My friend Mike McCollow, studio analyst for Minnesota Timberwolves games on FSN, breaks down the basketball scene from “Teen Wolf,” with help from our mutual friend Ope:

Mike writes:

1. Has anybody ever played against a team wearing tight-fitting European discus-thrower singlets? The opposing team antihero looks like the unholy offspring of Annabella Sciorra and Greta Scacchi.

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2. Why didn’t rival teams take the ball out of the hoop and push it down court and get wide open layups every time? It took Wolf’s team 25 seconds to get back on D after every basket.

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3. What the hell kind of game plan did Wolf’s coach have when the very first time down the floor in their big game the first entry pass goes to John Goodman Jr. and not a single player moves after that? A confused team looks over to coach who shrugs and says “What the hell? Shoot it!” Really? You couldn’t have at least scripted one play? Perhaps a high pick-and-roll for Wolf to go to his right and crotch a layup that somehow crawls up the rim and goes in, which is how he scored 95% of his points over 2 seasons and 2 movies?

To this point, Ope adds:

Since Wolf is only 5′2″, it’s surprising how successful he was going inside.

I went to Marquette. Why? Because I liked their basketball uniforms in the 1970s, as I explain to CrackedSidewalks.com, the Marquette basketball website.

Here are my Ten Reasons To Celebrate Tiger’s Return, from the April issue of Golf Digest.

My four-year-old daughter, who grows half an inch a month (and thinks every one else does for the duration of their lives),  said after school: “Dad, did you know there’s a president who’s two hundred years old? He must be as tall as the stars.” And I conjured an image of the crescent moon, bearded and be-warted, looking like Lincoln in profile.

Already, it’s been a long February of cabin fever – of log cabin fever — and I’m going a little stir crazy. My driveway, encrusted in ice and heavily salted, looks like the world’s largest margarita. And it’s every bit as dangerous. While gift-wrapping my garbage at the curb the other day — tying the cardboard in ribbon, alphabetizing my bottles, arranging the  newspapers in chronological order per city instructions — I slipped and tore up my hand and ankle. The cliche, it turns out, is exactly right: The road salt in my wounds was precisely like salt in my wounds.

So I literally can’t wait until the arrival of spring. This afternoon I’ll stretch a beach towel over my head and laptop, shading the screen from the sun, and write outdoors on the deck, all the while looking like Ed Hochuli going under the hood at Giants Stadium.

I’ll shoot a few Js in the driveway with a basketball so flat that it hits the front rim and sticks there, like a lemon wedge on a glass of lemonade.

And then I’ll come back in and warm my hands, content in the knowledge that spring is now closer by — you’ve got to be kidding me — three full minutes.