The league says outside forces are trying to hijack women’s basketball.
They won’t name who or what that is.

But there is a remarkably simple way to stop them.
Clearly define who is eligible to play in the Women’s National Basketball Association.

In an earlier column, I wrote that the WNBA had backed itself into a corner.
Turns out somebody at league headquarters finally noticed the walls.

Good.
It’s about time.

And now they’ve met.
The WNBA’s task force gathered to discuss the issue.

And after all that, the answer is still:
We’ll get back to you.

They met to discuss the question.
Then managed to leave the meeting without answering it.

No immediate matters?
Men have publicly declared their intention to enter the WNBA Draft.

The world is watching and waiting.
Sounds pretty immediate to me.

The WNBA doesn’t need another statement.
It needs a definition.

The league’s collective bargaining agreement says:
“Only players who are women are eligible to play in the WNBA.”

Seems pretty straightforward.
Except it doesn’t define what a woman is.

That might have been an amusing legal omission when the question was theoretical.
It isn’t anymore.

It’s an eligibility question.
For a professional sports league.

And the answer can’t be:
We’ll get back to you.

Biological sex?
Gender identity?
Hormone levels?
Medical transition?

Pick one.
Write it down.
Apply it equally.

That’s not a rule.
That’s a future lawsuit with a basketball.

Carrington was assessed a Flagrant 2 and ejected.
Right call.
It wasn’t even close to a basketball move.

As White spoke, Makayla Timpson looked down.
Caitlin Clark buried her head in her hands.
Interesting reaction from both.

Video appears to show White looking directly toward the play as it happens.
Locked in.

Right before she said, “Everybody else can go to hell.”
Hmm.

But here’s the problem.
Most of those forces aren’t coming from outside.
The WNBA invited them in.

Players have been celebrated for speaking out.
Coaches have spoken out.
The league has spoken out.
Broadcasters have spoken out.

Fine.
Not really.
Somewhere in there is a basketball game.

They’ve backed their coach.
They should.
That’s what professionals do.

She said it.
She stood by it.
And she’s standing by her coach and teammates.

Courage isn’t screaming the loudest.
Sometimes it’s standing your ground without burning down the locker room around you.

These women have something else to do.
Play basketball.

They have teammates depending on them.
Games to win.
A championship to chase.

Not another question about inclusion.
Not another question about the political climate.
Not another invitation for a prepared statement.

Then follow up.
Would Enes Kanter Freedom qualify?
Would Royce White?
Would Julie Tétart?

Caitlin Clark brought millions of new eyeballs to women’s basketball.
Audiences grew.
New fans arrived.

Race.
Politics.
Gender.
Protests.
Officiating controversies.
Culture wars.

Eventually fans get tired.
They didn’t buy a ticket to attend a sociology seminar.
They came to watch basketball.

And that’s why Engelbert’s eligibility discussions matter.
Except now they’re no longer merely discussions that are going to happen.

They happened.
The league met.

It issued another statement.
And we still don’t have a definition.

They didn’t answer the question.
They kicked the can down the road.

The problem is, the road eventually leads right back to the same question.
What is a woman?

Clearly.
Fairly.
Objectively.

This debate does not have to be about inclusion.
Transgender people should be treated with dignity and respect.

It’s about protection and fair competition.
Women deserve their own athletic category.

Activists do.
Many members of the media do.
Several WNBA players and coaches do.

Define eligibility.
Tell the players.
Tell the coaches.
Tell the broadcasters.
Tell the fans.
Tell Enes Kanter Freedom.
Tell Royce White.
Tell Julie Tétart.

Where they’ve been.
What teams they cheer for.
What bands they love.
Where they went to school.
What they believe.
What they did for a living.
Where they served.

I have a lot of them.
Probably too many.
But, hey.

I frequently wear a Pink Floyd Wish You Were Here shirt.
That shirt almost always starts a conversation.
Sometimes an argument.

You’re taking a position.
I know I am.

For the record:I like “The Dark Side of the Moon.”
I really like “The Wall."
I LOVE “Wish You Were Here.”

There.
I said it.

And inevitably somebody sees the shirt and wants to debate it.
“Animals!“
“Dark Side!“
“The Wall!“

Even…
“Atom Heart Mother!”
Now that is a good one.

See how that works?
I’m almost debating myself.

Suddenly complete strangers are discussing albums recorded half a century ago.
All because of a T-shirt.

I have a Glenn Miller Orchestra shirt, too.
Very cool design.

And you’d be surprised how many conversations that one starts.

Then there’s Lynyrd Skynyrd.
I’ve got those shirts, too.

I’ve already told enough stories about McGuffey Lane that I’m probably legally required to start paying them royalties.
Or they should pay me an advertising fee.

Nah.
I do it because I dig them.
Yes, I still talk like that.

They aren’t just merchandise.
They’re little announcements.
This music matters to me.

Sports shirts operate differently.
They’re tribal identification.

Wear an Ohio State shirt just about anywhere in America and sooner or later you’ll hear it.
“O-H!”

There is only one acceptable response.
“I-O!”

That’s it.
Conversation completed.

I am always proud to wear my FDNY shirts.
Especially the ones for their football team.

Sometimes with firefighters.
Sometimes with New Yorkers.
Sometimes with somebody who simply sees those four letters and understands what they represent.

She’s 22, has autism, and designs clothing with people like her in mind.
Especially those who deal with skin sensory issues.

Every piece features her own original artwork.
Her imagination.
Her style.
Her sense of humor.

And she’s doing remarkably well.
Her clothing has sold in more than 40 countries.

I wear her shirts.
Proudly.

And when they do, I get to tell them about the artist.
The designer.
The entrepreneur.
Our daughter.

I have one that simply says:
“Say When.”

If you know, you know.
Doc Holliday.
“Tombstone.”

They comment.
Every time.

Vacation shirts can work that way.
Anybody can buy a shirt that says Hawaii.

But get one with a reference to those chickens running around Kauai and suddenly somebody who has been there sees it and says:
“You know about the chickens!”

Yes.
Yes, I do.

There are shirts from tucked-away bars, restaurants and barbecue joints.
Arthur Bryant’s in Kansas City.

It’s saying:
I’ve been there.
And I have the sauce stains to prove it.

I’ve collected those shirts from trips all over the place.
Some from famous places.

Like the Dead Rabbit in New York City.
The Pounding Fathers in South Dakota.

I still have 82nd Airborne shirts.
Those are different.

Someone sees one and asks:
“Were you in the 82nd?"
Yep.
Sometimes that’s the end of it.

Other times the person seeing it has served, too.
Their comment is “All the Way.”
Mine of course is, “Airborne.”

Then we’re talking about units.
Fort Bragg.
Years.
People.

I have another shirt that says:
“Jesus Is Not a Swear Word.”

That one gets looks.
Some smiles.
Some double takes.

And conversations.
Which is fine with me.

Because whether it’s your faith.
Your favorite band.
Your college.
Your military service.
Or your favorite barbecue joint.

Of course...
Sometimes it tells us too much.

The vulgar ones.
The crude ones.
The ones with words your mother spent eighteen years teaching you not to say in public.

And I’ve never understood the classic:
“I’m With Stupid” →

Especially when the person is walking with his wife.
Even worse when he’s walking around alone.
At that point it’s less of a joke and more of a confession.

Some T-shirts aren’t quite history books.
They’re bathroom graffiti with sleeves.

I’m not talking about shirts I disagree with.

Wear whatever political shirt you want.
Root for the wrong team.
Listen to terrible music.

This is America.
Knock yourself out.

The kind you look at and think:
Somebody saw that hanging in a store...
Pulled out his wallet...
Paid actual money for it...
And decided:
This is what I want to say to every person I encounter today.

Those shirts belong in the history books, too.
Preferably in the back section in a chapter nobody reads.

Better yet, shove them into the back of a dark closet...
Where the light doesn’t shine.

Because that’s where some of the greatest T-shirts ever made eventually end up.
The rare book section of the library.

You know these shirts.
They’re twenty, thirty, maybe forty years old.

The lettering is cracked.
The collar is stretched.
There’s a mysterious hole developing somewhere near the bottom.

You haven’t actually worn the thing in twelve years.
But throw it away?

My wife has sometimes suggested that some of my older T-shirts should be thrown away.
Wrong.

We have compromised.
I have thrown away a few.
I continue to mourn their loss.

Every closet has its own hierarchy.
And it is always in continuous motion.

There’s the new T-shirt.
Then the favorite T-shirt.
Then the weekend T-shirt.
Then the yard-work T-shirt.
Then the painting T-shirt.

After that?
Rag.
The purgatory of T-shirts.

You wouldn’t wear them to the grocery store.
You might not even wear them to take out the trash after dark.

But you can’t throw them away.
Why?

Because you’re not just keeping the shirt.
You’re keeping what happened while you were wearing it.

That faded concert shirt?
You remember the concert.

That old college shirt?
You remember who you were then.

The vacation shirt?
You remember the trip.

The restaurant shirt from a place that closed years ago?
For a few seconds, the place isn’t closed anymore.

The military shirt?
You remember the people who served beside you.

The sports shirt?You remember the game.
The score.
Where you were sitting.
Who you watched it with.

We take pictures because we want to remember things.
We buy souvenirs because we want to remember places.

That we did that.
That we loved that band.
Cheered for that team.
Visited that place.
Believed that thing.
Knew those people.
Lived that part of our lives.

We’ll see something entirely different.
We’ll see the story that came with it.

Even if you can’t wear it anymore.
You’re preserving history.

Board by board.
Nail by nail.
Statement by statement.
Inaction by inaction.

And I have to admit...
I love this.

Not because I expect either one of them to be suiting up for the Indiana Fever.
They’re making a point.

And sometimes the best way to expose the absurdity of something is to stop arguing about it...
And simply shine a spotlight on it.

And hopefully…
Follow the argument to its logical conclusion.

Whoever thought we’d actually have to ask that?
Seriously.

We knew.
Everybody knew.
Kids knew.

We built civilizations.
Launched a thousand ships across the ocean.
Put a man on the moon.
Invented the automobile.
Split the atom.
Created the internet.

Wait.
What’s a woman again?

Now the organization that may actually have to provide an answer is...
The Women’s National Basketball Association.

Well...
Apparently, you can.

The WNBA’s new collective bargaining agreement is 409 pages long.
Up from 350 pages in 2020.
Should cover everything.
Right?

Buried in this manual is Article XIII, Section 1(a).
It states:
“Only players who are women are eligible to play in the WNBA.”

Excellent.
Seems reasonable.

Women.
WNBA.
I can follow that.

Except the agreement reportedly doesn’t define what a woman is.
Of course it doesn’t.
Who would ever anticipate they’d have to?

Unnecessary.
Controversial.
Silly.

“Should we define who is eligible?”
“Absolutely.”

“Women.”
“Okay.”

Question.
“What’s a woman?”
“Uhh…”

Someone looks it up on their phone.
“Uhh…”

Someone suddenly remembers another meeting.
Legal clears its throat.
Human Resources quietly closes the door.

Finally...
“We’ll get back to you.”

Then along comes Freedom and White.
And they’re forcing the circle to close.

Because if gender identity determines whether someone is a woman...
Okay.

They’ve identified.
Now what?

Can they play?
No?

Because they’re obviously men?
Well...

Meet Julie Tétart.
Tétart is a French basketball player who is biologically male and transgender.

He already plays women’s professional basketball in France.
And he’s not sitting at the end of the bench handing out Gatorade.

