You hit 20 games in an NBA season and you lose the right to say “it’s early.” The quarter mark is the unofficial line of demarcation. That’s exactly where we stand with the Minnesota Timberwolves, who are 12–8 after 20 games, sitting on a record that looks decent on paper and weird as hell once you start poking at it.
On the surface, .600 ball from a team that just went to back-to-back Western Conference Finals and basically ran it back? That feels… light. Not catastrophic, not panic-button, but definitely in the “this is below the curve” section of the report card. Given the continuity, the Ant-as-a-superstar buzz, the second year of Julius Randle in the system, I don’t think anyone in Minnesota was dreaming of “firmly in the mix” after 20 games. People were talking about home-court and top-3-seed type goals.
And yet, here we are.
Now, you can’t tell the story of this first quarter without mentioning Anthony Edwards’ hamstring. The thing basically hijacked the early season arc. Ant missed multiple games, including high-leverage ones against the Nuggets and the Lakers, and he clearly wasn’t himself when the Wolves visited MSG to take on the Knicks.
So yeah, 12–8 likely looks a bit different if your best guy doesn’t tweak his hamstring and sit out a chunk of the early schedule. There’s a version of this season where we’re talking about 16–4 and arguing about whether Ant is in the top five of the MVP ladder instead of wondering when the late-game execution will stop giving us ulcers.
But the record isn’t the real story. The pattern is.
Before this past weekend, the Wolves were basically living a double life. Against teams under .500? They were Mike Tyson in 1988: step in the ring, knock you into the third row, walk off without a scratch. They went 10–1 against the league’s tomato cans, including that four-game “get right” stretch against the Jazz and Kings that briefly made everyone feel like the March/April/May Wolves were back.
Against winning teams? Completely different movie.
They dropped two to the Lakers, two to the Nuggets, lost to the Knicks at MSG, couldn’t close things out against the Thunder, and authored one of the more inexplicable final-minutes collapses you’ll ever see against the Phoenix Suns. Seven losses, all to plus-.500 teams, all with a little extra sting. For a while, the stat was brutal and simple:
0–7 against winning teams. 10–1 against everyone else.
If you were trying to design a profile of “good but not actually dangerous,” that’s pretty much it.
Then came this weekend, and the tiniest bit of narrative oxygen. Minnesota finally picked up their first win over a plus-.500 squad by beating the Celtics, even if Boston was missing Jayson Tatum. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t calming, but it was finally a win against a real team that’s used to playing in May and June. They followed that up on Sunday by taking care of the San Antonio Spurs, who technically came in with a winning record but were missing Victor Wembanyama and Stephon Castle. Calling those “signature wins” feels a little strong when both opponents were missing clear top-10 talents, but at least the Wolves stopped being the team that literally hadn’t beaten anyone respectable.
So what do we actually have after 20 games?
A team that bullies bad opponents, but still hasn’t proven it can consistently execute against the league’s elite. A group that can look like the best team in the West for three quarters and then forget how to inbound a basketball in the final minute. A roster with real star power and depth that’s already lost a couple games that will absolutely haunt them when seeding time rolls around.
And yet, the sky isn’t falling. At 12–8, the Wolves are absolutely still in the hunt out West. Swap out one hamstring pull and one late-game meltdown and we’re probably having a totally different conversation about this team. The flaws are maddening, but the ceiling is still very much intact.
So with a quarter of the schedule in the books, this feels like the right time to do what any self-respecting, overinvested fan with a laptop would do:
Hand out some grades.
Anthony Edwards — B+
If you’re grading Anthony Edwards purely on box scores, you might talk yourself into an A without much argument. He’s a consistent 30-point scorer, has authored multiple takeover stretches (Portland on opening night, two 40-pieces against Utah, the third-quarter explosion vs. Phoenix), and he basically willed Minnesota past Boston by outdueling Jalen Brown down the stretch. When Ant starts cooking, you can feel it. The game bends toward him, guys start standing straighter, the arena feels like it’s inhaling in anticipation. He’s that kind of star.
But the problem with being that kind of star? You get graded differently. The Wolves didn’t invest the last two seasons turning Ant-Man into the face of the franchise just so he could look like a top-10 guy on League Pass nights against the Jazz. They need him to look like the best player on Earth when the other team has rings. And at 20 games in, the uncomfortable truth is that he still hasn’t solved that level of the video game.
What separates Ant from Shai Gilgeous-Alexander, Jokic, Luka, and the other tier-one guys isn’t skill. It’s awareness of the moment. Those dudes hit the free throws. They hit the kick-outs when the double comes. They don’t take hero-ball threes with 13 seconds left in the clock. Ant has shown he can dominate, but the Wolves need him to direct traffic, not just drop nukes.
