The Minnesota Timberwolves seem to be doing OK. They’ve got a stacked young roster, a deep bench, and veteran center Rudy Gobert is out sharing important cat tips while supporting Palestine. Really, there’s only one thing missing from turning this team into a championship contender: a 6-foot-tall, 44-year-old writer for Racket. 

On September 12 the Iowa Wolves, the NBA G League affiliate of the Timberwolves, held an open tryout at the Timberwolves/Lynx practice facility in downtown Minneapolis. The tryout was open to anyone over the age of 18 with hoop dreams and $300. After deliberating over whether I was ready to live the high-rolling, physically demanding lifestyle of a professional basketball player, I plopped down my entry fee, bought a new pair of bright-pink basketball shoes, and headed to Mayo Clinic Square. 

When I checked in at the front desk, I was handed a comically large XXL practice jersey, No. 64, so that coaches could keep track of me throughout the afternoon. I draped it over my shoulder and made my way inside.

Entering the court was like a scene out of a movie—think Hoosiers, Hoop Dreams… or, uh, Air Bud. The gleaming hardwood floor was adorned with the Timberwolves and Lynx logos, state-of-the-art workout equipment wrapped around the perimeter of the facility, and giant video screens tracked the number of shots our squad had put up during practices. 

And then, there were my fellow hoopers.

They were huge. Like, HUGE. While I’m just a hair over 6 feet tall (or a Tinder 6-foot-3, as I like to call it), these guys were mountains of muscle who towered over me. They weren’t swimming in their XXL jerseys like I was. 

I watched them warm up as I laced my shoes, doing my best to size up the competition. Upon closer review, not everyone was ripped from the pages of Sports Illustrated for Kids (the last sports magazine I ever subscribed to). There were guys who were shorter, older, and heavier than me. I did a little stretching, practiced that cool Spider-Man thing Ant does when he hits a big shot, and used my mediocre, middle-aged white man confidence to convince myself that I might not do too badly. 

While waffling on whether or not to wear a shirt under my jersey (spoiler: I did), Josh Gershon greeted me. He serves as general manager for the Iowa Wolves, who like all G League clubs function as minor-league incubators to their respective pro teams. 

“We’ve got about 70 people trying out today, which is more than we’ve had in quite some time,” Gershon told me from inside the gym. “We’ve got a wide range of backgrounds and experiences here. Some of these guys have already been in the G League and are looking for a chance to move up. Some played professionally overseas. We’ve got some who played in college. And then we’ve got a handful of guys who just play in local rec leagues and want to make a go of it.” 

Despite his unassuming stature, Gershon was easily the most sought-after man in the gym, with everyone trying to make good impressions with their would-be boss. Several players ran over during our chat to shake his hand and thank him for allowing them the opportunity to try out—presumably, their $300 checks had also cleared.  

A buzzer sounded, announcing the beginning of the tryout. Before he could leave, I asked Gershon one very important question: 

“As a 44-year-old physical specimen,” I asked him, summoning my inner George Plimpton, “what do you think my chances are here today?”  

After what felt like an eternity (but was literally less than a second), he hedged his bets. 

“Coming from another 44-year-old, I know what my odds would be,” he laughed. “It’s exhausting for me to get out of bed in the morning, let alone do something like this. But I haven’t seen you play so I don’t want to handicap you.” 

With that, the entire group of hopefuls came together at center court, where Gershon and Iowa Wolves head coach Mahmoud Abdelfattah gave us a quick pep talk before explaining how the day would unfold. 

“Last year, three players from this tryout made training camp,” Gershon told us. “Two made the team, and one played the entire season with us.” 

Added Abdelfattah: “The most important thing today is to play hard and be yourself. Play to your strengths. If you’re a great rebounder, don’t take a bunch of crazy three-pointers. Let’s have some fun.” 

As I thought hard about what, exactly, my strengths actually are, we came together for a hands-in team cheer. I got swept into the middle of the pack, threw my hand up, and, having missed what we were supposed to say upon breaking, shouted an uninterpretable noise. 

Was I in over my head? Maybe. Like Young Thug once said: “But fuck it we ball!!!”

Phase One

We split into eight teams, each of which had eight to 10 players. The first 20 minutes we ran warm-up drills similar to what I would tell sixth graders to do during practice. We ran a continuous loop of layups, swing plays, baseline drives, and pullup jumpers; I actually did reasonably well. 

There was a genuine sense of positivity and camaraderie from everyone on my team. We were high-fiving and pumping each other up, creating a sense of togetherness I hadn’t anticipated. Honestly, if we truly want to cure the dreaded male loneliness epidemic and defeat Andrew Tate, all we need to do is have every U.S. male try out for an NBA team. 

The buzzer sounded once again, and we were told that we would be competing in nonstop runs (basketball guy talk for nonstop games), with each lasting five minutes.

Esteban Roacho, one of my teammates, took on the role of de facto team leader, bringing us together and providing inspiration. 

“These guys aren’t in the league. Don’t be scared of them!” he shouted. I nodded confidently, despite being very, very scared of them. 

The first run went well, and my team ended up winning. I myself scored zero points— but I had one rebound! Plus, I didn’t throw up. (That’s a win you won’t find in the box score.) 

In the next game, I got to experience one of my biggest NBA dreams: getting posterized. Let me explain. 

I was assigned to guard another player who was similar to me in height but had the physical build of a Cybertruck. As he hung back in the corner, behind the three-point line, I started to think that he might be as tired as I was and having a little rest. I was wrong. 

When I floated under the basket to try and help on defense, one of his teammates tossed him the ball. I turned around, took two steps forward, and ran directly into his yoked-ass torso. I stumbled backward, assuming I’d turn around and see him equally discombobulated from our collision. Instead, he effortlessly leapt over me, dunking the ball to a chorus of courtside “oooooohs!” and “ahhhhhs!” 

