagonist and narrator of the book. She has few allies. Her sister Constance and her black cat Jonas essentially the only two living beings she trusts. She spends the majority of her time running errands for her agoraphobic sister and dying Uncle Julian and getting chastised by the townspeople in her New England village whenever she goes out. We learn quickly that six years before Merricat introduces herself to us in the book’s first sentence that her parents, aunt, and younger brother were murdered by way of arsenic in the family sugar bowl. Merricat had been sent to her room without dinner as punishment for acting out and thus didn’t eat any of the poisoned sugar. Neither did Constance, who abstained from adding sugar to her blackberries. The peculiar nature of Constance surviving the ordeal led to her being charged with the murders as the only suspect. She was ultimately acquitted, but still treated as a pariah by the rest of the village and has spent the last six years venturing no further than her garden at the Blackwood estate.
When it comes to unreliable narrators in literature, Merricat is my G.O.A.T. I’m not typically interested in G.O.A.T. debates when it comes to professional sports, but I’m willing to fight anyone in defense of Merricat Blackwood. While she is both fictional, and an 18-year-old New Englander at the time of the book’s publication in 1962—two years after the Lakers left Minneapolis for Los Angeles and 25 years before the NBA announced the birth of the Timberwolves—and doesn’t mention basketball a single time in the book, I have no problem picturing her alive and well today and a massive Wolves fan to boot (these are the things I think about when my daily thoughts about this team and this book intersect). Her Instagram account would probably be followed by every single judgemental asshole in her judgmental ass village, but would only follow three accounts max. I’m guessing she’d bless those elusive ‘follows’ towards ‘@RealConstanceBlackwood, @JonasKitty666, and @theanthonyedwards_.’ If she wasn’t a Wolves fan already, Anthony Edwards would have won her over when he told Scott Van Pelt on ESPN ‘I just want to kill everything in front of me.’ The Wolves are her vibe. No fucking chance she’d cheer for the Celtics. They’re way too mainstream for her.
Merricat’s status as a public outcast is not the only reason why I think she would be a great Wolves fan. She tells us in the first paragraph, “I have often thought that with any luck at all I could have been born a werewolf, because the two middle fingers on both my hands are the same length, but I have had to be content with what I had.” Not only is Merricat a Wolves fan, but she for sure is one of the fans who got a ‘Naz Reid’ tattoo.
If you’ve ever met me and spoken to me for longer than five seconds, then chances are we’ve talked about the Minnesota Timberwolves whether you’ve wanted to or not. Merricat dislikes ‘noise,’ but I have never known how to be quiet about the things I love. I love hard and I love loud. When someone or something makes it exceptionally hard to love them—as the Timberwolves have done to all of their fans for most of their 35 years—I only grow louder. For better and for worse the Wolves have had a piece of my heart since that game against the Hornets in January of ‘95 and it is exactly that same piece of my heart I’ve worn most visibly and unapologetically on my sleeve.
I never imagined needing to defend the ‘choice’ to be a fan of a team playing my favorite sport in my hometown, but when I left Minnesota I learned very quickly that cheering for the Timberwolves was a personal attribute that would be subject to lots of social interrogation. I went to college at Oregon State. During my freshman year the Portland Trail Blazers won the Greg Oden NBA Draft Lottery and the Timberwolves traded Kevin Garnett to the Celtics. Blazer Mania quickly took over the entire state of Oregon and the Wolves fell deeper and deeper into NBA wilderness. A few friends of mine frequently held ‘Blazer Parties’ a couple blocks from campus over the next four years. I attended every single one of them wearing my Al Jefferson jersey.
“What the fuck,” was a common reaction to me at these parties (a fair one too, the immediate post-KG era jerseys were even worse than the immediate post-KG era basketball). “The T-Wolves?! Why?”
When “that’s my squad,” and even “I’m actually from Minneapolis,” didn’t suffice as answers, all I could do was shrug and say “it’s gonna be worth it some day.” It goes without saying that I didn’t make a ton of new friends at these parties.
The social banishment of the Blackwoods in We Have Always Lived in the Castle has always felt very relatable as a Wolves fan. The more cruelty the villagers show to the Blackwood sisters, the stronger their bond grows. Their taunts and jeers hardly even register with Merricat. Her physical form may reside in New England, but her spirit is closer to the moon or at least howling at it. The outside world can mock and tease and throw things (like towels and heat packs…) at our feet, and constantly remind us of the time we passed on Steph Curry twice—trust me non-Wolves fans, none of us will ever forget.
Being a Wolves fan has never been easy, but it’s never been lonely either. It’s hard to pick what aspect of this playoff run has been the most fun. Ant’s undeniable ascension has been spectacular. National media pundits and talking heads not only acknowledging the Timberwolves as a team that exists, but also as a team that means business has been pretty great too. The Wolves bandwagon swelling to the largest it’s ever been in three and a half decades has been endearing, touching, and overwhelming. The absolute lack of gatekeeping of the bandwagon by T-Wolves lifers has been refreshing too. This season has been a thrill ride governed by a mantra of ‘the more the merrier,’ but bandwagons can’t exist without the fans who have been ‘A1 from Day One’ to steer them through the lean years. The authenticity and organic passion within this fanbase has always been part of its charm. The arrival of mid-to-late-May NBA basketball has been highly-anticipated and long awaited by so many beautiful people who have never found a way to quit this team. What’s been my favorite part of this glorious spring? Probably losing track of the number of times fellow long-time Wolves fans I know have texted me the words ‘We used to pray for times like this,’ along with a link to ‘Dreams and Nightmares’ by Meek Mill. Seriously, I have lost track of the number of times this exact exchange has happened. We really did used to pray for times like this. And if there’s any magic left in the moonlight, we’re just now arriving at the ‘hold up wait a minute, y’all thought I was finished?!’ part of the song.
I don’t know what’s going to happen in Game Six, but I do know this fanbase is ready to give this team all they have to try and help force a Game Seven, and I know they will express unlimited appreciation if it does turn out to be the last game of this magical season. I know that whether or not it ends with the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat, there will likely be tears on my face no matter what. Like I have never known how to be quiet about the things I love, I also have never known how not to be messy about the things I love. Celebrations should be messy and messes should be celebrated. This sentiment is part of what makes me such a good Timberwolves fan.
I know that supporting Timberwolves basketball has felt like being served a bowl of poison sugar for 35 years. How fun to arrive at a time where the Wolves are now dishing out the same deadly sugar to the rest of the league. Whether the Wolves make it far enough to serve everyone this year, next year, or the year after that isn’t really the point. The Wolves are here now, where we have always lived, cheered, and believed. Nothing outside of our gates matters. Not even the defending champions. They’re simply strangers existing in the margins of our own story. Win or lose, it’s a story worth telling, remembering, and celebrating.
“Poor strangers,” Merricat says in one of my favorite passages, “they have so much to be afraid of.”
Today and everyday. Wolves back.