This past season, Tétart averaged more than…
21 points.
20 rebounds a game.

Twenty rebounds.
A game.
Averaged.
And they weren’t “me-bounds.”

Not politically.
Not emotionally.
Not because one person’s story seems more sincere.

If Tétart is a woman for purposes of professional basketball...
Why isn’t Freedom?
Why isn’t White?

And…
“Come on, you know what we mean” isn’t going to work anymore.

With a resounding…
THUMP!

And now…
Here’s Julie Tétart.
Here’s a 6-foot-10 former NBA center.
And here’s a 6-foot-8 ,260-pound former NBA forward.

Freedom played more than a decade in the NBA.
Royce White was an NBA first-round draft pick.

So, let’s make this really simple.
Are they women?

If yes...
Welcome to the 2027 WNBA Draft, gentlemen.

Sorry.
Ladies.

If no...
Then why?

There are two sexes.
Male and female.

And yes…
Doctors can change someone’s appearance.
Hormones can change physical characteristics.
Surgery can alter anatomy.

That’s not cruel.
That’s not mean.
And it is certainly not hate.

For generations…
Girls and women fought for their own teams.
Their own opportunities.
Their own scholarships.
Their own place in athletics.

The absurdity.
And it doesn’t stop when the buzzer sounds.

If men are members of women’s teams…
They’re teammates.

That means the same locker rooms.
Changing areas.
Showers.
Places where women have traditionally been entitled to privacy.

She said boys shouldn’t compete in women’s sports.
That shouldn’t have been controversial.

Thirty years ago, it wouldn’t have even qualified as an opinion.
It would have been a simple obvious comment.

Yet Cunningham was criticized.
Her character was questioned.
Her motives were questioned.
People demanded she walk it back.
Apologize.

Of course, Sophie didn’t.
I admire that.

Not even close to a basketball move.
Carrington is ejected.

Hours later, instead of an apology, Carrington posts two words:
“White Privilege.”

Okay.
The fight has arrived.

Shakespeare couldn’t write this kind of comedy.
Too unbelievable.

The hypothetical guys have names.
Freedom.
White.
Tétart.

The WNBA created it.
These guys just used it.

This is a clear example of what happens when you become so afraid of defining something.
You eventually stop defining anything.

And the obvious question here really is spectacularly obvious.
Who can play in a women’s basketball league?

Now we’ll apparently need lawyers.
And activists dressed up as frogs.

Yes.
Frogs.

Because I guess that’s where we are now.
Frogs.

But don’t ask certain members of Congress.
Don’t ask certain college presidents.

And whatever you do, don’t ask a certain Supreme Court justice.
We’ve already learned where that can go.

Option One:
The WNBA lets Freedom and White play.

If simply declaring yourself a woman gets you through the door...
Open it.

Because once you’ve established that self-identification is enough, what’s stopping the third guy?
Or the tenth?
Or the hundredth?

And there’s another little problem.
Money.

The average NBA G League player makes around $40,000 a year.
The average WNBA player now makes around $500,000.

So let’s see...
Play in the G League for $40,000.

You don’t need a gender studies degree to figure out that math.
You need a calculator.

That’s not just an ideological loophole.
That’s an economic incentive.

Imagine WNBA training camp.
“Coach, good news. We upgraded at center.”
“Who’d we sign?”
“Seven-footer. Dude played four years of Division I men’s basketball.”

How many actual women would still make WNBA rosters?
Five?
Three?

Do they keep one on every roster for tradition?
The token woman.
In the WNBA.

This isn’t a sociology class anymore.
It’s professional basketball.

Bodies collide.
Players get knocked down or thrown to the floor.
Elbows fly.
Screens get set.

They’re not merely opponents.
They’re teammates.

That means locker rooms.
Changing areas.
Showers.
Places where female athletes have every right to expect privacy.

Eventually, how many women would be left?
How many are willing to play somewhere else?

At that point the WNBA doesn’t need a new eligibility policy.
It needs a new name.

Option Two:
They tell Freedom and White:

No.
You’re men.
Men aren’t eligible for the WNBA.

Great.
Problem solved.

Except...
Did you hear what you just said?
You’re men.

Congratulations.
Apparently, we didn’t need the task force after all.

Biological sex?
Something else?

The league might survive.
But it takes a hard hit.

Option Three:
Tell Freedom and White no.
But tell Julie Tétart yes.

Freedom is a man.
White is a man.
But Tétart is...
What?

Not sincerity.
Not feelings.

Surgery?
Hormones?
How long someone has identified as a woman?
How convincingly?
Who decides?

If you can’t answer that...
You haven’t defined “woman.”

You’ve defined exceptions.
And solved absolutely nothing.

Competition.
Roster spots.
Physical safety.
Locker rooms.
Privacy.

Except now we’ve added one more:
Nobody knows what the rule actually means.

That’s not a women’s basketball league.
That’s an ideological identity policy with a scoreboard.

Option Four:
Tell all three no.

Men don’t play in the Women’s National Basketball Association.
Period.
That’s the right answer.

Activists will be furious.
And you can bet there will be protests.
And not the mostly peaceful kind.

During a confrontation outside the Target Center, an activist attempted to rip an XX-XY shirt from the hands of a Cunningham supporter.
It got pretty physical.

Another culprit?
The sports media.
Again.

Which brings me to them.
Ryan Ruocco.
Rebecca Lobo.
Holly Rowe.
Malika Andrews.
Chiney Ogwumike.
Andraya Carter.
Debbie Antonelli.
Monica McNutt.

You cover this league.
You interview these players.

You talk about their courage when they take a stand that you approve of.
Fair enough.
Not really.

Ask the question.
What is a woman?

Ask whether Enes Kanter Freedom is eligible.
Ask whether Royce White is eligible.
Ask whether Julie Tétart is eligible.

And if the answers are different...
Ask why.

Don’t change the subject.
Don’t tell us it’s “complicated.”
Don’t retreat into “inclusion.”
Don’t turn the question into a lecture about the person asking it.

Just ask the basketball question sitting directly in front of you.
It’s right there.
It’s not hiding.

The WNBA should be having its greatest moment.
The Golden Era of women’s professional basketball is right here.

Caitlin Clark brought millions of new fans.
Interest exploded.
Television audiences grew.
Young girls started wearing WNBA jerseys.
Men started wearing WNBA shirts.

It needs some common sense.
A heavy dose of it.

Girls have fought for these opportunities.
Women have fought for these opportunities.
Title IX helped guarantee those opportunities.

This battle isn’t about inclusion.
It’s about protection.

Women play in the Women’s National Basketball Association.
Men don’t.

Everybody involved knows.
The players know.
The coaches know.
The executives know.
The broadcasters know.
The fans know.
Julie Tétart knows.
Enes Kanter Freedom knows.
Royce White knows.

These two men aren’t exposing how difficult the question is.
They’re exposing how ridiculous people have made the answer.

The WNBA wanted a professional basketball league for women.
It built an entire organization around that idea.

They put it right there in the name.
Women’s National Basketball Association.
Four words.

I apparently wasn’t paying attention.
I talk to everybody.

I don’t wait for somebody to say hello.
I tend to say it first.

I just haven’t met them yet.
But give me a minute.

Sometimes they’re funny.
Sometimes they’re completely unexpected.

No particular reason.
That’s usually how these things start.

He smiled.
“I think I can do that.”

That happened in Nashville.
Of course it happened in Nashville.

We were just talking.
But now, we’re talking.

Suddenly this wasn’t just some stranger anymore.
He had a story.
And he was sharing it with me.

Another time in Nashville, I was wearing a T-shirt from a local Southern Ohio band.
McGuffey Lane.

A guy recognized it.
So, we started talking.

Band.
Music.
Where are you from?

I’m in Nashville.Talking to a guy I’ve never met.
About a McGuffey Lane shirt I happen to be wearing.
And somehow, we find a connection through a friend of mine in Colorado and Athens, Ohio.

Of course.
Dad knows him.

Except I didn’t.
Five minutes ago.

We were at a house with several other guests, and I started talking to one of the guys there.
We hit it off immediately.
So did our wives.

We talked and laughed most of the evening.
Connected on our faith.
Before we left, I suggested we ought to get together the following weekend.

He smiled.

Said they’d love to, but he was going to be out of state.
Okay.
Maybe another time.

That Saturday morning, I’m sitting on the floor playing with our kids.
The television is on.
I glance up.
And there he is.
The guy from dinner.
On television.

I’m pretty sure my reaction was something along the lines of:
“Hey! That’s the guy from dinner!”

But I love that I didn’t know.
And I was impressed that he never led with it.

I didn’t talk to him because his father was Floyd Little.
I didn’t know his father was Floyd Little.
I talked to him because he was there.

That’s one of the things I’ve learned about strangers.
Interesting people don’t necessarily look interesting.

They don’t wear signs.
Good.
That would ruin the surprise.
Spoiler!

There was a Hispanic gentleman near us.
As we spoke, I noticed a wicked scar across his hand.

Most people probably wouldn’t have said anything.
I did.

He looked down at his hand.
Then he started telling me a story.

Vietnam.
1968.

He was walking point.
An NVA soldier came at him from the brush with a bayonet.
He grabbed the bayonet with his hand, pushed it aside, then shot the man with his sidearm.

I looked down at my son.
“Did you hear that?”

I nodded toward the man.
“We’re standing next to a hero.”

I looked back at him.
He had tears in his eyes.

A few minutes earlier, he was just another guy standing in line at Walmart.
At least that’s all I knew about him.

Then I talked to him.
And something happened.

That’s the thing about strangers.
We think we know who we’re standing next to.
We don’t.

They’ve experienced something you haven’t.
They’ve succeeded at something.
Failed at something.
Loved somebody.
Lost somebody.
Seen something.
Survived something.

Sometimes you start talking because you’re curious.
Sometimes you don’t even know why.

There was nothing particularly unusual about him.
But something stirred in me.

I didn’t stand right next to him.
I just stood nearby.
Trying not to be creepy.

Eventually, we started talking.
Surprise.

We talked a little more.
Then he told me why.

His boy, he said, had lived a good but troubled life.
And he had taken his own life.
He’d left behind a son and an ex-wife.

The man fought back tears as he talked.
I didn’t have any great words of wisdom for him.
What could I possibly say?

So, I listened.
That’s all.

Before we went our separate ways, he thanked me.
He said he needed that.
That it helped him.

I think about him sometimes.
I hope he’s doing okay.

We never exchanged numbers.
I don’t even remember his name.

Sometimes the conversation is for you.
Sometimes it isn’t.
Sometimes you get the great story.
Sometimes you discover some crazy connection between Nashville, Colorado and Athens, Ohio.
Sometimes the guy you invited for dinner pops up on television at the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

Put strangers in an elevator and watch what happens.
Nothing.

Everybody suddenly becomes fascinated by illuminated numbers.
Apparently, floor six is riveting.

Waiting room?
Phone.

Airport gate?
Headphones.

Standing in line?
Phone.

Sitting alone somewhere?
Phone.
Again.

We carry a device capable of connecting us with almost every human being on the planet…
And sometimes use it to avoid talking to the one standing three feet away.

Just say hello.
Notice something.
Ask a question.

I don’t care what somebody looks like.
How old they are.
How they’re dressed.
What kind of metal they have hanging from their face.
How many tattoos they have.
The color their hair is.
The look on their face.

Because to me…
That’s where interesting starts.

And it doesn’t always lead to some incredible revelation.
Most of the time it doesn’t.