And that’s where the B+ lands. Not because the baseline hasn’t been great — it has. But because the standard for Anthony Edwards is now “Can you win us the Denver/Oklahoma City game?” Not “Can you incinerate Utah on a Wednesday in November?”
The ceiling is still terrifying. We know the guy who dragged this franchise past Phoenix, Denver, L.A., and Golden State in back-to-back postseasons is still in there. The Wolves just need him to arrive a little earlier this year.
Julius Randle — A-
At some point, the straggling KAT apologists are going to have to accept that Julius Randle is a high-functioning adult in the building. He is the dad with the toolbox who shows up when the kids set the garage on fire. During Edwards’ hamstring absence? Randle effectively kept this team alive. 20 a night, steady triple-double energy, and, when he’s playing within the offense, exactly the kind of “we can get a bucket whenever we want” presence that Finals teams have. He’s learned how to toggle between bully-ball scoring and controlled facilitation, and when he does, the Wolves look like something real, something dangerous.
But Randle is also a basketball Jekyll & Hyde experiment. There are two versions of him:
The floor general: Kick to Donte when the double comes. Collapse the defense, create space for Ant, let McDaniels cook the weakside.
The ISO gremlin: Dribbles until the ball starts smoking. Drives directly into traffic like a battering ram. Whips a no-look pass straight into the 12th row or a defender’s chest.
We’ve seen both. The former wins you playoff rounds. The latter is literally responsible for a handful of the Wolves’ most violent late-game implosions over the two weeks
Still: A-, because without him, this team would be 10–10 with a gallon of Pepto on every fan’s counter. He’s exceeded expectations. He’s embraced the “co-star who takes pressure off Ant” role. But if Minnesota is going to stop coughing away leads like a middle-school JV squad, they need the Adult Julius, not the Turnover Terminator.
Jaden McDaniels — A-
Here’s the simplest test for Jaden: When he plays like a third scorer, the Wolves look unbeatable. When he floats? They look like a team praying Anthony Edwards will do everything.
McDaniels was one of the most important players on the roster in Edwards’ absence early in the season, and it wasn’t because he suddenly turned into Luka. It was because he showed that being good at basketball isn’t a single job. The all-NBA level defense is always there — the straight-jacket assignments, the way he erases a guy’s options before the first dribble — but when he attacks the rim, hits threes, and gets those high-percentage looks? Minnesota becomes a different animal.
He’s the Wolves’ equilibrium. If Ant is the flamethrower and Randle is the engine, McDaniels is the gyroscope that keeps the ship upright.
That’s why the inconsistency is so maddening. You get stretches where he’s cooking: 8 straight points in the first, clamp a star wing, force two turnovers. Then you get the other version, where he puts up six points total, disappears offensively, and suddenly the Wolves look like an overmatched two-man outfit.
To his credit: the highs are trending upward. He’s attacking more. He’s more aggressive. He’s not just a defensive specialist who occasionally gets corner threes anymore. He matters in the flow of the offense. He might be the cleanest “third star” fit on the roster when he leans into it.
But like Edwards and Randle, the Wolves need the best version of Jaden more often, not just when circumstances force him into the spotlight. If he becomes a nightly “15–18 points, 2 threes, lockdown defense” guy? Minnesota stops being a middling team and starts being a juggernaut.
Rudy Gobert — B
There’s a certain comfort to Rudy Gobert. You walk into Target Center, you look down at the court, and there he is: 7’1”, arms like a spider, quietly deterring every human being who dares to enter the paint. Rudy isn’t sexy. Rudy isn’t loud. Rudy isn’t going to hit you with a three like Wemby or whip cross-court lasers like Jokic. He just shows up every night and tells the other team, “No, you’re not scoring there.”
And in a league that has been hypnotized by shot-making, we forget how demoralizing it is when the other team can’t score the easy stuff. Rudy still gives you that. The rim deterrence remains elite. Opponents’ drives start with confidence and end with retreat. Rudy is the adult at the front door telling the neighborhood kids, “No, you’re not coming in here with those shoes on.”
Despite that glowing review, the reason Rudy gets a B are that there have been too many nights this year where he vanishes — the Sacramento loss being the textbook case. Rudy didn’t impose himself. No dominance on the glass, no violence at the rim, no game-bending intimidation. When you’re paying a guy $40 million to be the anchor, getting destroyed in the paint by a Sabonis-less Kings team is unacceptable.
And we haven’t even mentioned the free throws. Rudy actually improved last year. He was passable, borderline reliable, the guy you weren’t terrified to see at the line in crunch time. This year? Regression. Enough to where other teams aren’t afraid to foul him knowingly. That matters. In a league of coin-flip possessions, every point you leave at the stripe is oxygen for the other team.
