Page 1 of A Shot at Love
1
I can tell something is wrong the moment I’m ushered over to the post-game interview.
Jadea is usually the one interviewed after a game, and she is a consummate professional. She mentions every possible teammate, Coach Rembert, the rush of the game. She’s humble, she’s bright, she flashes that fierce smile, and the media eats it up. Me? With my red frizzy hair falling out of its braids, freckles overshadowed by red splotches and a sweaty brow, stuttering and nervous as the mic hovers nearby—no, just no.
I rack my brain as I walk over to the scorer’s table. My stats tonight were decent, and we beat Phoenix easily, both points in my favor if I was the only one on the court. However, Jadea had a triumphant 24 points and 11 rebounds. Allyson, our center, had four blocks.Thoseare interview-worthy stats. My 13 points and eight assists are slightly above average, especially for a point guard, but it’s nothing to shout about. I’m not the star you usually see on ESPN2 after the game.
If we even make it on ESPN2.
I see Misty Haverford waiting for me, exchanging whispers with her crew and gesturing at her cameraman. The more I look at them, the more nervous I become, a cold sensation lingering in the pit of my stomach. A post-game interview should be exciting, butI’ve never been one for making speeches or being thrust into the spotlight. That’s why Jadea and I are the perfect team. I dish and she swishes.
Was there something important about the day? An anniversary? A holiday to commemorate? Did I reach a statistical milestone? I rack my brain, trying to put the pieces together.
The day started just like any other St. Louis Arrows’ game day. Arch Arena was in full swing for our evening rout against the Phoenix Mercury. Jadea came out of the locker room early as usual, and I followed her, her phone clutched in my hand. Clint, the arena manager, hustled over when he saw us cross the court.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Miss?” He looked at Jadea nervously, then behind her as a crew set up a trampoline beneath one of the baskets.
Jadea grinned at him, taking the microphone he offered. “Clint, women hear every day that their version of sports is less entertaining. Less competitive.” Her smile did not waver as she surveyed the crowd. The arena was still filling up with the scarlet and white decked out fans. She turned back to Clint, in full Jadea Jones superstar mode. “This ensures that we stay on the map. That theyseeus.”
Clint gave her an admiring look and bowed his head, ceding center court to her. Some fans noticed our early arrival, giving a shout of recognition. I waved shyly, stepping behind Jadea’s shoulder as she gave the crowd what they wanted.
“What’s good, St. Louis?” she roared into the mic, and they screamed back. The arena wasn’t even full, which is common on weekday games, but it made my heart flutter to see them engage with her so passionately. I could see our moms sitting together a few rows up, waving scarlet and white pom poms. “Who’s ready to see me play MY GAME?” The fans went crazy, and Jadea smirked, passing the mic off to Clint once again. I can’t imagine pumping the fans up, saying the right words to make them cheer, but Jadea has that talent fizzing through her blood.
I held her phone at the ready, stepping back as she approached the basket. One of our assistants passed her a basketball.
And it began.
Overhead, the scoreboard showed a pre-recorded video of Jadea. I gave it the same curious look I always did. Pre-recorded Jadea looked just like the Jadea in front of me. Wide, happy smile, dozens of thin braids pulled back from her face, some of them dyed our beloved scarlet, St. Louis Arrows’ white uniform gracing her muscled body.
Video screen Jadea pointed at the crowd. “People say women can’t dunk!” I swiveled back to the Jadea in front of me and watched as she dunked the ball into the basket that didn’t have the trampoline set up beneath it. She leaped in the air, right hand arcing up, feet spread wide. She looked like Michael Jordan’s fire-spitting niece. The ball jammed through the hoop, and the crowd roared. I let myself smile, glad to see Jadea unhurt and grinningagain. I kept the phone’s camera trained on her, live streaming her routine for her million-plus Instagram followers.
When the crowd quieted again, Jadea put a hand to her ear and lifted her other into the air, pumping them back up again. She pointed at the scoreboard. Her pre-recorded self continued. “People say women can’t compete in a dunk contest!” Jadea dribbled up to the trampoline this time, effortlessly passing the ball back and forth between her legs. The crowd noise built in anticipation. When she finally hit the trampoline and took flight, a hush fell. She had an incredible hang-time, passing the ball in between her legs and then stuffing it into the hoop.