Sometimes you just laugh.
Sometimes somebody recommends a restaurant.
Sometimes you talk about the weather.
Sometimes you discover you root for the same team.
Or that Team Up North.
Boo!

That’s okay.
Something still happened.

And here’s the important part:
Listen to the answer.

That scar.
That T-shirt.
That accent.
That hometown.
That ball cap.
That guitar.

Sometimes…
Nothing stands out.

There’s usually a door sitting right there.
You just have to open it.

How many stories I didn’t hear.
How many connections I never discovered.
How many people could have made me laugh.
How many people might have taught me something.

But I know about the man at Walmart.
I know about the tears in his eyes when a stranger told his young son they were standing beside a hero.

I’m glad I asked about that scar.
I share that story.
A lot.

“Do you know that guy?”
Nope.

Because when you talk to people…
things happen.

Not the analysts.
Not the hot takes.

The men who didn’t just tell us what happened.
They reminded us why we loved the games in the first place.

Vin Scully never merely called a baseball game.
He invited you to spend an evening with history.

For a brief time, I had the privilege of working with the Dodgers.
Long enough to spend some time with him.
Long enough to appreciate who he really was.
We had several have nice chats.

That was the man.
He loved baseball.
And he genuinely loved sharing baseball.

Vin didn’t simply paint pictures with words.
He painted baseball with Norman Rockwell brushstrokes.

Summer days and nights.
The smell.
The colors.
The sound.
Grandparents explaining how Willie Mays caught fly balls over his shoulder.

Vin could turn an ordinary Tuesday night infield pop-up into a story about Brooklyn.
Jackie Robinson.
Sandy Koufax.
A father bringing his son to his first game.

And Keith Jackson?
Every time you heard...“Whoa Nellie!”
Saturday college football officially began, and everything was right with the world.

Marty Brennaman and Joe Nuxhall were my summer soundtrack long before Marty and I became pals.
They didn’t simply call Reds games.
They invited you to sit on the porch with two old friends.

More importantly...
They breathed a love for the game.

Bob Uecker reminded us the game was supposed to be fun.
“I must be in the front row.”

Harry Caray made every Cubs game feel like Opening Day.
“Holy cow!”

Dandy Don Meredith laughed his way through Monday Night Football.
“Turn out the lights, the party’s over.”

“Boom! Bam!”
John Madden somehow taught millions of Americans football without ever making anyone feel stupid.
He never talked down to us.
He brought us deep into the game with his rapid-fire crazy, chaotic scribbles on the telestrator.
And who doesn’t love a six-legged turkey and the infamous turducken?

Then there were the writers.
Jim Murray.
Frank Deford.
Red Smith.
Dan Jenkins.
George Plimpton.
Remember the movie “Paper Lion?”

They didn’t simply cover sports.
They wrote about people.

Because the people who played them…
And the people who loved them…
Were worth writing about beautifully.

They wrote about heartbreak.
Perseverance.
Tradition.
Family.
A seventh-game home run.
A Friday night under the lights.
Dare I say, “the agony of defeat.”

Sports aren’t just games.
They’re family traditions.
They’re fathers teaching sons.
Mothers teaching daughters.

They’re old ticket stubs tucked inside photo albums.
They’re radios on the front porch.
Little League games.
The first glove.
The last game with Dad.

That’s why sports matter.
And that’s why so many of us fell in love with them.

They weren’t trying to impress us.
They were trying to share something they loved.
They were telling stories.

And because they loved it...
We loved it too.

Sports weren’t merely scores.
They were stories.

Republicans.
Democrats.
Rich.
Poor.
Black.
White.
Young.
Old.

For three hours...
We all wore the same colors.
Team colors.
Not skin colors.
And that was all that mattered.

I mean, come on.
Even Broncos and Chiefs fans can come together in their mutual hatred of the Raiders.
That’s sports.

The front page was politics.
The business section was money.
The editorial page was where everybody argued.

Nobody turned to it hoping for a lecture on sociology.
The biggest controversy was whether Pete Rose belonged in the Hall of Fame.
Whether the designated hitter ruined baseball.
Whether your coach should’ve punted on fourth-and-one.

Neither were the people who covered them.
But they understood their assignment.

Tell the story.
Celebrate excellence.
Pass the game to the next generation.

Then...
Something changed.

It’s no longer about the game.
It’s now about race.

And the only people who constantly seem determined to make every sports story about race......
Are increasingly the people covering sports.

They see a point guard.
A quarterback.
A coach.
A referee who can’t find his whistle......
let alone his flag.

They argue about coaching decisions.
Play calling.
Draft picks.
Dropped passes.
Whether somebody can still hit a fastball.

More and more...
They’re telling us to see race first.

And the game second.
If at all.

Jimmy is a genuinely good guy.
A huge supporter of military Veterans.
We weren’t in a formal meeting.
Just talking.

At the time he was dealing with yet another Keith Olbermann controversy.
At one point Jimmy looked at me and asked,
“How do we keep politics out of sports?”

I smiled.
“The answer’s in your question.”

Keep politics...
...out of sports.

Jimmy smiled back.
He knew exactly what I meant.

The problem is...
Politics didn’t stay out.
It quietly kept creeping in.

Not the pick-and-roll.
Not the pass rush.
Not the bullpen.

Instead, it is a lecture on…
Race.
Privilege.
Identity.

Every.
Single.
Time.

Every superstar becomes a social experiment.
Every cheering crowd gets psychoanalyzed.
Every analyst suddenly has a doctorate in race relations.
And apparently every sportswriter has picked up a minor in sociology.

Because...
If all else fails...
Just bring up race.

Sports doesn’t have a race problem.
Sports journalism does.

Not because she’s the whole story.
Because she’s become one of its clearest examples.

She somehow looked at one of the biggest success stories in modern sports...
Caitlin Clark......
and connected it to the lynching of fourteen-year-old Emmett Till in 1955.

A basketball player.
Hard fouls.
Social media attacks.

It’s one of the most irresponsible pieces of sports commentary I’ve read in years.
Perhaps ever.

Armour argued there is a white nationalist element within Clark’s fan base.
That is an extraordinary accusation.

Extraordinary accusations require extraordinary evidence.
None was offered by Armour or the sports media.

Because once every story is viewed through race...
Every game starts looking like another piece of evidence.

That’s not sportswriting.
That’s activism with a press pass.

Not...
“I got this wrong.”

Not...
“I unfairly connected unrelated events.”

Certainly not...
“I’m sorry.”

Instead...
“My comparison was inartful.”

Howard Bryant wrote:
“Indiana Fever guard Sophie Cunningham is now in the act, accepting the role as the right’s anti-black, anti-transgender culture war ambassador, the role originally intended for Caitlin Clark.”

Dave Portnoy, Founder of Barstool Sports asked what many fans were asking:
“How did Sophie saying trans girls shouldn’t compete in girls’ sports turn into Sophie hates black people? I’m very confused about how those two things are related.”

Again, you’re not alone, Dave.
That’s the question.

Because somewhere between what Sophie actually said...
And what people claimed she meant...
Basketball disappeared.

Ryan Clark “leaves” ESPN.
Soon afterward he says he felt he couldn’t be “too black.”

Ironically, many football fans had a completely different criticism.
They weren’t asking Ryan Clark to be less black.

They were asking him to spend less time making football conversations about race.
There is a difference.

Meanwhile...
The overwhelming majority of fans couldn’t care less.

Fans don’t sit in the stands wondering who’s black.
Or who’s white.

Because fans have always cared more about team colors...
Than skin colors.

The only color most fans care about...
...is the jersey.

I’ve never heard anybody yell,
“Throw it to the white receiver!”

Or,
“Pass it to the black point guard!”

They yell,
“Throw it to the guy who’s open!”

The scoreboard doesn’t care about race.
It doesn’t care about politics.

It has one job.
Count points.

Frankly...
It’s doing a better job of staying objective than too many of today’s sports media.

Vin Scully isn’t walking through that press box door.
Neither is Keith Jackson.
Or Marty and Joe.
Or Harry Caray.
Or Bob Uecker.
Or Dandy Don.

They reminded us that a father and son could disagree about almost everything...
Except whether the umpire missed that last pitch.

That for three hours...
The only side that mattered...
Was your side.
Your hometown.
Your school.
Your team.Your colors.

They didn’t spend their careers telling us who to resent.
They made us proud of what team we represent.

Sports won’t solve America’s problems.
They never have.

That excellence still mattered.
That teamwork still mattered.
That character still mattered.
That stories still mattered.

And with them…
A little of the joy.

And maybe...
If we let sports be sports again...
We’ll remember they were bringing us together all along.

After all...
They’re called team colors for a reason.

Maybe it’s time…
We started acting like it again.

Come on.
I want to show you something.
Walk with me down this long hallway.

Right there.
See that door?
It says Memory Vault.

Go ahead.
Open it.

Inside you’ll find an overworked little trailer editor.
He’s been there for years.

His job isn’t to win Oscars.
His job is to preserve every movie you’ve ever loved.

Frankly...
He should have been fired years ago.

Every time you think about replacing him...
He smiles.
Snips another strip of film.

Armed with a pair of scissors and a terrible sense of accuracy.
He’s always working.

He cuts out all the boring parts.
The slow scenes.
The jokes that didn’t work.
The unnecessary subplot.
The bad acting.

Then he stitches together a trailer of what’s left.
Just the best parts.

The hilarious scenes.
The unforgettable one-liners.
The perfect ending.
The music.

And over time…
We believe that‘s the entire movie.

Movies I quoted.
Movies my friends and I could practically perform from memory.

We didn’t need YouTube clips.
We were the clips.

Years go by.
Sometimes decades.

Then one night you make a terrible decision.
You decide to watch it again.

“I haven’t seen Caddyshack in twenty-five years.”
Big mistake.

I’m not saying Caddyshack is a bad movie.
I’m saying my Memory Vault turned it into The Godfather.

Rodney Dangerfield insulting everyone at Bushwood.
Bill Murray waging war against a gopher.
“To catch a varmint... you’ve got to think like a varmint.”
“Cinderella story...”
The Baby Ruth floating through the swimming pool.

Every scene was a classic.

There are another ninety minutes attached to those scenes.
Who knew?

Somewhere in the Memory Vault, my little editor looked at those ninety minutes...
Cut every scene that wasn’t funny.
And there were a lot of them.

Shrugged...
And tossed them into a trash can.
“Nobody’s ever going to miss these.”

It’s amazing what our brains do.
They don’t preserve movies.
They preserve moments.

Funny thing is...
We almost never remember an entire movie.

We remember a few great scenes.
A speech.
A song.
The biggest laughs.
The lines we still quote.

Memory is an excellent highlight reel.
But a terrible archivist.

Take The Warriors.
You remember one line.

“Warriors... come out to play-ay...”
Iconic.

They’re just... running.
A lot.

A few years ago, our daughter unintentionally proved my whole theory.
We were still living in California while I was a Producer for Walt Disney Studios HE.
Our kids were about ten years old, and we were loading DVDs into the player for a road trip.

I started listing the movies we’d brought.
Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

Without missing a beat, our daughter smiled and said,
“Finally! I get to watch the movie I know every line to.”

She didn’t know every scene.
She knew every memorable scene.
She knew every great line.
She knew the Memory Vault version.

And she’d never seen one frame of the movie.
Not one.

I spent more than twenty years at Disney.
I created trailers.
And I was pretty good at it.

