Getting to my first WNBA game requires a rewind of my history as a sports fan. I was a horrible student throughout my formative public-school years. In fourth grade, I was part of a pretty exclusive group called the “no homework club.” A fraternity of one created by my likely exhausted Amherst Elementary teacher. Any sort of punishment didn’t work on me. When there were movie days that year, I didn’t earn enough of the teacher’s in-class currency to earn the right to watch it. While every other kid watched the Secret Garden, I had to sit facing away from the television they wheeled into the room.
Fast forward to my senior year of high school. In the eight years in-between, I shifted from the wannabe class clown to the quiet kid that if you asked someone else in the graduating class now “do you remember Thomas Costello?” their answer would inevitably be “who?” The year prior, I put in an honest-to-god effort to do better, because if students didn’t miss any days of school, they didn’t have to take end-of-the-year exams. Sign me up.
Halfway through, my dad, who I tormented with many Sunday night “I have a project due tomorrow” moments, died. The person I got my love of sports, and temper, from was gone and so was my initiative. I still cared about sports, but the other stuff fell by the wayside. A “C” on my final English exam, senior year, saved me from missing my high school graduation. What does any of this have to do with my first WNBA game? Karma. That’s what.
Finding a Team
In 2020, a lot of the attention to the league was their long-standing work in social justice, most notably the Atlanta Dream standing up to one of their team owners; a politician that insultingly diminished calls for equal treatment of black people in the United States. I was late to the WNBA bubble (the Wubble) but vowed to get into the 2021 season with my newfound team, the Dream.
Sticking with a team was one positive thing I picked up from my dad. A Cleveland-born kid, he ingrained in me a love for baseball and football. I grew up with a traditional, white suburban kid, sports obsession. Now that I’m technically an adult, I still love Cleveland baseball and football, but soccer grabbed a strong foothold (no pun intended) and now basketball. As a Northeast Ohio-born human, I of course followed the Cleveland Cavs when LeBron James was there, but fandom was tougher to muster up in the Baron Davis and solo Kevin Love years.
On May 16, I checked the schedule of the neighboring Indiana Fever, so I could see when Atlanta was coming to town. Much to my joy/horror, the only chance I’d have was five days later. It’s nice because I don’t have any patience, but frightening because if anything got in the way I’d likely have to wait a year to see them without a multi-state road trip. I bought a four-ticket bundle, invited my friend Shane and his daughter to go with my daughter and me. Each day the excitement built exponentially. Enter karma.
The Morning Of
I lucked out big time with my kids and their education. Both of my daughters tested gifted were reading at a young age and are great kids. The only gift attached to my education was what I thought about buying my mom when she showed up to an eighth-grade parent-teacher to see all of my teachers sitting down waiting for her.
Friday at 11:00 a.m., I was sitting at my desk doing my pandemic, work-from-home, thing when my wife told me to take out my headphones. That’s never good.
“Savannah has three missing assignments,” said my wife about my plus one to that night’s trip. It would get worse. Two of the three was a large science project and it was due that day. What came out of her mouth next was what I dreaded/expected her to say, “can you get a refund on your tickets?” A half-hearted read through the Ticketmaster FAQ section quickly turned into a return question back to my wife “what does she have to do?”
For any teachers that might read this article. Skip this paragraph, although you likely know what I’m about to say next. I did a lot of that project, and who could blame me? I’d seen my parents do the same thing countless times in my childhood. My entire schooling career prepared me for this moment. Also, to be fair, my daughter created the blueprint for the dog house, made all the project’s predictions, and answered lab questions. I was simply the contractor that brought her blueprints to life. That night, we shifted from building dog houses to memories. There wasn’t going to be anything that stopped us from our first WNBA game.
The Game
A three-hour drive is much easier when you’re excited for your first WNBA game and equally as excited about the company you keep in the journey. Shane, who’s a high school advanced chemistry teacher, is a fellow sporting event addict. If there’s a sport or venue within three states of Ohio, he’s likely been there and gone to it. Making the night even more of a celebration, it was his last day of teaching for the school year. Bonus points for the fact that it’d be his first WNBA game too.
We loaded up in my toaster of a sedan, and Shane brought a bag full of candy and treats because he’s awesome, and we headed west.
The drive was uneventful. We talked about sports, writing about sports, chemists, surviving the pandemic, and more. The radio never turned on and all our daughters heard was us talk; punishment enough for the earlier events of the day.
