Wolves fans can only dream...
With the Timberwolves starting the season at an underwhelming 1-8,
the TWolves Blog Forum faithful have resorted to creating fantasy tales
involving the much-needed front office shake-up that we all know will
never come. Below, you will find a compilation of our latest
group-effort entitled, "Firing Randy Wittman". This story, however, is
not your typical work of fiction. It was told in the classic "Choose
Your Own Adventure" format, where one forum poster would write a bit of
the tale and then leave the group with a decision to make. One by one,
we all took turns until we wove our story to its shocking and dramatic
climax. For your enjoyment and ease of reading, the entire satire has
been turned into a front-page post. I will warn you that it's a bit
lengthy, so you might want to print and save this one for the bus-ride
home or your mid-day trip to the corner stall. Without further ado,
TWolves Blog proudly brings to you...
Choose Your Own Adventure: Firing Randy Wittman
The Story of how a moribund franchise tried to pull itself back from the abyss.
You rub your temples. As the GM of the team your were sure this
year was supposed to be different. Last year you went through hell with
a roster of half young guys, half deadbeats with bloated contracts.
This year through your genius the glut was cleared... the young guys
were ready. This team was going to stay in the playoff hunt at least
until the all-star break.
It hasn't happened. You've lost and
you've done it to bad teams. The owner, Glen Taylor, has called an
emergency meeting in 15 minutes because he can't stand this.
If you decide that whatever solutions you can come up
with in the next 14 minutes aren't going to be good enough so you email
up an excuse to push the meeting back while you think turn to Page 15.
If you have a plan and you can't wait to deliver it turn to Page 117.
Utilizing your self-termed "Small
Area Quickness", you quickly scoot from your in-office trophy case and
sit at your refurbished Compaq laptop. Clutching an Aquafina water, you
type to Glen Taylor that you have to sit in on a conference call with
divisional general managers and cannot meet until 3:00 PM which is 4
hours from now. "Safe at last" you whisper to yourself.
feeling your morning Starbucks and Fiber One bar kick in, you get the
urgency to toss a loaf. Again, mentally appreciating your innate small
area quickness, you walk hastily to the men's room. Before you go,
wanting to brush up on history, you grab the 1993 Minnesota DNR Hunting
and Fishing Regulation Handbook and tuck it under your arm snug against
your brand new Eddie Bauer sweater. Approaching the bowl and quickly
rounding the corner, you nearly run smack into Fred Hoiberg who has a
hurried expression on his face. Confused and prairie-doggin' it, you
are flabbergasted at how to react in this situation.
If you want to hold it in and, with your extra time
before your meeting with Glen Taylor, invite Fred to NBA City for a
quick "Fast Break Lunch"- turn to page 21
To give Fred a 2 fingered wave and go about your "business," turn to page 67
Making it to the fortress of
solitude before dead eye Freddie was the coup of the day. Fred will now
be forced to put a "out of order sign" on the ladies room. The last
time Fred had a date with fate this badly was when he was riding the
elevator after draft day. He still doesn't remember what he said to the
reporters! As the better part of your personality departs from your
body, you try to come up with a strategy to convince the fans you can
turn this ship around...
Suddenly, without warning, the
automatic aresol room deoderizor goes off waking you from a hard nap.
What? It's 2:30 already and you barely have time to wash up and get to
If you want to look into the toilet for inspiration for you next brilliant front-office move turn to page 63.
If you want to tap your foot on the wall between your restroom and the ladies room Fred is in turn to page 107
You stare long and hard into the
mystical Oracle's cup, and whether by folly or ny fancy, brilliant
ideas are suddenly popping into your head. "Trade Rashad McCants."
"Need a Defensive Center." "Play Kevin Love 30+ minutes per night."
"Trade for Gerald Wallace." "Tank the season, win the lottery, and
draft Ricky Rubio." You continue to gaze at the brownish-greenish
concoction, and before long you know what you must do to achieve
victory tomorrow night. Your number two is speaking to you! Start
Telfair/Brewer/Gomes/Big AL/Maddog. You know that lineup will be able
to score and play defense. Even better, your reserves can come in as
instant offense, and never let off the clutch. McFoye at the guard
positions, Skinny Miller at SF, Love at PF, and someone else at Center.
(You don't know who our backup center is yet, but you realize 9 out of
10 positions ain't bad.)