One thing you learn is that a trailer isn’t the movie.
It’s the best two minutes of the movie.

That little guy does exactly the same thing.
He makes trailers.

“If nobody quotes it...
Cut it.”
“We’ll fix it in memory.”

Twenty years later…
He hands it back.

“Trust me,” he says.
“You’re gonna love it.”

Sometimes...
He’s right.

Most of the time...
Not so much.

But every now and then…
Every once in a while...
He makes a mistake.

Then thirty years later you watch the movie again and think,
“Wait...
That was the best part.”

You pull an old movie off the shelf expecting a pleasant little trip down memory lane.
Halfway through you stop and think.

Wait...
How is this actually better than I remembered?

Guy wakes up.
Same day.
Funny stuff happens.
Guy gets the girl.
The end.

Wait a second.
This isn’t just funny.
And it is.

It’s about selfishness.
Purpose.
Regret.
Grace.
Redemption.

It’s about becoming the person you should have been all along.
With a lot of laughs along the way.

Either Groundhog Day got smarter...
Or I finally did.

It's a Wonderful Life.
As a kid, it was an old black-and-white, slow moving Christmas movie.

As an adult...
It's about family.
Sacrifice.
Friendship.
Regret.
Gratitude.

And realizing one ordinary life can change countless others.

Jeremiah Johnson.
Somehow it gets better every time I watch it.

Some movies survive nostalgia.
Others depend on it.

Maybe I was trying to remember how funny I thought it was when I was twenty.
That is not the same thing.

But apparently my little trailer editor has been working on it for forty years.
And he has done a remarkable job.

So, I’ve decided there are certain movies I’m never going to watch again.

Not because they’re bad.
Not because they don’t hold up.

Because they’re already perfect.

Where every joke lands.
Every one-liner is legendary.
Every scene is unforgettable.
Every ending is perfect.

My little trailer editor is still hunkered over his splicer.
Snipping away.

So...
I quietly close the door.

And courage isn’t determined by whether you stand.
It’s determined by what it costs you to stand.

Not because you’re wrong.
Because you’re unwilling to go along.

Not because she hit a game-winning shot.
Not because she broke an WNBA record.

She defended girls’ sports.
She said biological males shouldn’t compete in women’s athletics.

She also made something else very clear.
She wasn’t speaking out of hate.

She believes in loving everyone.
Treating everyone with dignity.

Predictably.
Social media erupted.
Commentators demanded she be condemned.
The usual suspects questioned her motives.

Thousands of angry posts.
Personal attacks.
Name-calling.
Accusations of hate.

Sound familiar?
It should.

Good.
She should have.
Harassment is wrong.

Once again...
Silence.

She didn’t apologize.
She did not back down as so many before her have.

She simply stood her ground.
“I said what I said.”

Not everyone did.
Some chose to stand.

Not to make a political statement.
Not to draw attention to themselves.

Standing is easy when everyone around you is standing.
Standing alone is something else entirely.

Stand for an approved cause?
You’re brave.

Stand by your convictions?
You’re dangerous.

And suddenly, your character is put on trial.
Then comes the campaign to silence you.

For decades we’ve told young women:
Be strong.
Find your voice.
Speak the truth.
Never let anyone silence you.

Then a women does exactly that...
And suddenly she’s told to sit down and be quiet.

Jennifer Sey.
U.S. Women’s Gymnastics National Champion.
Corporate executive.
She could have stayed quiet.
She didn’t.

Riley Gaines.
Martina Navratilova.
Payton McNabb.
Stephanie Turner.

Different sports.
Different backgrounds.
Different life experiences.

Yet every one of them reached the same conclusion.
Some things are worth saying even when they’re unpopular.
Even if it comes with great risks.

If biological differences don’t matter...
Why do women’s sports exist?

Why did generations of women fight for Title IX?
Why separate Olympic events?

Why separate state championships?
Why separate scholarships?Why separate records?

I know.
That was more than one question.

That isn’t discrimination.
That is the very reason the category was created.

If the conduct is “alleged.”
Why did the team issue an apology?

Teenage girls.
Girls who simply came to cheer for a basketball player they admired.

They weren’t disrupting the game.
They weren’t screaming at opposing fans.
They weren’t throwing anything.
They made signs.
They wore T-shirts.
They cheered for Sophie Cunningham.

But there’s more.
They were attending the game as basketball fans.
They cheered for both teams.

But that wasn’t good enough.
And according to eyewitnesses, one of them left in tears.

If your cause requires making teenage girls cry because of the T-shirts they’re wearing...
Maybe it’s time to reconsider the cause and your maturity.

Does that make it all better?
Of course not.

Does an apology erase what happened?
Not for those girls.

It shouldn’t have happened in the first place.
And by a WNBA team co-owner.

And speaking of the WNBA?
Where is the league?

Good.
That was the right decision.

The internet is not America.
The loudest voices on social media aren’t necessarily the majority.

In other words, Sophie Cunningham wasn’t expressing some fringe opinion.
She was expressing a view shared by a substantial majority of Americans.

While much of the sports media and critics were attacking Sophie Cunningham online...
Fans were opening their wallets.

The media declared her controversial.
The marketplace declared her authentic.

They don’t always reward people they agree with.
But they often reward people they believe are genuine.

Real courage isn’t saying what everyone around you already believes.
Real courage is saying what you believe when you know the applause may never come.

Jennifer Sey stood.
Martina Navratilova stood.
Riley Gaines stood.
Payton McNabb stood.
Stephanie Turner stood.

Different issue.
Same principle.

And she shows no signs of backing down.
That tells you everything you need to know about Sophie Cunningham.

The courage to stand doesn’t come from having everyone agree with you.
It comes from standing anyway.

Because history has never remembered the people who went along to get along.

America bought her shoes.
America bought her jersey.
America kept cheering.

They see a point guard.
A quarterback.
A coach.
A referee who can’t find his whistle... let alone his flag.

Fans argue about coaching decisions.
Play calling.
Bad officiating.
Whether someone can still hit a fastball.

Increasingly, they’re telling us to see race first.
And the game second.
Sometimes, not even that.

She took one of the greatest success stories in sports...
...and somehow made it about the tragic lynching of Emmett Till in 1955.

A basketball player.
Too many hard fouls.
Some heated social media posts.

She argued there is a white nationalist element within Clark’s fan base.
This is especially troubling.

Read that sentence again.
Then think about what she’s asking readers to believe.

Extraordinary accusations require extraordinary evidence.
She never comes close to providing it.

That’s because evidence wasn’t the point.
The accusation was.

You see…
Once you convince people to see everything through race...
Every game starts looking like proof.

That’s not sportswriting.
That’s activism wearing a press credential.

Not...
“I got this wrong.”

Not...
“I unfairly connected unrelated events.”

“I’m sorry” or “I apologize.”
Out of the question.

It was...
“My comparison was inartful.”

Calling an All-Pro quarterback untalented is inartful.
Misspelling somebody’s name is inartful.

It’s one of the most irresponsible pieces of sports commentary I’ve read in years.
Perhaps ever.

Instead of asking whether Armour had gone too far...
Much of the sports media circled the wagons.

Because increasingly, this isn’t an isolated incident.It’s becoming a business model.

If Caitlin Clark scores forty...
Race.

If television ratings double...
Race.

If arenas sell out...
Race.

If she gets knocked to the floor...
Race.

If fans defend her...
Definitely race.

And here’s the sad part.While not every sports commentator joins in this nonsense...
Too many simply look the other way and remain silent.

Only…
That wasn’t true.

She didn’t skip the Orange Carpet for a hair appointment.
She was in her hometown attending an event for the Caitlin Clark Foundation.

Maybe that’s a small thing.
But accuracy is never a small thing.

Journalism depends on getting the facts right.
And correcting them plainly when you don’t.

When the story fits the narrative…
It races around the internet.

When the facts catch up...
Suddenly it’s called a “clarification.”

Never mind that she became the NCAA’s all-time leading scorer.
Never mind the logo three-pointers.
The impossible passes.
The sold-out arenas.
The record television ratings that began in college long before she ever stepped onto a WNBA court.

Race.
Privilege.
Identity.

She isn’t interviewed.
She isn’t given a meaningful storyline.

It doesn’t make sense.
Unless the story you’re trying to tell isn’t really about basketball.

Some commentators insist Clark’s popularity was largely the product of white privilege.
Others suggest America simply isn’t willing to celebrate black stars the same way.

Then they point to Paige Bueckers and say,
“See? She’s white too.”

Yes.
She is.

She has also been outspoken on…
Progressive social issues.
Publicly supported Black Lives Matter.
Is openly in a same-sex relationship.
Fine.
But let's have an honest conversation.

Caitlin Clark has largely refused to become a political figure.
Those are different public personas.

The WNBA has featured extraordinary black players for decades.
Lisa Leslie.
Sheryl Swoopes.
Maya Moore.
Candace Parker.
A’ja Wilson.

And many others have built this league into what it is today.

Then came the hard fouls.
The cheap shots.
The fist to the throat.

They were upset because they believed the league wasn’t protecting its biggest star.
Even targeting her.

Meanwhile...
Where’s the commissioner?
We keep asking that quesrion.

The league’s biggest attraction keeps ending up on the floor.
Television ratings are exploding.
The entire sports world is watching.

Not to criticize central replay.
That is a legitimate investment.
But to be honest, we do need to distinguish technology from leadership.

Better replay is welcome.
But replay can’t create consistency.
Replay can’t establish priorities.

Technology is a tool.
Leadership is still leadership.

The shot goes in...
Or it doesn’t.

The pass is completed...
Or it isn’t.

The coach wins...
Or he gets fired.

The scoreboard doesn’t care about race.
It doesn’t care about politics either.
It has one job.
It counts points.

People are attracted to excellence.
That’s not prejudice.
That’s sports.

A transformational superstar.
Historic television ratings.
Packed arenas.
National attention.
Corporate sponsors.
New fans.

You don’t grow a sport by making fans feel morally suspect for buying a ticket.
That is a business model doomed for failure.

You grow it by celebrating great basketball.

Recently, Clark admitted she is emotionally exhausted.
Frankly, who wouldn’t be?

She didn’t ask for it.
But she knew that comes with being a standout talent.

Great players.
Great games.
Great competition.

How about we let Caitlin Clark be remembered for her jump shot?

For changing women’s basketball.

Do you ever notice how America seems to be the only country that looked at the world’s biggest sport and said...
“Nah, we’re good.”

Billions of people love soccer.
Entire countries practically shut down for the World Cup.

Soccer fans want you to enjoy it too.

Actually...
They want you to love it.

And they recruit for it.

Every four years, they come back like missionaries knocking on your door.
“Have you accepted the beautiful game into your heart?”

I try.
Honestly, I do.
But not as hard as I used to.

The World Cup rolls around and stadiums are packed.
Entire nations are singing.
The announcers are speaking in hushed tones about history, honor, sacrifice and the sacred importance of a properly executed corner kick.

So, I sit down.
I pay attention.
I see what countries are playing.
I attempt to pronounce the names without sounding like I’m ordering at an Italian restaurant.

And about forty minutes later, I’m wondering when something is going to happen.

I know.
Soccer fans hate hearing this.
Because they’ll immediately explain that everything is happening.
Formations are shifting.
Defenses are tightening.
Possession is being controlled.

I’ve even nodded thoughtfully when someone said, “Look at the spacing.”
I have no idea what that means.

I just see a bunch of guys running around on a giant field.
And fans getting excited if the ball even slightly crosses into the other side.

