The Sacrifice of Caitlyn Clark and The Reliable Market Value of Racism
Like many American men, I enjoy sports way too much. I am almost embarrassed by the forceful emotions a game can pull out of me damned near 25 years after I last played in a game that actually meant anything. A man of my experience and exposure has absolutely no business raging at the television for play by play announcers to shut the fuck up, or bouncing off the walls like Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest when my beloved Alma matter finally won the college football championship this year. (Go Blue). But as ridiculous as it is, it’s all true. I wish it wasn’t but I’m afraid it’s hard wired and will probably still be in this body until it is incinerated to dust.
And despite all of that passion for sports, until this year I couldn’t name a single WNBA team or player. And that’s pretty bad because my home city has had a team for 15 years (The Atlanta Dream) and they play their games a half hour away from my front door. Even still, not one dollar had been spent from my household on any game. This year, however, I have seen two games live and have probably watched five or six more on tv.
So what changed? The WNBA got my attention, and my money, when racism made its debut this season. And by racism, I mean Caitlyn Clark. Not Caitlyn Clark the woman, but Caitlyn Clark, The Idea. Caitlyn…