Suddenly beaming with confidence and
ready to meet with Taylor, you turn to open the door... and it won't
budge! Oh no?!? You are going to be late for the meeting! Glen is going
to think you skipped it and he'll never believe your excuse! It's 2:59
PM. Now what do you do?
If you pound on the door until
someone finally lets you out, and then you hustle to Taylor's office to
meet with him (but you are late), turn to page 12.
If you pound
on the door until someone finally lets you out, and then call Taylor
with an excuse to FURTHER delay the meeting while you think of a valid
excuse and/or other options for tomorrow, turn to page 90.
If you dejectedly stay in the bathroom until someone comes to find you, turn to page 54.
As you slump back on the cold,
unforgiving porcelain, you think of three things. The first that Glen's
panties will be throughly bunched when you don't show up for this
meeting, the second is that you're as good as fired, and the third is
that it really sucks when you sit down on a toilet with the seat up.
your undercarriage throughly soaked kick starts the cogs in your brain.
You pull out the dog whistle you keep in the secret pocket you have
sewn into all your sweaters and blow as hard as you can.
Freddie pops his head in the door. "What can I do ya for boss."
free... and yet you aren't free. The death march to the boss's office
begins. You with wet pants, Fred with stinky pants. (He hadn't wiped,
pre-whistle.) It is now time to lay it on the line.
If you lead the meeting with "Tank for Rubio" go to Page 32
If you lead the meeting with "Trade for Gerald Wallace" go to Page 93
If you pull something else out of your soaked behind go page 2
Finally having run out of excuses for dealying the meeting, you
and Fred walk through the swinging bar doors of Glen's office. You
notice a Dekalb Feeds clock on the will above Glens desk. It only has a
minute hand on it. Behind his desk is a large chart with a graph on it
that looks like a lightning strike in Hibbing. On Glen's desk is a
hardbound copy of " The Blueprint for the Future." Glen is sitting with
one hand under his chin and the other on top of his head. You have no
"What is that awful smell"? Glen asks as you and Fred stand sheepishly in front of him.
"Global warming" Fred replies, saying the first thing that pops into his head.
"Why is your butt wet"? he suddenly asks you
"New deoderant" you reply in you best authoritive voice as if explaining the obvious. "My pits are completely dry, though."
you wish to continue by explaining your revised plan in your fast
rambling midwestern accent, repeating the same thoughts over and over
again in different ways turn to page 67
If Fred begins talking first turn to page 95
If you all 3 decide to go to "Keys" for omelets turn to page 102
Glen looks you in the eye saying, "What happened?"
You and Fred shoot each other knowing glances. In-sync you say, "Wittman" and Fred says "McHa---Wittman--yeah-Wittman".
asks you if you are saying you have it in your mind to revoke Wittman's
country club membership. With a heavy heart you say, "yes".
can feel a bead of sweat rolling from your head to your back to your
soggy pantalones. The owner isn't saying anything, he is just sitting
at his desk glaring both you and Fred down.
If you excuse yourself by saying you are off to grab a
Chicken Pot Pie at Peter's Grill with Mitt Romney and Rashad McCants
turn to page 113.
If you decide to tell Glen who he should hire as his next coach turn to page 115.
Time seems to stand still as Glen
stares you down. For a moment, you contemplate whether he's thinking up
ways to fire you or just admiring your latest sweater from the Bill
Cosby collection. Your mind then wanders to this past June when you
acquired your snazzy threads. When Pat Riley offered you two bad
second-round picks plus a sweater for Mario Chalmers,
there was no way you could pass on that deal. Who cares if your team
desperately needed a point guard and Super Mario happened to run the
point on an NCAA championship team? You're feeling nice and toasty
You quickly snap back to reality when you notice
that the vein in Glen Taylor's forehead is pulsating uncontrollably and
that his teeth are clenched in a death-snarl. You realize that if you
don't say something within the next two seconds you're as good as
fired. You hate to throw yet another colleague under the bus, but
desperate times call for desperate measures.
"I was thinking
Freddy should take over as coach. The fans love him, he was a player
himself not that long ago, and he's our team's last link to the days
when our franchise wasn't a complete joke".
Before you can
pat yourself on the back for simultaneously filling the coaching void
and getting rid of the person in line to succeed you, Fred interjects.
