Seeing images of college sensations turning WNBA stars Angel Reese and Caitlin Clark fill my timelines and appear on all the media sites I subscribe to was heartwarming.
For the first time in my long life as a basketball fan, we are witnessing a major paradigm shift in women's sports – where the best women are treated with the love and respect they deserve from fans that hail from all walks of life. Now, there is still a huge pay disparity, that has been connected to TV contracts and ticket sales being lower for professional women basketball players in America, but with this type of attention from the media and the scores of new fans – I doubt that the days of women being paid hundreds of thousands, for what men get paid hundreds of millions, will last long. As we celebrate the surge in popularity of women's basketball, I can't help but think about those super-talented women who came up on the courts in the parks where I used to play.
When I was coming up you had to be tough as nails to play basketball in Baltimore City. Many of the best games were on concrete, and you better not call a foul or you’ll ran off the court. Of course, you may chip a tooth or bust your head or break a bone, but at the end of the day those are small prices to pay to shine amongst the best, and we had some women who used to be the brightest.
This was the early '90s, but keep in mind that the WNBA wasn't founded until 1996. . . . Most of the female players were never big stars in America.
Tanya, with big lazy eyes and sharp left hand, could cross anybody. Her step-back jump shot was lethal, and her only weakness was that she couldn't get off unless she were in a trash-talking competition. "When she starts running her mouth, you better not say anything back because she won't miss!" is what was shared amongst the dudes who battled her on the blacktop daily. You could say that Tanya’s mental game was just as good as her physical game and if you didn't pay close attention she would beat you with both. Lanky Lisa from Up Top was a fierce competitor, too, and I imagine she would have worked on her game more if she thought a future in basketball for women in America was a thing.
This was the early '90s, but keep in mind that the WNBA wasn't founded until 1996. Other professional women's basketball leagues were in different countries, but most of the female players were never big stars in America. Talented women like Tanya and Lisa didn't want to move to another country to play ball, so they figured it was just something to do, a way to earn a college scholarship and maybe major in something that paid a decent wage. Tanya went to college, but came home after her first year, and gave her life to the streets. Lisa stopped playing basketball before she finished high school, modeled for a while and then started a family. Younger than both, Neka wanted to be the first woman in the NBA.
The NBA was a pipe dream for all of us except Neka.
I only thought I was good enough to make it to the NBA because I hung with Neka. Now, obviously, I thought wrong because I never made it anywhere close to the NBA. However, Neka was so good, played so much and played so hard that you just felt like she was going to make it. You felt like she was going to will herself into a historic situation and take control of a role that had never been done by any woman before her.
"Let's get it, bro!" Neka said at 8 a.m. or 4:30 p.m. before the sun started dipping into the clouds and at 8 p.m. when the lights popped on Elmwood Park.
Let's get it, bro, meant, "D! Wake your jughead self up, and let's hit the court!"
At 12 years old, we'd pick apart the adults in our neighborhood, destroy them in games of 2 on 2 after completing our workouts and then work out again.
Hitting the court with Neka wasn't just playing basketball; it was jogging around the park, running suicides on a blacktop – a challenging exercise where you race up and down the court, stopping to touch each line before going back, starting over, and advancing to the next line. Neka also wanted to do shooting, passing and tough layup drills, so she drove to the basket and asked me to push her out of the air when she neared the rim.
"If I'm gonna make it to the NBA, I must be better."
"You better than every girl knows and most dudes."
"Better than everyone," she’d shoot back.
At 12 years old, we'd pick apart the adults in our neighborhood, destroy them in games of 2 on 2 after completing our workouts and then work out again. Neka was more skilled than me, had a better jump shot and was more aware on the court. Physically, we were the same height, except I was stronger and faster. When we did those layup drills where she asked me to bump or push her out of the air, I remember practicing the highest level of restraint, and still, even my light touches disrupted her shot. And she would do the same to me. I would hardly feel it. We both worked out so much, that a lot of competition in the neighborhood didn't stand a chance, and any attempts at bullying her because she was a woman or me for playing against a woman rarely worked.
Rarely because there was one time where she was getting the best of a dude in a game to 21, and he started feeling her up in an inappropriate way.
“Get ya hands off me!” Neka yelled. A few guys from the game and a bunch dudes from the bench rushed the court and beat him down hard enough that I imagine he would never want to improperly touch a woman again.
By 14, my skills had increased, as hers did, too, except my physical ability continued to grow to the point where I could dunk. My dunking caused unnecessary friction, but still, together, we ran the courts — from our home turf of Ellwood to The Cage over West. And most of the dudes, especially the ones we defeated, had the same compliment about Neka's game: "She's good for a girl."
When guys said, "She's good for a girl," it was meant as a compliment. To fully understand, let's use the lens of patriarchy. In understanding the rules of patriarchy, a comment like, "She's good for a girl," is the ultimate gift that you could offer a woman. To be compared to a man should mean the world . . . or so many men who subscribe to that culture think. Neka didn't care about being compared to men or women in general; she just wanted to be great, better than anyone else on the court. And she would achieve that goal again and again.
Neka continued to work on her game, and as she reached college, I imagine that her dream of being the first woman in the pros grew further away. I was humbled, too, as I continued to travel to different courts and encountered more challenging competition. Making the NBA is impossible even if you are a man over 6 feet, practice every day and have started in high school and maybe even college. Millions of hoopers in the world with only about 300 or so odd spots. I should mention that Neka never grew past 5 foot 4.
We were now in the late '90s, and the WNBA had been off to a great start with stars like Dawn Staley, Sheryl Swoopes and Lisa Leslie. But they were at the top of the food chain, at the head of countless other professional WNBA athletes who could not earn enough off of endorsements and didn't make enough money off their basketball fame to solely live off hoops. Many talented women like Neka did not see a future and pursue basketball even after a professional league for women was created.
But this new wave of athletes is changing everything.
The top women in sports still are not getting the same contracts as men; however, they are making a ton of money off of endorsements and the many other revenue streams available to public figures. When I look at marketing sensations like Angel Reese and Caitlin Clark, I think about how my great friend Neka could be doing that if only she had been born at a different time.
Wouldn't it be great if there was a way to financially take care of the pioneers? Sadly, many of the women who paved the way for the current generation will never financially reap the benefits but deserve all of their flowers for laying the current foundation.
Shares