Still: a solid B because if you zoom out, the Wolves are not remotely competitive without him. They don’t have a defensive identity without him. They don’t have an interior presence without him. Gobert is the bouncer, the gatekeeper, the rim coven. But if Minnesota is going to do more than cosplay as a contender, he has to do more than be good. He has to be undeniable.
Donte DiVincenzo — B-
On the good nights? Donte is a heat-check supernova. He hits four threes in a half, talks a little trash, gets the crowd humming, and suddenly Minnesota is up 19 because the opposing team has to guard him 28 feet from the rim. Those games are intoxicating.
Then there are the other nights. The “Donte goes 2-for-11 and gets blown by defensively” nights. That’s the frustration.
Donte gives you spacing in ways Conley no longer can. He forces defenses to respect the arc, and by extension, opens lanes for Ant and Randle. But he also invites chaos. His defense is a roulette wheel: sometimes he digs in, sometimes he’s a traffic cone. And when the drive isn’t there and the shot isn’t falling, he can quickly become a liability.
Still, let’s credit the guy: He broke his nose and didn’t blink. He plays hard. He wants the moment, never shrinks from it. You’d rather have the guy who believes he’s a killer than the guy who hides in the corner pretending the ball is radioactive.
But the Wolves need fewer 1-for-8 games and more confident role-player nights. They don’t need Donte to be Steph. They just need him to be reliably Donte.
Naz Reid — C+
Naz Reid is the basketball equivalent of a rock band with three hit singles and two albums of B-sides. When he gets going, it’s electric. He’ll step into a pick-and-pop three like he’s KAT reincarnated, then roll to score at the rim seconds later. He is chaos in the best possible way — the changeup you bring in when the starter is getting shelled. You feel every ounce of why Wolves fans worship him.
Except this year, a lot of those fireworks didn’t show up until late November. The early portion of the season? Painfully rough. Clanked threes. Tunneled drives. No lift on finishes. And because the bench scorers behind him are either rookies or hypothetical entities, his off nights turned into real losses. When Naz isn’t giving you buckets, he’s not giving you defense. He’s not giving you rim deterrence. He isn’t giving you stability.
But here’s the flicker of hope Wolves fans cling to: He’s finding it again. The jumper is back. The paint attempts are strong. The confidence has teeth again. If this last stretch is the beginning of a trend, Naz can still salvage this. If he becomes the 20-and-6 microwave scorer that forces second units to panic, Minnesota goes from “thin bench” to “holy hell this team is deep.”
But we’re grading the first 20 games, not the last three. That’s why he lands at a C+. Not a disaster. Not a disappointment in the macro sense. But a player who needs to spend December and January reminding everyone why Minnesota invested real money in him. Because when Naz Reid is right, the Wolves look like a problem.
Mike Conley — C
Mike Conley is at the stage of his career where the value he brings isn’t measured in counting stats so much as the timing of his moments. The Boston win was the perfect example: the Wolves were absolutely mid-collapse, bad isolation possessions piling up, the Target Center crowd feeling that familiar “oh no, here it comes again” dread, and then Conley calmly stepped into the corner and hit the three that snapped the entire building out of its trance. There are only a handful of guys in the league who can steady a team with one shot, and he remains one of them.
But the limitations are real. The age is real. His defense has fallen off sharply. There are stretches where the Wolves simply cannot hide him, especially against aggressive ball handlers. The move to the bench was necessary, but it also means the offense regularly spends long patches without a true floor general on the court. The minutes where Ant and Julius are trying to figure everything out themselves, or when the bench unit devolves into chaotic perimeter chucking, are exactly the moments where Conley used to be the antidote. Now he’s the relief dose, not the main medication. You live with the highs, you grit your teeth through the lows, and you hope the legs hold up through April. That’s the story so far: a necessary adult in the room, but one whose ceiling is clearly shrinking.
Jaylen Clark — A-
Among the Wolves’ young trio of rookies, Jaylen Clark has been the one who doesn’t just survive NBA minutes, he actively changes them. When Clark steps on the floor, the entire tempo shifts. He pressures ball handlers, he digs on drives, he bothers shooters, and he has that rare trait that only elite defenders share: the ability to create chaos without needing to dominate the ball. He has directly stolen possessions with deflections and traps, and there have already been several games where his defensive effort gave Minnesota extra runway when the offense was sputtering.
His offense is still forming. There are nights where he looks every bit like a young player trying to process the floor in real time, but he’s shown enough flashes to earn rotational trust from Finch. He can hit from the perimeter, he cuts without hesitation, and he’s not scared of the moment. The downside is that same aggression sometimes leads to mistakes that make you want to throw your remote through the drywall. The intentional foul before the inbound in Sacramento was a masterclass in how a single mental lapse can detonate an entire game. But that’s the exchange: defense that matters, energy that matters, a young player who clearly belongs.
