Learning to Love The Land of 10,000 Frozen Fans

WHEN the National Basketball Association picked locations for its four new teams--the Charlotte Hornets, the Miami Heat, the Orlando Magic, and the Minnesota Timberwolves--it made one particularly apt decision. Sending the Timberwolves to Minnesota--to fill in a void left by the Lakers in 1960--was an even better decision than headquartering Betty Crocker and the Pillsbury doughboy there.

I've never seen team spirit quite like what I saw while spending reading period in Minnesota. The state that pulled together to elect Walter Mondale as president in 1984 is even more cohesive when it comes to backing bigger winners.

My cousin drives a cab in the Twin Cities. "If one more person gets in and starts talking football," he told me during the Viking pre-playoff hype, "I'll lose it. I mean, I'll really lose it."

But when I climbed into a taxi one afternoon, we'd barely pulled away from the curb when the driver asked, "How 'bout them Vikes?"

The enthusiasm seems to be a carryover from baseball season. Minneapolis department stores still are packed with Twins paraphernalia; newspapers still advertise for Homer Hankies. Friends of mine insisted on buying me a World Series sweatshirt. "After all, they may never win again," they explained.

When we reached the counter to pay for my souvenir, the salesman told us in a low voice that he hoped the Vikings wouldn't make it to the Super Bowl. "I'm still recovering from the Twins winning the World Series," he whispered.

For a week before the Vikings' big playoff game against the Washington Redskins, local television news broadcasts almost made you forget about there being more to life than football. Then again, every channel did feature live shots of reporters--dining in Washington restaurants, walking the capital's streets, and posing at souvenir stands.

News broadcasts also carried frequent updates on the skyrocketing sales of the Touchdown Towel (the natural successor to the Series' Homer Hanky), daily footage of Vikings touching their toes, and shots of players' wives arriving at airports.

Twin City radio stations were playing at least three different Viking fight songs and bars were selling purple beer--the fact that they had any takers at all says something about Viking fever.

In an area that's having its coldest winter in four years and where natives term a temperature of five degrees below zero "warming up," Viking fans planned an outdoor rally during the playoff game.

IT was heartbreaking when the Vikings lost to Washington--it was even worse when a local TV station interrupted regular programming to show the Vikings de-planing at home. Unbelievably, cheering fans waited for their team outside the airport, and barelegged cheerleaders jumped around in the freezing cold.

I had to admire the fans' dedication. Despite the fact that it usually takes expansion teams about five years to start winning more games than they lose, chances are that Minnesota's new basketball team won't have to worry about winning over the fans. Scheduled to make their debut in 1990, the Timberwolves are sure to be a big hit. At least in Minnesota.