Apparently, soccer is a lot like watching me organize my garage.
There is constant movement.
An obvious strategy.
And trust me, I get a lot done.
But very little you would describe as exciting.

I believe this.
If the ball doesn’t have points, what’s the point?

That’s football.
And I mean American football.

A proper football has points on both ends.
It looks like it’s angry.
Like it was designed to cause trouble.

You can throw it.
Kick it.
Spike it.
Fumble it.
Or carry it into the end zone while three men try to introduce your spine to the Earth’s core.

Soccer uses a perfectly round ball.
A friendly ball.
A ball a toddler can understand.

There are no laces.
No sharp ends.
Pretty little designs on it.
Nothing intimidating about it.
Nothing about it says, “This afternoon may require stitches.”

It looks like something you would roll gently toward a golden retriever.
It makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Now, a quick sidenote.
I also love hockey.

“Hah!” people say.
“The puck doesn’t have points either!”

Exactly.
Because it isn’t a ball.
So there.

A hockey puck is basically a small frozen manhole cover traveling ninety miles an hour and sometimes in the direction of a guy’s head.
Which is only covered by half a helmet.
By the way, not that long ago, they didn’t even bother to wear a helmet.
That explains a lot.

Grown men chase this hurtling meteor with sticks while skating 25 miles per hour on razor blades.
And along the way they occasionally punch each other in the face.
That makes sense to me.

Soccer players run around for ninety minutes and may finish tied.

And let me be clear.
I have deep, deep roots with soccer.

Just kidding.
My soccer resume is pretty thin.I have a brother-in-law who played semi-pro soccer.
And our son just spent time as part of a college work study program with the Liverpool “Reds” Football Club.
That’s about it.

Now before soccer fans start sending angry messages.
Let me say this clearly.
Soccer players are magnificent athletes.

Their endurance is remarkable.
Their footwork is incredible.
Their conditioning is on another level.
They run for ninety minutes.

I respect what they do.
I just don’t enjoy watching them do it.
That’s the problem.

Soccer has everything that should make a great sport.
Speed.
Skill.
Strategy.
Passion.
National pride. And I love that!
Fans wearing scarves in July.
Face paint.
Grown adults crying because someone from Belgium scored.

A football game can change in one play.
A hockey game can change in five seconds.
A soccer game can change too.
But you may have to wait until the 83rd minute, which is a long time to stare at a zero.

Soccer has always had an odd relationship with scoring.
In most sports, scoring is the whole point.
In soccer, it’s almost as if they are allergic to it.

Scoring sometimes feels like an unexpected clerical error.
The announcer screams.
Holds the note for six minutes.
The crowd explodes.
Players sprint across the field, rip off their shirts and collapse into a human pile.

No.
It’s now 1–0.

Then…
There is the flopping.
The flopping.
The flopping.

I know other sports have it.
Basketball players act as though a gentle elbow caused internal bleeding.
Wide receivers leap up demanding a flag every time the defender hurts their feelings.
Hockey players occasionally embellish a penalty, although they usually have the decency to do it after being struck with a stick.

But soccer has elevated flopping into performance art.
These guys make LeBron James look like solid granite.
And who flops more than James?

The stretcher comes out.
The crowd boos.
Then falls silent.
The medical staff gathers.
Children begin writing sympathy cards.

It’s not a sport at that point.
It’s community theater with shin guards.

Soccer fans tell me I’m watching the game incorrectly.
I would understand the game better if I appreciated the buildup.
That may be true.

But Americans don’t really do buildup.
We are not naturally a buildup kind of people.

We are the people who invented drive-through restaurants and fast food.
Express lanes.
Instant replay.
Microwave ovens
A button that skips the opening credits.
Tang.

We don’t want a buildup.
We want somebody to score.
Waiting ninety minutes for one goal feels less like entertainment and more like jury duty.

This is probably why soccer has always felt slightly foreign to us.
The rest of the world is willing to wait patiently for one beautiful moment.

Because there are moments when soccer get my attention.
A late goal.
A goalkeeper making an impossible save.
A smaller nation upsetting a powerhouse.
A crowd of eighty thousand people singing together.
Players carrying the hopes of an entire country onto the field.
That part I understand.

Sports are rarely just about the sport.
They are about identity.
Memory.
Family.
Hometowns.
Belonging.

And during the World Cup, soccer does that better than almost anything on Earth.
It may be the greatest shared sporting event on the planet.

And I have to admit...
I was very proud that America hosted it.

Over and over I heard the same comments.
“Americans are so friendly.”
“Everyone was so welcoming and friendly.”
“So many things we were told about your country aren’t true.”

That’s something to feel good about.
It makes me smile.

And apparently...
We introduced much of the world to ranch dressing.

I still don’t completely understand that one.
We put ranch on pizza.
French fries.
Chicken wings.
Vegetables.
Probably breakfast cereal somewhere in the Midwest.

But if ranch dressing becomes America’s greatest diplomatic achievement...
I’ll take the win.

And they left with a better impression of America than many expected.
That’s a victory worth celebrating, no matter who won the trophy.

So, I’ll check the scores.
See what countries are still in it.
Try to learn the rules.
Even pretend to understand the different colored cards.
I still prefer a yellow flag.

I’ll watch.
But I admit, it’s the highlights.
And again, only every four years.

Give me fourth and goal with the game on the line.
Give me a two-minute drill.
Give me a quarterback standing in the pocket while three hundred-pound men attempt to bury him beneath the turf.

Give me, The Game.
The Ohio State University playing Xichigan.
We don’t say the M-word in our house.

Give me a ball with points.

Because if the ball doesn’t have points…
I still find myself asking,
What’s the point?

Marlon Brando makes it.
Denzel Washington makes it.
Tom Hanks makes it.

Daniel Day-Lewis makes it.
He also once walked away from Hollywood for five years, moved to Florence and learned to make shoes by hand.

John Wayne never made shoes.
He just wore boots better than anybody else.

John Wayne didn’t need to become anyone else.
You took one look at him and called him “sir.”

Then he’d lean slightly forward.
Squint into the distance and say, “Saddle up.”
And everybody rode.

There.
I said it.

John Wayne may not have been a great actor in the traditional sense.
He didn’t disappear into a role.
He didn’t alter his voice.

John Wayne didn’t gain sixty pounds like Robert De Niro in Raging Bull.
Or lose sixty pounds like Christian Bale in The Machinist.

If the character was supposed to be thinner.
Younger.
Shorter.

Sometimes he was a cowboy.
Sometimes he was a Marine.
Sometimes he was a cavalry officer.
Sometimes he was a Navy captain.
Even a retired prizefighter.

Once, in one of Hollywood’s more regrettable decisions,
John Wayne was Genghis Khan in The Conqueror.

A decision that presumably began during lunch and should have ended before dessert.
Moving on.

Who else could have played John Wayne’s roles?
Nobody.

They could have cast Woody Allen in The Searchers.
But after one night in Monument Valley…
He would have developed a dust allergy.
Questioned the morality of horse ownership.
And concluded the Comanche were merely acting out because of unresolved hostility toward their mothers.

And imagine Don Knotts as Rooster Cogburn in True Grit.
Wearing an eye patch, charging four armed men with the reins in his teeth.
The recoil from the first shot would have knocked him out of the saddle.
Assuming a stiff breeze hadn’t already blown him into the next county.
Barney, put the bullet back in your pocket.

He was a monument.
And monuments aren’t supposed to disappear into the scenery.

Nobody walked through a doorway like John Wayne.
He didn’t just enter a room.
He took possession of it.

Nobody wore a gun belt like him.
Nobody sat on a horse like him.

He could say, “That’ll be the day.”
And make it sound like a complete legal argument.

He called people “Pilgrim,” even when they weren’t pilgrims.
Nobody corrected him.

That’s acting.
Or intimidation.

Either way.
It photographed beautifully.

John Wayne didn’t fight like a trained boxer.
He fought like a refrigerator had fallen down the stairs.
There was nothing graceful about it.

His fight with George Kennedy in Cahill U.S. Marshal is relentless and brutal.
Wayne and Kennedy were both large, imposing men, and every punch came in like a wrecking ball.

There is the final brawl in The Quiet Man.
Wayne and Victor McLaglen punch their way across the Irish countryside for nearly ten minutes.

Half the village follows along to watch.
Nobody calls the police.Nobody tries to stop them.
They just turn it into a community event.

And, of course, there is McLintock!
A sprawling mudslide involving cowboys, most of the townspeople and Maureen O’Hara.
It culminates with Wayne pursuing his estranged wife through town and spanking her with a coal shovel.

Try getting that scene through a studio meeting today.
The movie would be canceled before John Wayne reached the mud pit.

While other actors needed dialogue.
John Wayne only needed a pause.

He would look at somebody for three seconds.
Shift his weight and tilt his head.
That was Act One.

Then he would narrow his eyes.
Act Two.

Then he would say, “Move out.”
Roll credits.

Nobody was John Wayne.
John Wayne wasn’t even John Wayne.
Not at first anyway.

Which is a perfectly respectable name if you plan to become an accountant.
Maybe a dentist.
Or president of the local garden club.

It is not the name of a man who is going to clear out a saloon. 
“Everybody head for the hills! Marion Morrison is riding into town!”

The studio thought Anthony sounded too Italian.
So they settled on John.

Wayne wasn’t even in the room when they decided it.
That’s how Hollywood worked then.

Today, an actor’s name change would require three agents.
Two publicists.
A branding consultant.
A focus group.
And a six-part documentary about the emotional journey.

Back then, the studio said, “You’re John Wayne.”
Marion said, “Okay.”
That may have been his first performance.

As a boy in Glendale, California, Marion Morrison had an Airedale named Duke.
The dog followed him everywhere.

Local firefighters began calling the dog Big Duke.
And the boy Little Duke.

Eventually, the dog disappeared from the story.
“Little” disappeared from the nickname.
And Marion Morrison became the Duke.

Only in America can a boy named Marion.
Nicknamed after his dog named Duke.
Renamed by a movie studio.
Without being consulted.
And somehow emerge as the international symbol of rugged masculinity.

One of my favorite quotes attributed to him is…
“Life is tough. It’s tougher if you’re stupid.”

Perfect.
You can hear him saying it, can’t you?

People insist it came from Sands of Iwo Jima.
Except it didn’t.

Nobody can find it in the movie.
Nobody can find it in the screenplay.
Nobody seems able to find a reliable record of him saying it anywhere.

Sergeant Stryker never said it.
But everybody knows John Wayne said it.

The quote sounds so much like John Wayne, fits him so perfectly, that the American public has collectively awarded it to him.
It’s his.

Years ago, I even created a poster of Sergeant Stryker and the quote.
It hung in my office at Walt Disney Studios and now hangs in my office in Colorado.
So, he must have said it.

“Life is tough. It’s tougher if you’re stupid.”
It may be the best explanation of human existence ever attributed to a man who apparently never said it.

Try imagining anybody else saying it.
No.
It belongs to Duke.

And that isn’t the only piece of wisdom we have assigned to him.
“Courage is being scared to death and saddling up anyway.”

Another perfect John Wayne quote.
Another quote nobody can prove John Wayne ever said.

But the line fits.
Courage isn’t the absence of fear.
It is being scared, putting your boot in the stirrup and going anyway.

My good friend Cris from Disney and I both had coffee mugs with the quote printed on them.
And if you can’t trust a coffee mug, what can you trust?
He must have said it.