Driving into a downtown environment, knowing that there’s a sporting event creates a buzz. The closer we got to Bankers Life Fieldhouse, the giddier I’d become. For most of the three hours, my shy oldest child kept mostly to herself, but even she began laughing and goofing around as we searched for a parking garage.
I’d say that I’m normally a friendly person to people in public that I don’t know; especially those working events, but at my first indoor sporting event in over a year, I might have been nice to the point of creepiness. I wanted to talk to the security guard, the group of three older women who were looking at our belongings through an x-ray machine, and the guy standing next to the ticket kiosk. We found our seats, did a lap of the arena, checked out the team shop, and grabbed food.
The game started a little slow with both Indiana and Atlanta failing to hit shots for the first couple of minutes. It was a silver lining because at that time I realized that my daughter had never seen a basketball game before. Almost 100% of the sporting events she’s attended the athletes only used their feet. I explained how the game was scored, the three-point line, fouls, backcourt violations, and anything else that came up. Between Ted talks was a lot of dancing in our seats, joking around, and trying our best to win a free t-shirt or mini basketball.
When she got on the big scoreboard; I asked for her autograph that she acted like she signed on my hand, before eating it. Then came eating my thumb, because we have an odd sense of humor. I noticed that whenever I cheered for a Chennedy Carter move to the basket or one of many Elizabeth Williams blocks, she followed suit.
At halftime, Shane and his daughter went to grab more food, so the two of us walked around the arena. We made a stop to a glass display of the history of the Fever. Looked at memorabilia commemorating their 2012 WNBA title and signed jerseys from Tamika Catchings, Tully Bevilaqua, and others that helped shape the history of the league.
It was a great first WNBA game to be a new Atlanta Dream fan. In their third game of a young season, they still hadn’t won – until that night. They found their stride from beyond the arc, hitting 11 of 22. Their field goal percentage was actually lower than from downtown, just barely hit 40% in the final quarter. It didn’t matter because Atlanta’s game plan appeared to focus on frustrating the Fever. And 16 turnovers sure confirmed that it worked.
The final score of 83 to 79 helped make the drive home even better. My daughter’s endless game of dancing was apparently contagious because it caught Shane’s daughter and even me in its spread. Shane, the scientist, was immune.
Newfound WNBA Fandom
Something that I couldn’t quite get out of my mind most of the night was regret. The regret of not getting into the league sooner. I remember being a kid and Cleveland having a WNBA team in the Rockers. I could have seen a Bevilaqua jersey and countless others; live on the court when they played on Ohio’s north shore. Instead, I’m happily catching up on 25 years of history.
Another thing that crept into my mind was a type of talk that surrounds women’s sports. It’s something I’ve been guilty of in the past, but have turned against it. I don’t know if it has an official term, so I’ll call it the “daughter rationale.” It’s the realization that since a guy now has a daughter that they need to show them female athletes so they have role models. The good thing about the daughter rationale is that it gets people in the door. I’m happy that I’m in the door. It’s the last part that causes a problem. Forced role modeling.
Project the same idea of men’s athletes doing their sport to be role models and talking heads on ESPN. And social media will quickly shoot it down. Athletes in the WNBA, NWSL, NWHL, and more don’t just get to play their sport because they’re damn good at it and want to make a living doing it. They’re also expected to pick up the slack of caring about their sport for a younger generation because others around them don’t.
I didn’t get dragged to baseball games in the summer because my dad wanted me to see people like me playing baseball. He took me because it’s competitive and entertaining. It brings people together for a city or specific player. We watch sports because they’re entertaining and competitive, period.
My daughter did come to the game, yes, but I didn’t bring her because she needs to see women play sports. I brought her because I wanted to go to a basketball game and we don’t spend nearly enough time together, just the two of us hanging out. When my son gets old enough; we’ll go to WNBA, NWSL, MLS, NBA, MLB, and whatever other leagues might exist in the next few years. Just like his sisters did and will. When they all move out of the house, my wife will begrudgingly join me or maybe I’ll make a friend.
While it took me 13 years, a lot of trials, and some help from my parents; I finally feel like I’m learning from my mistakes. My first WNBA game just took 25 years to correct, but good thing I’m an experienced procrastinator.
For more writing from Thomas Costello, visit his author page on Beyond Women’s Sports. Watch Beyond Women’s Sports all season for more news from the WNBA, NWSL, and the world of women’s sports. And follow me on Twitter @1ThomasCostello.