"No can do. Doctor said the ol' ticker won't take that kind of stress. I'm medically limited to the front office."
shakes his head in frustration and once again turns to you. You can
tell his patience is wearing thin and you may only have one more chance
to get this right before he simply cans you along with Randy. As you
fumble for the right words, the vision you saw earlier in the porcelain
throne inspires you. Without thinking, you blurt out the words "Jeff
The snarl on Taylor's face turns to a look of utter disbelief.
we're still paying Dwane Casey to coach this team and if we fire
Dim-Wittman, we'll be paying him too! Do you honestly expect me to add
a third head coach to this payroll? How do you expect me to pay for
If you suggest a "Pay the Coach" promotion, in
which fans purchasing lower-level season tickets only pay one dollar
per game for every fired coach still on the payroll, turn to page 39.
If you decided to put your name out as a coaching candidate since you're already on the payroll, turn to page 81.
you think you can talk Flip Saunders into coming back for free since
you already paid him two years salary for doing nothing after you fired
him, turn to page 105.
They say the world is full of
coincidences. They swim around in air, waiting to be found, discovered,
or, more likely, to shock. One of them just hit you with a force so
fierce that you couldn't help but use it against the cruel world that
"Flip!", came the shocking exclamation! Taylor frowned,
obviously, but there was no way to go back this time, the word has been
"I just talked to him two weeks ago and he was pretty
desperate to return to the league! He said he wished he had so many
nice guys on the team like Miller, Ollie, and Carney. He almost cried
into my ear how whiney and commanding 'Sheed was. He felt totally owned
by his own players. He said last time he felt that way was when Spree's
kids were hungry."
Turning to Freddie you could only read "You
lying bastard" out of his sloppy lip-sync. Yes, despite the obvious
success of your total BS, there were still snakes in the room. Turning
your head towards Taylor, you focus your inner eye on Freddie.
"Now it's your job to convince him to actually coach this lame team, Mr. Assistant GM"
was pummelled by your statement. Head-shot, you thought. Leaving
Freddie flabbergasted, you decide to use this chance as much as you
can. Another opportunity might never come.
"Glen, as Vice-President of Basketball Ops I'd like to continue my hot streak...
The sweater never felt so good.
If you'd like to trade for Gerald Wallace, turn to page 144
If you'd like to hire an army of lawyers to get our pick
from the Clippers back (US law prohibits sucky teams owning others'
picks), turn to page 36
If you feel like BS-ing through, and
ending up with a McCants-for-Felton steal (or a possible Olivier Miller
signing), turn to page 141
"Why do I feel like I'm not in control"? Taylor quipps.
"Because your'e not" Fred sadly informs him
"Who is then"? Taylor askes, gesticulating wildly with one hand while keep the other firmly on the top on his head.
"The guys over at Twolves Blog" Fred replies, sadly revealing the truth.
the first time in your life your sweater begins to itch. In fact it
begins itching so badly you franticly try to rip it off over your head
only to get it stuck half way off rendering the use of your arms and
sight useless. You begin running around in circles moaning
"You see" Fred continues,"because of a forum
game they made up, our future is at the whim of a bunch of watercooler
jockeys trying to be creative."
You then run smack dab into
Glen's aquarium knocking it over and spewing neon tetras all over the
floor. The result of your sweater becoming wet and stretched enables
you to finally remove it completely, revealing a T shirt that says "one
in the oven" on the front with an arrow pointing down.
"Gerald Wallace!" You scream at the top of your voice. "Gerald Wallace!"
"What"? Fred and Glen say in almost perfect harmony.
"Let's trade Rashad McCants for Gerald Wallace!" You blurt emphatically.
If you want to further pursue trading for Gerald Wallace, turn to page 1009
If you get directed back to the subject of Wittman, turn to page 95
If you want to pursue moving the franchise to Vegas, turn to page 106
"Gerald Wallace would be
perfect!" you shout, finally regaining balance and composure after a
rough fight with the tetras. Your sweater is ruined, and you have no
idea what to do.
Taylor and Hoiberg seemingly stare in awe at
your t-shirt, but you ignore their concern. The scent of Hoiberg's
ndudi lingers, and you quickly offer him some of the pages of the
hunting guide you brought for reading material to finish the wiping
job. He accepts with thanks before turning his ear to you, wiping
cautiously through his Dockers.