Honestly, whether he said it or not is irrelevant.
He certainly made us believe it.

He appears briefly as the Roman centurion at the Crucifixion and delivers his one line.“Truly, this man was the Son of God.”

So Wayne tried it again.
“Aw, truly this man was the Son of God.”

It almost certainly didn’t happen.
But it should have.

There are facts.
There are myths.
And then there are stories so perfect that checking them feels like vandalism.

That voice was unmistakable.
Half command.
Half drawl.
With a slight suggestion that everyone needed to quit fooling around and get on the horse.

The John Wayne legend is filled with stories like that.

Thousands of actors have tried to copy John Wayne.
Most of them look like a man who has hurt his back while attempting to get off a horse.

The walk gets mocked.
But it worked.

The voice gets imitated.
But it worked.

The pauses.The squint.
The slow turn of the head.
All of it worked.

And every once in a while, there were moments when Wayne did more than simply play the icon.
Moments when the performance became smaller, quieter and more human.

Wayne plays Navy Captain Rockwell Torrey.
His ship has been hit by two torpedoes.
His arm is broken and another officer is tending to it.

Wayne, injured, exhausted and understandably annoyed, looks at him and says,
“Burke, don’t you think the Japanese know by now where we are?”

It isn’t a grand speech.
There is no swelling music.
He doesn’t explain his fear, his pain or the burden of command.

He is injured.His ship is crippled.
They have just taken two torpedoes.
And one of his officers is concerned that sending a message might reveal their position.

It’s funny because it’s true.
And it’s powerful because he doesn’t play it for the laugh.

That moment shows what he could do.
That was John Wayne at his best.

He didn’t show you all the work.
He didn’t hold up a sign saying, 
“Acting is occurring.”He just was.

When you hired John Wayne, that’s what you got.
You don’t order a steak and then complain that it’s not salmon.

Having served with the 82nd Airborne, this one has always been one of my favorites.
It’s an epic movie. 
And I love it.

Vandervoort was a genuine combat hero.
He was also 27 years old during the Normandy invasion.

That’s not an age difference.
That’s a father-son casting choice.

Wayne was reportedly paid $250,000 for the role.
Ten times what most of the other major stars received.

Wayne had directed The Alamo.
Invested heavily in it.
It did not go well.

So Wayne responded to Zanuck in the most John Wayne way possible.
Pay me ten times more.

That is not negotiation.
That is a gunfight with accountants.

Was John Wayne too old to play Vandervoort?
Absolutely.

But who do people remember?
John Wayne.

Historical accuracy would enter the scene.
Take one look at Wayne and quietly leave with its tale between its legs.

He may not have looked like Benjamin Vandervoort.
But he looked exactly like what America believed an airborne commander should look like.
That distinction matters.

John Wayne didn’t always portray the literal man.
He portrayed the legend of the man.

Enter John Ford.
Ford helped make Wayne a star with Stagecoach and directed him in some of his greatest films.

During World War II, Ford served in the Navy.
Ford filmed the attack on Midway and was wounded in the process.

Wayne did not serve.
There were reasons.

He was years older than many new recruits.
Republic Pictures considered him its most valuable star and worked to keep him.
He had children and received a family deferment.

But the fact remains that Wayne stayed in Hollywood.
While actors including James Stewart, Clark Gable, Henry Fonda and Robert Montgomery went to war.

And John Ford, being John Ford, didn’t merely notice the wound.
He stuck his finger in it.

Wayne’s character had to salute an admiral.
Ford stopped the scene repeatedly, forcing Wayne to do it again.

Finally, in front of the cast and crew, Ford erupted.
“Duke, can’t you manage a salute that at least looks as though you’ve been in the service?”

That wasn’t directing.
That was an ambush.

Robert Montgomery, Wayne’s co-star, served with distinction in the Navy.
He had commanded PT boats and participated in the Normandy invasion.

Montgomery confronted Ford and reportedly told him,
“Don’t ever talk to Duke like that. You ought to be ashamed.”

A break was called and Ford ended up in tears.
He eventually apologized to Wayne.
Wayne returned and they got back to work.

Relationships are complicated.
Especially between men who would rather ride into battle with a cavalry regiment than sit down and discuss their feelings.

Today, film production would be shut down by lunch.
Ford would issue a statement saying he was taking time to listen, learn and heal.

The studio would release a statement announcing…
That everyone involved remained “committed to fostering a safe and inclusive creative environment.”

Why?
Because Ford understood Wayne.
Perhaps better than Wayne understood himself.

He knew how to frame him against Monument Valley.
He knew when to give him a speech and when to let him say nothing.
He knew that Wayne’s strength was not transformation.
It was presence.

Look at the films...
Stagecoach.
She Wore a Yellow Ribbon.
The Quiet Man.
The Searchers.
Rio Bravo.
Red River.
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.
True Grit.
The Shootist.

His career began in the silent era in 1926 as an uncredited Yale football player in Brown of Harvard.
His first starring role came in The Big Trail in 1930.
His final film was The Shootist in 1976.

Fifty years.
That’s more than two careers for most people.

Perhaps his most entertaining performance.
But I’m not certain it was his finest.

The Searchers may have revealed more darkness.
Red River showed greater menace.
The Quiet Man gave him warmth and vulnerability.
The Shootist gave him mortality.

But The Shootist was different from all the other films.
And I believe it was his best overall performance.
It also gave us his farewell.

Audiences knew Wayne had already fought lung cancer.
Three years later, stomach cancer would take his life.

That wasn’t simply casting.
That was foreshadowing.

John Wayne never had the greatest range.
But range isn’t everything.

A Swiss Army knife has range.
Nobody hangs one over the fireplace.

John Wayne did the opposite.
He made the role come to him.

Too old to play a 27-year-old paratrooper?
Put him in the movie.

Only one line in a biblical epic?
Make it the line everybody remembers.

Yep, some performers can play anybody.
A rare few become somebody nobody else can play.

Of course.
Real people usually are.

Did Hollywood help manufacture John Wayne?
Certainly.

Hollywood manufactures stars all the time.
Most of them are forgotten before their second divorce.

More than forty years after his death…
We still know the walk.
We still hear the voice.
We still recognize the silhouette.
We still repeat quotes he apparently never said.
And stories that probably never happened.

That isn’t merely fame.
That’s folklore.

Duke may not have been a hero who wore the unform.
But he played a lot of heroes on the big screen.
And he gave honor every one of them.
That’s good enough for me.

He is probably still squinting into the distance.
Waiting for me to quit talking and saddle up.

Conservatives laugh.
Liberals laugh.
Independents laugh.
Christians laugh.
Atheists laugh.
Rich people laugh.
Broke people laugh.
Children laugh.
Grandparents laugh.

We may disagree about almost everything else...
but everybody understands a genuine laugh.

Nobody has to translate it.
Nobody needs an interpreter.

We don’t laugh in Republican.
We don’t laugh in Democrat.

A real laugh sounds the same in every language.
Maybe that’s why laughter feels so universal.

No subscription fee.
No waiting period.
No customer service line.
No hidden fees.
No warning label listing fifty-two possible life-threatening side effects while a smiling couple strolls through a city park holding hands.

Maybe one side effect.

Occasional snorting.
Which often brings on another laugh.

You can have a rotten day.
Bad news.
A flat tire.
A sore back.
Three bills in the mailbox.
A phone battery sitting at three percent with no charger in sight.
The dog throws up on the carpet.

You finally crawl into bed...
then remember you forgot to lock the front door and set the alarm.

You spill coffee on your shirt on the way out the door, and of course…
you’re late

The washing machine suddenly starts making a noise you’ve never heard before...
and somehow you already know it’s going to cost eight hundred dollars.

Then...
Somebody says the perfect funny thing.

Or you see something so wonderfully ridiculous...
You can’t help but smile.
And perhaps chuckle.
That counts too.

One real laugh changes the chemistry of the room.
Maybe even the chemistry of your heart.

That matters.
Because life can become a grind if you let it.

Funny has remarkable timing.
It almost always shows up exactly when you needed it.

For just a few precious seconds...
life loosens its grip.

Suddenly...
your shoulders drop.

Your breathing slows.
Your face changes.

The room feels lighter.
The situation seems, well… less.

That isn’t childish.
That’s human maintenance.

Laughter has a remarkable way of turning frustration into nostalgia.
Think about the moments you remember most.

Grandma and Grandpa telling the same story of how they met at college.
For the hundredth time.

Mom laughing so hard she couldn’t finish telling the joke.
While everyone else was laughing because she was laughing.

Dad insisting, “It’s not in the fridge.”
While everyone else can see exactly what he’s looking for sitting right in front of him.

Dropping something not once,
not twice,
but three times.

At the time...
they felt like little inconveniences.

Today…
they’re the stories everyone hopes someone tells again.

Don’t use laughter as a weapon.
Don’t use it to mock pain.
Belittle people.
Or dismiss someone simply because they see the world differently.

There’s a difference between laughing with someone...
laughing at nonsense...
and laughing at another human being just to feel taller.

One heals.
One reveals.

Humor should punch holes in arrogance...
not in people.

Families know it.
Firefighters know it.
Police officers know it.
Emergency room nurses know it.
Construction workers know it.
Soldiers have known it for generations.
Foxhole humor exists for a reason.

Not because they don’t take life seriously.
Because they do.

Laughter isn’t the absence of pain.
It’s one of the ways we survive it.
It is how people stay standing when life gets heavy.

Doctors prescribe medicine because they want us to heal.
Families prescribe laughter because they want us to endure.

One helps the body recover.
The other helps the soul remember why it’s worth recovering.

What is that reason?
Just because.
It’s that simple.

Ever watch two little kids?
They’ll laugh over absolutely nothing.
Then laugh because the other one laughed.

Somewhere between childhood and adulthood...
many of us misplaced that gift.

While children don’t need a reason to laugh.
Adults think they need permission.

Somewhere along the way we confused seriousness with wisdom.
Bad trade.

They act like permanent seriousness is maturity.
It isn’t.

Life is serious enough.
We don’t have to be every minute of every day.

You ever notice the people who never laugh?
They look tired.
They act tired.

Everything offends them.
Everything irritates them.

Then they seem determined to regulate everyone else’s joy.
Every joke requires an investigation.
Every smile needs approval.
Every conversation becomes a committee meeting.

Quoting Aibileen Clark (played by Viola Davis) from The Help,
“Ain’t ya tired, Miss Hilly? Ain’t ya tired”?”

Laughter shrinks inflated egos.
Punctures phony authority.

Meanwhile, the rest of humanity is trying to make it to Friday…
and a cold beer at the end of the day.

I don’t know about you...
but I’d rather spend an evening with people who laugh too much than people who never laugh at all.

Not because life was meaningless.
Because life was wonderfully…
Beautifully…
Ridiculous.

Perhaps that’s why God invented laughter in the first place.
He knows we need that release.
I mean look around.
Have you checked out the platypus?

Maybe that’s the secret.
Pay attention.

The funny moments are already there.
We just rush past them.

So… laugh.
Laugh often.

Laugh at yourself first.
Sit around the dinner table a little longer.
Tell the old stories again.
Even the ones everybody already knows.
Especially the ones everybody already knows.
Sit on the back porch with old friends.
Shoot the breeze.
Have a cigar.
Tell stories badly.
Laugh anyway.

You won’t remember every meeting you attended.
Every deadline you met.
Or every speech you heard.

You’ll remember the moments your sides hurt...
your eyes watered...
and for just a little while...
life wasn’t nearly so heavy.

