I shot at the Prez, riff to follow. That riff created a last ruckus of a row of roundball, even if just for an inbounds pass — once they sorted it out at midcourt, but only first after they had sorted it out with sports bartenders having little difficulty transferring from game host ABC, who trumped it, to affiliate network ESPN, for the last quarter and ticks of a clock.

The Wolves ran away with another one in their first postseason series, ratcheting up a third win in their fourth game, but it was not without flareups that literally stopped the clock, temporarily, as seen at two different Hudson sports bars.

First, it was near the end of the third quarter and the T-Wolves had built a lead by a bit more than a three, which they would extend to several groups of cheering fans by the time there was a second or two left, and that would quickly become the problem. The game with Denver was on ABC/ESPN, and then somebody took a potshot at Trump, taking a tougher stand than even those reporters at the night’s correspondents’ dinner. (Although, Frankly and his name is not Surely, it is hard to argue with the validity of his manifesto, take out the evil people while at the same time protecting the good people, and even thanking them for their service against him.)

ABC, of course, wanted to Flip more than a former coach Saunders over to Trump’s remarks about yet another shooter trying to take a wing at his wig. So there was Trump front and center at a quickly (again) held news conference on half of Hudson Tap’s eight big TV screens, but this would not cut the rug. (She as the blonde beauty sitting next to me did, and I thought I recognized her from a previous conversation/situation, but no.) Quickly, groups of patrons on either side of the cashier’s checkout station asked for a reverse flip back to the basketball game, and this was let to be said, and so it was quickly done.

I joked with one of the bartenders, could you flip one of the TVs back to the news conference, you know so I could gather blogging news (is that a contradiction in terms?), and she said no no can’t do that, to which I quickly retorted that this was one of my gags, and I would not ask such at a sports bar. She laughed, once then again.

OK, cut to the now ending chase, at the other sports bar to close out the night. As I looked up, it looked liked their was now a final final, and all parties were dispensing with their animosities and shaking hands and hugging and slapping backs around the collarbone area, but wait, there was a second and ticks of time still remaining. It turns out that a Woofie got his wolf on and tossed in a layup right before that would have been the buzzer, and one of the Nuggets, their star who had his helluva night ruined with no win forthcoming, taking exception and running more than half the length of the court to confront him. So followed the usual skirmish of pushing and shoving, if this time one right under the chin. So there was the usual sorting it out, and a ejection for the final inbounds pass, and then it was truly in the book’s written pages, save for the broadcasted comments.

I myself, other than being a quasi-local to Minneapolis, have little problem with taking a final shot and not just doing the typical dribble once or twice uncontested around halfcourt, then get on with the hugging. Hey, you just dropped half your salary to get tickets to see your stars drop their threes, so they should see it through to the end and entertain you to the end. Then and only then should you have to be asked to chug your last ounce of brew, and be escorted by usher to your Uber or valet.

All this was taken in by the trio of Wolves fans — does that constitute a pack? — from out-of-town, you could tell, who watched the replay time and again to rise against, before quaffing their last beer, since there would be no overtime, then hit the exit sign on their way out.

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