All the excitment is
interrupted by a vibration from your pocket. It's your cell phone, and,
lo and behold, it just so happens to be Charlotte Bobcats general
manager, Rod Higgins.
"Mr. McHale! I've an offer you cannot
refuse to discuss. I've got a great kid I want to send your way for
that McCants guy. Former Top 3 pick, Adam Morrison.Just think - if you
take the deal you will be able to tell your fans that you've added yet
another lottery-pick-caliber player to your team in the tradition of
Michael Olowokandi and Joe Smith. Not to mention that Adam and Kevin
Ollie could share porn 'stache stories.Ha! Ha! Well, what do you
think? We'd need a pick too in case McCants bolts after this year. I'm
thinkin you can help us there with all those firsts you have this year!"
Shocked, put on the spot, soaked, and reeking of human feces, you debate your next decision,
If you accept this offer, contingent on cash considerations being involved in the deal, turn to page 35
If you decline and work out a counter offer for Gerald Wallace, turn to page 178
you postpone the call and walk to Macy's in the skyway to buy a new
sweater and see what adventure a skyway trip produces, turn to the next
"Are you kidding ME?!?!", you yell into the phone.
"That's ALL that we'd have to give up for Pornstache Morrison? Why, by golly, you've got yourself a..."
"WAIT!!!", Glen Taylor and Fred Hoiberg shout in unison.
approaches you and quickly hangs up your phone. "Now Kev, are you sure
you don't want to think this through? Trading McCants AND one of our
precious first round picks for Adam Morrison? What has he done in his
career? I mean, he's coming back from a horrific injury after missing
ALL of last season! Are you sure this is a trade we'd want to do?"
silently mull his thoughts over in your mind and say "You're right.
That makes sense. We should give him TWO of our first round picks,
because we won't have space on our roster for all these draft picks
anyways! Especially if we get Adam. With his mustache, he could easily
be a 35 minute per game player. He'll make it rain from deep like Mr.
Pacman in Vegas. And then, we could probably ask for a future second
round pick in return so that we can draft this big man I scouted last
year from the Maldives... I think he has a lot of raw potential. We
could stash him overseas for a while and we won't even have to sign him
for a few years! Great idea Freddi-o!"
You hear an audible groan coming from the corner where Taylor is sitting, but figure it is best to not acknowledge him.
is starting to look visibly perturbed and says "Kevin, no. Honestly
man... that's not what I meant. At all. What I mean was that Adam
Morrison sucks. I know he's white and all, which gets you giddy, but
he's just a flat-out terrible player. Under no circumstances should we
trade for him."
You are crushed. You sit there and imagine the
possibilities of a roster with Big Al surrounded by players such as
Mike Miller, Randy Foye, and Adam Morrison. The floor spacing
possabilities are endless!
Fred snaps you back to reality by
saying "I think we should trade for Gerald Wallace, he's an athletic SF
that can defend and rebound. He's exactly what our roster needs! Here,
give me your phone and I'll call Rod Huggins back to work out some sort
You hesitate. You don't want to give Freddy your
precious cell phone, nor do you want to relinquish your GM powers and
sit by idly while Fred Hoiberg works out a deal with a rival GM. You
two stare at each other for what seems like hours and suddenly Glen
Taylor says "Give him the phone already so we can make this trade
happen! I hate McCants and like that Wallace cat. I demand you to
If you give Fred your cellphone so that he can call Rod Huggins, turn to page 122
If you try convincing Fred and Glen that you can work out the trade yourself, turn to page 135
Begrudingly, you hand Freddie your cell phone...
not before you deftly remove the sample of fishing line that was
included as promotional insert on the inner front cover of your 1993
Minnesota DNR Hunting and Fishing Regulation handbook. As Hoiberg
reaches for the phone, you grab his arm, spin him around, and proceed
to tightly wrap the fishing line around his neck. As Freddies eyes
buldge and his face turns puple, Glen Taylor leaps over his desk and
attempts to break your death-grasp on the Mayor.