Not because it removes life’s burdens...
but because it makes them lighter to carry.

A task force was formed.
Promises were made.
Officials were evaluated.
New leadership was brought in.

The message was simple.
“We’re fixing it.”

And yet...
Here we are.
Again.

Look...
I understand why they’re asking.

Millions of Americans are watching.
Millions of dollars are involved.

Unfortunately...
Not for basketball.
But because they can’t keep their house in order.

Government has every right to ask questions.
Government has every right to criticize.
Government has every right to investigate legitimate legal concerns.
Government should be very cautious about trying to run professional sports.

Look, I am a proud capitalist.
I believe in free market.

I believe organizations should succeed…
or fail…
based on their own decisions.

It’s the WNBA’s issue.
And the WNBA’s alone.

Markets eventually tell the truth.
Fans watch...
Or they don’t.

Sponsors invest...
Or they don’t.

And that’s precisely why this moment matters.
Because the league has nobody left to blame.

Instead...
It felt like a repeated hit of the snooze button.

Sound familiar?
It should.
She’s been saying essentially the same thing for over a year.

But White hasn’t been alone.

Not because Clark deserves special treatment.
Because great players deserve competent officiating.
There’s a difference.

Teams submit video.
Coaches complain.
Nothing seems to change.

Others argue the review process produces plenty of paperwork...
And very little improvement.

That doesn’t restore possession.
It doesn’t erase a foul.
It doesn’t change a loss.

Acknowledging mistakes is easy.
Correcting them takes leadership.
And leadership in the WNBA has been noticeably absent.

Not Caitlin Clark.
Leadership.

More specifically...
The lack of it.

Good leadership recognizes opportunity.
Great leadership protects it.

One moment from Clark recently stayed with me.
“I think sometimes people think I’m a robot,” she said.
“I’m not a robot.”

Behind all the headlines...
The ratings...
The television contracts...
The politics...
The debates...

Is a 24-year-old young woman trying to play basketball.
The game she loves.
Somewhere along the way, we forgot that.

Clark isn’t perfect.
She argues calls.
She talks trash.
She lets officials know when she’s unhappy.
Sometimes too much.

That’s part of who she is.
Competitive athletes often push the edge.

But emotional reactions don’t excuse poor officiating.
And they certainly don’t justify repeated failures to protect players when obvious fouls occur.

Knowing Clark sits one technical foul away from an automatic suspension, Boston joked on her podcast:
“We’re done.”
“We’re done clapping.”
“There’s nothing else to clap about.”

Funny.
Until you realize why she said it.

Not sold-out arenas.
Not television ratings.
Not exploding merchandise sales.
Not unprecedented attention for women’s basketball.

The talent is there.
The fans are there.
The sponsors are there.
The television audience is there.
The momentum is there.
The Golden Goose is still there.

At some point...
“We’re working on it.”
Stops being enough.

Worse...
Many of the league’s biggest problems continue to be self-inflicted.

Do you ever notice… How at some point, you stop asking,
“Why does this keep happening?”

And you start asking,
“Who keeps allowing it to happen?”

It stops being one player.
One referee.
One coach.
One game.

At some point...
The pattern becomes the story.

And that’s exactly where the WNBA finds itself.
Again.

Then came…
Another shift in priorities.
Another astonishing All-Star vote.
Another public relations disaster.

And once again…
All self-inflicted.

One day we’re talking about protecting players.
The next day we’re talking about racism.
Again.

Homophobia.
The “online community.”
Political agendas.

Once again, I remind Jemele Hill.
We are not the ones that keep bringing up race.
You and those who think like you are the ones doing it.

Somehow...
The woman who took a blow to the throat isn’t the story anymore.
The people reacting to it are.

Now before anyone reaches for their keyboard...
Let’s be perfectly clear.

No athlete should receive death threats.
No player should be subjected to racism.
No one should be attacked because of their sexuality.

Those things deserve condemnation.
Immediately.

That’s not what forced the league to come back days later and admit, in effect...
“Yeah, we got that one wrong.”

Then came the shot everyone saw.
The officials somehow didn’t.

Days later, the league upgraded the foul.

One game.
A $1,000 fine.
That’s it.

WNBA Commissioner Cathy Engelbert had an opportunity to send a message.
Not about Caitlin Clark.

But about player safety.
About protecting the integrity of the game.
About making it unmistakably clear that repeated dangerous play has consequences.

Instead...
She sent a dismissive shrug.

Then, as if on cue, the conversation changed.
It suddenly became about everything except the basketball.

Then came a prepared statement.
Nearly three minutes devoted to racism, homophobia and the “online community.”Very little about the player, her player, who had just taken another cheap shot.
Very little about the officiating.
Very little about the league’s responsibility to protect the biggest star it has ever produced.

But they weren't what put Clark on the floor and later out of the game.
They weren’t what the officials failed to call.
They weren’t why the league later upgraded the foul.

Fans voted Caitlin Clark into the starting lineup.
As the 2nd-best guard.

The media agreed.
They voted her as the 3rd-best guard.

Her fellow players?
They ranked her 11th among WNBA guards.

The player responsible for record television ratings.
Record attendance.
Record merchandise sales.
A multibillion-dollar television rights deal.
Charter flights.Corporate sponsors lining up.
Millions of brand-new fans discovering the WNBA for the first time.

And by the way…
Last year, the players ranked her ninth.

This year...
They dropped her to eleventh.

Let’s look at performance.
Because All-Star selections are supposed to reflect both.

As of today, July 8, 2026…
Through 17 games, Clark ranks in the top 5 of the entire WNBA in both scoring and distribution.
She ranks second in the WNBA with 8.2 assists per game.
She ranks fourth in the WNBA with 21.2 points scored per game.
She is the only player in the league to rank in the Top 5 in both points and assists per game.

The fans say she’s the face of the league.
The media says she’s the face of the league.
Television executives spending billions say she’s the face of the league.
Corporate America says she’s the face of the league.
The ratings say she’s the face of the league.

Worth repeating.
Eleventh.

Every time the league has an opportunity to celebrate its remarkable growth...
It creates another self-inflicted controversy.

Cowherd is not a political activist.
He is one of the biggest and most respected voices in sports media.
His point isn’t complicated.

His point wasn’t simply that Clark is popular.
His point was that the production matches the popularity.

This is not just surprising.
It’s revealing.

One week…
A nationally televised game featuring two of the WNBA’s biggest stars, A’ja Wilson and Paige Bueckers attracted roughly 457,000 viewers.

The very next night...
Caitlin Clark and the Indiana Fever played the expansion Toronto Tempo.
Over one million people tuned in.

The audience has already voted.
The marketplace has already voted.
Sponsors have voted.
Networks have voted.Fans have voted.

And that’s what my first two columns were really about.
Not race.
Not politics.
Not making Caitlin Clark untouchable.

She’s a competitor.
She’ll get knocked down.
Every great player does.

A player who doesn’t just win games.
She changes relevance.

Another week.
Another public relations disaster.
Another opportunity missed.

Instead...
The WNBA keeps arguing with success.

Because golden geese don’t appear every day…
Or decade.

But golden geese can disappear...
Forever.

One bad decision...
A one-game suspension for Alyssa Thomas.

One missed opportunity...
A fine that barely registers against her salary.

One self-inflicted controversy...
No meaningful accountability for the officiating.

But over…
and over…
and over...
again.

At some point, you stop asking,
“Why does this keep happening?”

And you start asking,
“Who keeps allowing it to happen?”

Most of us only know the Founding Fathers from paintings.
Which is unfortunate.

Paintings never laugh.
Paintings never argue.
Paintings never spill a drink.
Paintings never wonder if they’re making the biggest mistake of their lives.

They just stand there.
Powdered wigs.
Perfect posture.
Eyes fixed somewhere beyond history.

They were men.
Real men.

They laughed.They prayed.
They buried friends.
They loved their wives.
They tucked their children into bed.
Then they woke up the next morning and committed treason.

These weren’t men sitting around asking how government could solve more problems.
They were asking how government could create fewer.

That was, what’s the word?
Oh, yeah.
Revolutionary.

Egypt.
Greece.
Rome.
Spain.
The great monarchies of Europe.

Because the idea was different.
Radically different.

The people obeyed.
Or else.

Yep.
Government would derive “their just powers from the consent of the governed.”

They believed those rights did not come from government at all.
Not from Parliament.
Not from George III.
Not even from themselves.

Because if our rights come from God...
No king can take them away.
No legislature can vote them away.
No majority can simply decide they no longer exist.

That’s why it is important to understand, we live in a Constitutional Republic.
Not a Democracy.

That idea was revolutionary.
It still is.

Government would exist by the consent of the people.
Not the other way around.

Now...
Let’s get back to George, Tom, Ben and the boys.

Picture a smoky Philadelphia tavern.
Tankards on the table.
Candles burning low.
Some tempers burning high.

George sat quietly.
Which probably meant everyone else should.

Madison is quickly taking notes.
Because somebody has to remember what everyone actually said.

Hamilton talking so fast no one can get a word in.
Dare I say, rapping.
See what I did there?

Ben smiles.
“Beer is proof God loves us and wants us to be happy.”

Then...
“Besides... Revolutions probably shouldn’t be started thirsty.”

Ben adds quietly...
“You fellows do realize this is treason, right?”

Another grin.
“We must indeed all hang together, or most assuredly we shall all hang separately.”

The room grows quiet.
Only for a moment.
Then it was back to the business at hand.

If they failed...
There would be no monuments.
No schools named after them.
No holidays.
No currency with their faces.

There would have been trials.
Confiscated property.
Prison.
A rope.

Their signatures on the Declaration weren’t celebrity autographs.
They were potential death warrants.

They were commitments.
They pledged, “our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”

And unlike so many promises made in politics...
They meant it.

Eight long years of war.
Frozen feet at Valley Forge.
A surprising victory on Christmas Eve.
Empty stomachs.
Widows.
Fatherless children.
Burned farms.
Fresh graves.
The British surrender at Yorktown.

Ink dries quickly.
Sacrifice doesn’t.

Liberty wasn’t signed into existence.
It was bled into existence.

These men held fierce disagreements over representation.
States’ rights.
Executive power.
Religion.
Taxation.
Slavery.
Foreign alliances.

That’s astonishing.
It is truly a miracle.

Of course not.
Not even close.

They made mistakes.
They left difficult questions for future generations.

Freedom of speech.
Freedom of worship.
Freedom of the press.

The freedom to criticize the very nation they created.
That irony never seems to get enough attention.

Power must be restrained.
Liberty must be protected.
Human nature never changes.

An idea that government exists to protect liberty...
Not replace it.

That our rights come from God...
Not politicians.

Back at the tavern, Ol’ Ben takes another sip of beer and looks to each of the boys… 
...to each of us today.

Maybe this Independence Day we should spend a little less time arguing over one another...
...and a little more time reading what they actually wrote.

These guys...
Built a nation unlike anything the world had ever known.

Frankly...
So am I.

So, here’s to… 
George.
Tom.
Ben.
And the boys.

Not with talent.
Not with hard work.
Not with results.

Not because Caitlin Clark made it about race.
She didn’t.
Other people did.

And that’s where this stops being a basketball story...
And starts becoming something much bigger.

If Caitlin Clark has done so much to elevate the league...
Why has her success become so controversial?

Someone succeeds.
It must be privilege.

Someone disagrees.
It must be prejudice.

Someone criticizes a dangerous foul.
It must be racism.