The eruption from the crowd shook the arena. Jadea hung on the rim and pumped her fist, and I saw a little girl in the first section with her hands on her cheeks, eyes comically wide. I couldn’t help but laugh a little at Jadea’s audacity. No one in the NBA would ever dare put on a show at every home game, too worried that they might injure themselves. Their agent, their coach,their teamwould kill them. I know Coach Rembert felt that way about Jadea’s little show. Our agent, Jermaine, certainly did. But to Jadea, it was worth it. She was doing this for the WNBA, for her peers, for all women athletes. She wanted to refute any complaints people had about women’s basketball. It must have felt like being a show pony sometimes, which she didn’t deserve, but she wore it well. She never complained. She didn’t even wincewhen people mentioned that the NBA would never force their athletes to put on a show.
Pre-recorded Jadea finished with her last plea. “People say women CAN’T HOOP! Who’s ready to watch your St. Louis Arrows play today and prove them wrong?” The response was as deafening as our crowd could manage.
Jadea ran in for the finale. She sprinted up to the trampoline, the ball clutched in both hands. I didn’t recognize the approach. Jadea and I have worked on her dunks since we were kids, playing on her driveway court. But this one was unfamiliar, and I steadied the camera to make sure its glory was captured for her Instagram audience.
I wondered if my gasp was audible on the livestream as Jadea front flipped once and dunked the ball. There was sharp silence and then a cacophony of screams and shouts of disbelief. Jadea grinned as she dropped back to the ground. I ended the livestream with shaking fingers. How long had she been working on that one? What if she had hurt herself? Coach was going to kill her.
This was confirmed when I saw the rest of my team coming out for warm-ups. Coach Rembert stood at the edge of the court, arms crossed. Olabisi, one of our shooting guards, shook her head in disapproval. Jadea approached center court and waved to the crowd, bowing and saying thank you.
The trampoline was hurriedly dragged away, and I walked over to Coach Rembert. “Annie,” she looked at me sharply, “did you come up with that one?”
I tugged nervously on one of my braids. “No, Coach.” I couldn’t help but try to defend Jadea, my best friend of two decades. “You know why she does it. She thinks she can help create change.” I didn’t need to explain what I meant by change. Even as the NBA hurtled ahead with $250-million-dollar contracts, cutting-edge sponsorship deals, and every one of their games televised in some capacity, the WNBA played for sloppy seconds. We got some TV time, but usually on smaller networks, and some games were lost completely to the average viewer. A rookie's salary never touched the million-dollar price tag, and most of us have to play year-round overseas to make enough to live.
Coach Rembert considered me and then Jadea, who was finally heading towards us. “If she breaks her arm, her leg, even herthumb, our season is over. She might want to think aboutthat.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but Coach turned away. I nibbled my lip, torn. I understood Coach’s worries, but that smaller, angry part of me was glad Jadea was turning herself into something unforgettable. Women deserve glory, too. However, was she losing that glory by doing something professional men players would never lower themselves to? That’s how I felt when she first started doing it. What was the right call for a professional woman in sports?
I snap back to the present, realizing I’m steps away from only my second post-game interview this season. And the first one was because I had a season-high 18 points and 14 assists. That was understandable. This?Not so much. Thinking of Jadea’s dunk show before the game, I try to reassure myself. Maybe they want to talk about her. Or us. We are the WNBA’s favorite come-up story. Both born and raised by single mothers in St. Louis, both attended Stanford University a year apart, both randomly drafted to their hometown team, a team that had been created by owner Jack Smith and his family’s billions onlytwo yearsbefore Jadea’s draft class. The NBA’s St. Louis Archers and the WNBA’s St. Louis Arrows, established in 2019.
It sounds like a dream, a fantasy, complete make-believe. I still pinch myself when I wake up in the morning and lace up my custom scarlet Jordans.
I give Misty a smile, covertly wiping some of the post-game sweat off my upper lip. Hopefully, the red splotches have begun to recede. I’m standing in frame now, Misty only a few feet away. She’s our local sideline reporter, as this game is not being nationally televised. Her assistant hands me a mic. The cameraman adjusts his position, and I try not to look his way, unnerved by the way the camera lens looks like a big, unblinking eye.
Misty doesn’t return my smile, and I shift nervously. IfIseem nervous, Misty seems even more so. The alarm bells begin to go off in my head. “Hello, Annie,” Misty says, glancing between the camera and my face. “Great win today.” Usually, Misty is genuinely excited to talk to us about the game, as she is a huge proponent of women’s sports, but now she seems almost stiff. She shifts from one leg to the other, tucking her hair behind her ear.
