Women’s basketball and women’s sports in general have a hero in their midst. Neither cherishes her enough. Caitlin Clark isn’t just a spunky, trash-talking rookie guard who plays for the Indiana Fever and, like Steph Curry, launches ICBMs with less conscience than the crazy general in Dr.
Strangelove. Through no contrivance of her own, she has become iconic. A female icon for the sporting world.
An American icon for her country ...
which she will not be allowed to represent. Clark was not named to the U.S.
Women’s Olympic basketball team. This, in the same fortnight in which she was flagrantly fouled frequently and violently enough that a legion of numskulls drew comparisons to the Neanderthal NBA of the 1980s and 1990s — an NBA that the NBA has been trying to outgrow for the past two decades. They have spited their noseless faces.
They have bitten their feeding hand. They are ignorant of the buttered side of their bread. This is so dumb.
Clark should not be beaten and hidden, like my golf game. She should be protected and displayed, like a priceless work of art. It was so easy.
The WNBA should have sent a message. The message: Knock it off. It should have suspended Chicago Sky enforcer Chennedy Carter, the most egregious assailant thus far, who hip-checked Clark to the floor in a game June 1.
Carter could have appealed her suspension from one of the chartered flights whisking her hither and thither; the WNBA is flying private for the first time this year, thanks in.