"Kevin! What are you doing?!?"
are not taking my job from me, Freddie! I've spent the last fourteen
years running this franchise into the ground! I've botched nearly every
draft pick! I've let every promising free agent we've had walk! I've
signed all our mediocre players to fat contracts! I've signed other
teams' free-agents to to even more bloated deals and needlessly threw
first-round draft picks into trade discussions just for kicks..."
desperately tries to free Freddy, and even bites your hand in an
attempt to make you let go. You however, will have none of it and your
"I will not be denied! I'm the man who tried
to overpay Ricky Davis when he first became a free agent. When
Cleveland matched the offer sheet, I scoured the trade wire every day
until, finally, I not only acquired him and his fat deal from Boston,
but Mark Blount's massive contract as well - and I got to toss in a
draft pick as icing on the cake! That is what you call dedication!!!"
the adrenaline surges through you, your pull on the fishing line grows
even stronger, causing it to snap. Freddie collapses on the floor,
gasping for breath. Glen Taylor leaps off your back and runs to
Freddie's aid. He gives you a look of contempt and defiantly utters the
words "You're fired!"
"Fired? You can't fire me, Glen! You
didn't fire me after I signed Joe Smith to an illegal contract and cost
the team five draft picks, you didn't fire me when I traded Rookie of
the Year Brandon Roy straight-up for that shoint guard Foye, and you
didn't fire me when I traded away the only player putting butts in the
seats for the Boston Celtics' pu pu platter! Face it Glen, if you
haven't fired me already, you never will. You need me, Glen. Without me
screwing up your basketball team, your life would be too perfect and
boring. You'd be a multi-billionaire with everything you could ever
want. I'm the one that keeps you from being satisfied with life! It may
be a sick and masochistic need, but you need me nonetheless."
words cut deep to the soul of Glen Taylor, who for the first time
realizes the truths which you have just spoken. As tears well in his
eyes, he rises up from Freddie's side, puts one hand on your belly, one
hand on your shoulder, and speaks the beautiful precious words that
you've been waiting so long to hear.
"You complete me, Kevin."
stare at each other for what could have been an eternity. For at this
moment, as your eyes penetrate deep within each other, as you feel the
gentle pulses of each other's firm grasp, as you smell the manly musk
as it slowly rises from each others aching bodies, and your lips quiver
with desire, you realize that this was the moment you had spent the
last fourteen years of your life working for. Every Ndudi Ebi was now
suddenly and utterly worth it.
"Are you guys alright in here? I
was sitting at my desk trying to figure out how I could simultaneously
play Kevin Love, Sebastian Telfair, and Corey Brewer as little as
possible without resorting to bringing in Calvin Booth, when I heard
all this commotion!"
Dim-Wittman strikes again! Uncontrollable
anger wells up from within you as you realized this buffoon has just
spoiled your magical moment of intimacy with Glen Taylor. Before you
can even begin to react, Glen interjects.
fired! I don't know if you're missing a chromosome or just ate too many
paint chips as a kid, but you have got to be the most inept head coach
this league has ever seen! We've made our decision and we're replacing
you with that Bill Biese guy who holds the newspaper. It's about time
he got his chance and it's not like he could do any worse. Now pack
your things, take your two years of guaranteed money, and get lost!"
You expected Randy to take this news pretty hard, but instead his face is beaming. You can't help but ask him why.
Randy? You did hear Glen say that you're fired, right? You do realize
that with your 0.241 winning percentage, your chances of ever getting
another NBA Head coaching job are about as good as Antoine Walker
sticking with the NutraSystem diet, don't you? Your career in this
league is as good as over. Why do you look so happy?"
see Kev, I just got a call from this Greek team,
Olympiakaki-sumthin-or-other, and they just offered me $40 million
dollars to coach the team for the next two years. They already have
that afro kid and they're probably going to offer Kobe $200 million to
jump on next season and spend $300 million to lure LeBron the next!
When everything's said and done, we're pretty much going to take over
"Um, wow, Randy. I don't know what to say."
don't have to say anything Kevin! If anything, I should be saying
thanks to you! I mean, if you hadn't clearly used me as a pawn to throw
Dwane Casey under the bus, none of this would've ever happened. And you
know what the best part is, I hear the women over in Greece don't wear
tops when they go to the beach OR shave their arm pits! See you later
Wittman walks out the door of Taylor's office. For a
moment you feel the pangs of jealousy at Randy's good fortune. But then
you glance down at the multi-billionaire who's resting ever so gently
in your arms and all seems right again with the world. After all,
you've potentially got four first-round draft picks to screw up this
summer, tons of future cap space to throw at Andra Bargnani in 2010,
and all the time in the world to concoct your latest dream trade to
send Al Jefferson back to Boston.