Terrence Shannon Jr. — D
Terrence Shannon Jr. has had stretches where he looks like exactly what you want out of a developing rotation wing — competent scorer, strong body, capable of getting downhill. There are moments where the offensive approach is mature: attacking the rim for high-percentage looks, finishing through contact, picking spots within the flow of the offense.
The physical tools are all there. The flashes are real. But the consistency isn’t. Too many easy points have been squandered when Shannon fails to finish at the rim and possessions lost when he gets careless with the basketball. On a team with legitimate postseason ambitions, he needs to tighten up his game. If Shannon stays within the structure — cutting, attacking closeouts, finishing plays instead of trying to manufacture them — he can be a meaningful part of the rotation. Until then, he’s a developmental piece in progress: useful on the right night, invisible on the wrong one. After all of the preseason and Summer League hype, the Wolves need more from that from a seasoned second-year player. That lands him at D, with potential to climb if the consistency and decision-making matures.
Rob Dillingham — C-
Rob Dillingham is the prototypical rookie point guard story: the highs are exciting, the lows are violent. There are possessions where you see exactly what the front office imagined — pace, creativity, the ability to break down defenders, spark-plug offense that makes the game feel faster. He’s had games where the ball zips out of his hands, shooters get clean looks, and you think: okay, this could work.
And then there are the other stretches. The erratic decision making. The loose handle at the wrong time. The Wolves simply cannot afford careless ball control, and Rob tests the limits of that tolerance.
None of this is fatal. He’s talented, he’s competitive, and he has the traits you want in a long-term point guard. But this is the NBA, not Lexington, and the Wolves don’t have the luxury of developmental minutes if they want to chase home-court advantage. C- isn’t a death sentence — it’s a reminder that potential alone doesn’t carry playoff teams.
The Quarter-Mark Gut Check
Twenty games in, this Timberwolves season is like watching a movie you’ve already seen but still can’t look away from. You know the beats by heart: the big early leads, the dazzling stretches of basketball where Ant and Julius look like the best one-two punch in the West, the impossible defensive possessions where Jaden erases a scoring wing like a Thanos snap… and then the plot twist. The turnovers. The short-circuited offensive possessions. The inexplicable refusal to make free throws. The “we just outplayed them for 46 minutes and lost anyway” walk back to the locker room. It’s the Timberwolves Greatest Hits album, Volume 37.
Despite the inconsistency, Minnesota is still 12–8 with a top-tier rotation, a franchise superstar, a legit second star who can score, rebound, and facilitate, and a young core that’s actually contributing to winning basketball. They’ve beaten teams they should beat, emphatically, which is something past Wolves teams could never say. They survived Ant’s hamstring speed bump. They’ve absorbed shaky bench stretches and growing pains from rookies. And they’re sitting firmly in the mix out West, even with all of their flaws in broad daylight.
That’s why this next stretch is such a referendum on who they really are. Nobody is handing you a 2-seed in April because you can blow out the Jazz on a Tuesday. The teams they’ll meet when it counts, Denver and OKC, don’t care that Ant can drop 40 on the Kings or that Julius went full Bully Ball on Dallas. They care whether the Wolves can execute in minute 47 and 48. Whether the ball moves when it matters. Whether Rudy punishes guards on switches or turns into a hack-a-center liability.
The truth is uncomfortable, but it’s also simple: Minnesota has all the talent it needs to be a top-three seed in the West. What it doesn’t have yet is the poise of a team that knows how to win when there are stakes. Championship teams don’t implode twice in 72 hours against bad opponents. They don’t shoot 60% from the free-throw line in must-win situations. They don’t let trap games metastasize into crises.
That’s why the calendar turn matters. December isn’t about style points. It’s about maturity. The Wolves just came off a month that felt like a pop quiz they mostly passed, except for the sections labeled “Late Game Execution” and “Don’t Light Your Own House on Fire.” Now the semester really starts. The slate of home games is a gift wrapped in a bow. They are a chance to stack wins, lock in rotations, and let Finch hammer in the habits that separate playoff runs from cautionary tales.
You don’t hand out grades at the quarter pole because you’re trying to bury anyone — you do it to measure expectation against performance. So far, the Wolves are passing. Just not yet excelling.
And here’s the silver lining that only a fan who’s lived through 36 years of this can appreciate: the ceiling is still there. It didn’t vanish with the Phoenix meltdown. It didn’t die in the OKC loss. It didn’t walk out the door with Nickeil or disappear in the second apron fog.
If Ant keeps rising, if Julius keeps steering instead of forcing, if Jaden keeps attacking instead of drifting, if Rudy keeps turning layups into fear, and if the young guys learn how to play beside stars instead of trying to be them, there’s a version of this team that doesn’t just hang around… it kicks the door in.
Twenty down, sixty-two to go. Honor roll intact, but report card full of red circles. Time to study. Time to evolve.
Time to start winning the games that count.