Once again, the buzzer sounded and I limped over to nurse my bruised ego and equally bruised ribs. 

Players, Dreamers, and O.G.

Despite every participant’s common goal—making the team—motivations for why they came to the tryouts differed vastly. 

Roacho, my unofficial team captain, played in the NBA G League last season for the Mexico City Capitanes. 

“I’m the first person in my family to play basketball,” Roacho, 24, said proudly as we chatted during a water break. “I played in Mexico through grade school and high school, and then got the opportunity to play in Texas.” 

Standing at 6-foot-5 and showing speed I’d never before seen up close, he was one of the most notable prospects. According to Roacho, most G League players sign one-year contracts with the league itself (as opposed to an individual team), and then have to sign again the following season. Hence, his one-day trip from Mexico to Minnesota.

“I had a really good game last year against this coach,” he continued, motioning toward Abdelfattah. “I’m hoping he remembers me and that gets him to give me a closer look.” 

Another one of my teammates, Caleb Sudduth out of Waterloo, Iowa, was in attendance to “get paid to do the thing I love to do the most, which is play basketball,” he told me. Standing 6-foot-four, the 30-year-old hooper was selected to play professionally overseas in Botswana, but chose to stay in the U.S. to pursue a pathway to the NBA. 

“If I don’t make a [G League] team this year, I’m getting on that plane and going to Botswana,” he said. “I’ve got this tryout and then a combine in Chicago later this month. Whether that’s NBA, G League, semi-pro team, or going to play in Europe or Africa, I’m going to do my thing no matter what.”

Sudduth carried himself with more intensity than Roacho, but exuded positivity in the same way, even after I bricked an easy jump shot that he set me up for in one of our games.

“This is beautiful,” he said. “I just love being a part of it. I love basketball so much, and playing against this kind of competition and being in such a great facility like this is a blessing. I take pride in that.” 

For guys like Roacho and Sudduth, the tryout is a potential step toward keeping their dream alive. For others on the court, just being in the gym and competing is their finish line. 

Of everyone I met during the tryout, Chris Guertan was the only one who looked older than me. Guertan, a 54-year-old father from Edina who introduced himself as “O.G.,” signed up for the tryouts to inspire his son. 

“I told my kid if he would try out for his club basketball team at Iowa State, I’d do this,” he said. “My family thought I was kidding, but here I am.” 

Despite being the oldest guy on the court, Guertan could ball. At 6-foot-4, he was banging around the paint with dudes half his age. At one point he and another player slashed at each other simultaneously while going for a loose ball, resulting in an insanely painful sounding slap. 

“I thought I broke my wrist,” Guertan said with a laugh. “I know I can’t jump with these guys, but if the ball is on the ground, I’ve got a chance.”

Even if the tryout was more of a bucket list item than a job interview, O.G. said that the experience was a dream come true. 

“I walked in, looked around, and almost walked right back out,” he joked. “But I love the sport, I play as much as I can, and I want to make the guys around me better.” 

My Brush With Greatness

I subbed in for my final game of this phase, desperately trying to prove that I could at least finish the round-robin. 

While I was barely conscious, most of the guys seemed to have fairly fresh legs. Sudduth had a powerful block under the basket, which he followed up with a thunderous dunk on the other end of the court. Roacho blew past his defender with ease, before laying in an easy reverse layup. O.G. grabbed rebound after rebound and managed a nice putback off an offensive board. Everything was clicking for my team, though I nervously sensed my window for impressing the coaches was closing. 

And then, it happened. 

I found myself under the basket alone. Was it because my defender had underestimated my abilities (note: he had not; I was adequately estimated) and didn’t give me much attention when I cut down the baseline? Or was it because of my breakneck speed and incredible ball IQ? Who can say. Either way, I was open down low. Next thing I knew, I had the ball. I tossed up the gentlest little bank shot, and watched it drop through the net. My team exploded. 

“I SEE YOU PATRICK!” Sudduth shouted. Others cheered and high-fived me as I jogged back down the court, basking in the greatest moment of my sports career. 

Yet again the buzzer sounded. The coaches brought everyone back together, explaining that they would confer with one another for about 10 minutes and then the next phase of tryouts would begin. 

After a short break, they announced that a select group of 20 or so would continue scrimmaging on the main court. The rest of us? We’d be playing half-court games against one another for the remainder of the day. 

Roacho and Sudduth were both among the group invited to play on the main court, and O.G. and I were sent to the Gus Macker-style half-court games on the other side. 

The next hour or so was kind of like NBA fantasy camp. We split up into teams of four and rotated games every four minutes until everyone looked gassed. There was still plenty of talent on my court, but it felt more like a competitive afternoon at LA Fitness. 

Finally, after three full hours of basketball, the coaches and Gershon pulled everyone back together one last time to congratulate us on our hard work. 

“You guys were great today,” Abdelfattah said. “No matter what happens after this, my advice for you is to bring your best no matter where you go.” 

Gershon echoed Abdelfattah’s sentiments, before telling the group that team officials would need a few weeks to decide who, if anyone, might advance to training camp. 

As of this writing, my phone has not rung. 

As I deposited my billowing XXL jersey in the laundry bin on my way out, I reflected on the day. Was I the best player on the floor Saturday? No. But was I the worst? Yes. Absolutely. But I survived a full three hours of tryouts, drank a lot of bottled water out of a fridge labeled “LYNX ONLY,” and sort of, kind of almost scored a basket in an NBA-adjacent setting. 

Plus I can tell people, I had a tryout with the Wolves back in September, giving me the hardest humblebrag at this year’s parent-teacher conference.