Real curiosity asks questions.
Ideology often starts with answers.
That’s an important distinction.

That’s not sarcasm.
It’s an honest question.

Could race play some role for some people?
Of course.
Human beings are complicated.

But going right to race is a mistake.
And it’s wrong.

The basket doesn’t care who your parents were.
The three-point line doesn’t care about your politics.
The scoreboard doesn’t check your voter registration.

You either make the shot...
Or you don’t.

You either win...
Or you don’t.

Merit, skill, execution has always mattered.
The game demands it.
That’s what sports has always rewarded.

That’s why the Caitlin Clark conversation has become so fascinating.
And reckless.

It isn’t because she became the NCAA’s all-time leading scorer.
It isn’t because she routinely throws passes that most players wouldn’t even attempt.
It isn’t because she launches shots from distances that force defenders to pick her up the moment she crosses half court.

Once upon a time, we celebrated extraordinary achievement.

Someone broke a record.
We applauded.

Someone changed a sport.
We admired them.

Someone inspired a generation.
We called them a role model.

What race are they?
What gender are they?
What group do they represent?
What boxes do they check?

Achievement increasingly takes a back seat to identity.
Talent gets cross-examined.
Success comes with an asterisk.

That’s a dangerous shift.
Not just for sports.
For our culture.

Michael Jordan.
Magic Johnson.
Tiger Woods.
Serena Williams.
Kobe Bryant.
LeBron James.
Steph Curry.
Shaquille O’Neal.
Patrick Mahomes.
Simone Biles.

Millions of Americans bought their jerseys.
Filled arenas.
Watched every game.

Nobody needed to invent a complicated theory.
They were extraordinary.

Nobody seemed particularly concerned about the color of their skin.
They were great.

The only color we cared about…
Was the jersey.

Sports fans reward greatness.
That’s what sports fans do.

The marketplace rewarded it.
That’s how sports usually works.

History tells one story.
The last two and half seasons tell another.

Let’s take a quick trip down memory lane.
Roll the tape.

During a nationally televised game, Carter blindsided Caitlin Clark with a hard hip-check well away from the basketball.
There was no play on the ball.
No basketball reason for the contact.

The WNBA later upgraded the play to a Flagrant 1.
Had that been the end of it, we probably wouldn’t still be talking about it.

Why?
Why celebrate a cheap shot and push others to do the same?

Rivalries are part of sports.
So is physical play.
Cheap shots aren’t.

Reese is one of the brightest young stars in the WNBA.
She doesn’t need Caitlin Clark to become a superstar.
She has the talent to do that on her own.
I mean come on, who ever heard of “me-bounds” until Reese?

What if  the roles were reversed?
Imagine Caitlin Clark referring to Angel Reese primarily by her race before criticizing her.

Would anyone just shrug and say...
“It’s just trash talk.”

Standards should be consistent.
They are not.

Basketball is fast.
Accidental contact happens.
Nobody disputes that.
Many questioned whether it was accidental.

After all of this…
And there is so much more.
The list of grabs, choke holds, body slams is long.
Sounds like the WWE.

That is not a simple statement.
That is an accusation.

A young basketball player becomes one of the biggest stars in sports...
And suddenly she’s expected to solve America’s racial problems.

In an interview with Time magazine after being named Athlete of the Year, she said:
“I want to say I’ve earned every single thing, but as a white person, there is privilege.”

That’s her right.
She may sincerely believe every word.
She may have felt it was important to acknowledge.
We don’t know.

But was that the end of it?
Not even close.

Then came perhaps the clearest example yet.

As she is on the floor Mercury forward Alyssa Thomas drives her knee into her ribs then shoves her fist into Clark’s upper body and neck.
Followed by more knees and kicks while she was still on her back on the floor.

Officials swallowed their whistles.
Again.

Then came perhaps the most important voice of all.
Not a columnist.
Not a television personality.
Not a politician.

That statement matters.Not because it settles every debate.
Because it came from inside the locker room.
From someone who sees every practice.
Every possession.
Every game.

The NBA protected Michael Jordan.
The NBA protects Steph Curry.
The NFL protects quarterbacks.
Especially Patrick Mahones.

Protecting stars isn’t about favoritism.
It’s about protecting the game.

And protecting the fans who pay to watch it.
Only after millions of people watched the replay...
Only after criticism mounted...
Only after sports broadcasters and analysts questioned the lack of protection...

Trivial.
And too little too late.

Within 24 hours, the incident had turned into another national argument about race.

Instead of asking whether the play crossed the line...
Some commentators quickly reframed the conversation.

Millions of people watched the replay.
Most weren’t talking about race.

They were asking something much simpler.
“What was that?”

Because to the average basketball fan...
It didn’t resemble a basketball play.
It looked worse than reckless.
It was dangerous.

Here comes Jemele Hill again.
She went after Esiason on X, writing:
“So is he implying that she should receive special treatment because she’s straight and white?”

And then, she doubles down with:
“Y’all the ones always hollering and crying about race being brought up too much.”

Message to Jemele Hill.
You are the ones doing it.

She does.
And she is constantly having to pick herself up off the hardwood.

She played the second most used card.
The victim card.

Thomas ran to the media claiming she is the victim. 
Not Clark.

Perhaps she has.
Unfortunately, that may be true.
And that is wrong.
Very wrong.

But again…
So has Clark.
And many others.
That does make it right.

But not how you would think.
Not about protecting Clark.
But protecting her from reactions coming from what she did.

Know what was missing?
An apology.
I am not holding my breath.

That doesn’t fit the facts.
It fits a narrative.

Privilege doesn’t become the NCAA’s all-time leading scorer.
Privilege doesn’t shatter rookie scoring records.
Privilege doesn’t set the WNBA single-season assist record.
Privilege doesn’t basically rewrite the WNBA record book.
Privilege doesn’t throw impossible passes.
Privilege doesn’t force defenses to pick you up the moment you cross half court.
Privilege doesn’t fill arenas.

It should begin with basketball.
And stay there.

By her jump shot.
By her passing.
By her competitiveness.
By her work ethic.
By the record book.
By wins and losses.

We spend a lot of time telling children...
Dream big.
Work hard.
Practice.
Sacrifice.
Earn it.

Then when someone actually does...
We start looking for another explanation.

The athletes.
The fans.
The game.

Attendance.
Television ratings.
Corporate sponsors.
Media attention.
Low to bottom in each category every year.

Every season seemed to end with the same question.
“Why doesn’t America support women’s basketball?”

She wasn’t manufactured by ESPN.
She wasn’t handed celebrity status by Nike.

Four remarkable years filling arenas playing her college ball at Iowa.
The NCAA’s all-time leading scorer.
A player who made thirty-five-foot shots feel routine.
She made Pistol Pete no-look passes seem ordinary.
She became must-see television.

People who couldn’t name three WNBA players suddenly knew the Indiana Fever starting lineup.
That’s influence.

Caitlin Clark didn’t simply join the WNBA.
She changed its trajectory.

She didn’t just bring fans.
She brought money.
A lot of it.

Not eventually.
Immediately.

Attendance surged.Television ratings shattered league records.
Merchandise sales exploded.
Road games became sellouts.
Entire franchises moved games into NBA arenas because demand exceeded capacity.

National television networks suddenly wanted more WNBA games.
Corporate sponsors lined up.
The league negotiated a media-rights agreement worth more than $3 billion.
That’s with a B.

Revenue grew enough that players are now sharing in the league’s financial success.
Charter flights once considered an impossible luxury became the permanent standard.
Under the new collective bargaining agreement, average player salaries are expected to increase by more than 450 percent, with the league’s biggest stars earning well into seven figures.
Created room for expansion teams, meaning more players making WNBA rosters.

The player who is hugely responsible for all the significant things I listed...
Couldn’t find a place on the league’s own celebration of its greatest figures.

It felt less like a celebration of the league’s future...
And more like an institution reluctant to acknowledge the person most responsible for changing it.

There is no attendance boom.
No television boom.
No merchandise boom.
No $3 billion media deal.
No revenue sharing.No permanent charter flights.
No dramatic increase in player salaries.

You don’t have to like that.
But it’s worth repeating.
You do have to acknowledge it.

Those aren’t opinions.
They’re business results.

She’s the NCAA’s all-time leading scorer.
She owns the WNBA rookie scoring record.
She set the all-time single-season assist record.
She became the fastest player in league history to reach 400 career assists.
She owns the WNBA single-game assist record with 19.
She routinely makes passes that don’t simply make highlight reels.
She redefined what’s possible on a basketball court.

The league didn’t make her famous.
The fans did.

The smart leagues protect those people.
Not always because they’re special.But because they’re valuable.
Some are both.

David Stern understood it with Michael Jordan.
The NFL understands it with Patrick Mahomes.
Baseball understood it with Derek Jeter.
The NHL understood it with Wayne Gretzky and Sidney Crosby.

Every successful sports league eventually reaches the same conclusion.
Your biggest attraction isn’t expendable.

You don’t protect your stars because they’re better than everyone else.
You protect them because they’re the engine pulling the train.

Week after week, Caitlin Clark gets mugged.
Not defended.
Mugged.

But…Poked in the eye.
Kneed in the groin.
Body slammed and banged around game after game.
With the ball, without the ball.
Who cares?
The refs and the league don’t appear to.

If someone has done all of that for your league...
Transformed your business…

Basketball has always been physical.
Larry Bird took hits.
Magic Johnson took hits.
Michael Jordan endured the “Bad Boys” Detroit Pistons.

Cheap shots are.
The elbows.
The shoves away from the ball.
The unnecessary contact after the whistle.

Nobody is asking officials to eliminate hard fouls.
That’s basketball.
Cheap shots aren’t.

The officials swallowed their whistles.
Again.

The response from the league may have been even worse than the foul itself.
No immediate outrage from the league office.
No statement from Commissioner Cathy Engelbert.
Nothing.

One game.
Too little.
Too late.
FYI, Thomas makes $1,200,000 a year.

Indiana Fever guard Sophie Cunningham also voiced what many fans had been saying for months.
“They’re definitely targeting her, and the league and the refs do nothing to protect her.”

That criticism didn’t come from sports talk radio.
It didn’t come from social media.
It came from Clark’s own teammate.
And she is not alone.

It also led to the “point seen around the world.”
I loved it.

Imagine the NFL allowing defenders to hit Patrick Mahomes three seconds after every throw.
Imagine Major League Baseball shrugging every time Aaron Judge got drilled between the numbers with each at bat.
Imagine the NBA deciding Steph Curry deserved to be tackled every other possession.

Fans wouldn’t call that toughness.
They’d call it incompetence.

They don’t need her anymore?
Really?

Would that have ever been said about Michael Jordan in 1991?
Or Tiger Woods in 2001.
Or Patrick Mahomes today.

Thanks.
We’ll take it from here.
Now go away.

That’s not confidence.
That’s arrogance.

Every cheap shot against Caitlin Clark isn’t really aimed at Caitlin Clark.
It’s aimed at the fans buying the tickets.
The families.The little girls wearing No. 22 jerseys.
The casual sports fan who decided to give the WNBA a chance.

Because they came to watch basketball.
Not UFC.
And I dig the UFC.
But this is basketball.

Professional sports have always understood something simple.
You protect your stars while still allowing legitimate competition.

That’s not favoritism.That’s good business.
It’s smart business.

And the WNBA is not playing it smart.
Not even close.

Some critics argue Caitlin Clark receives too much attention.
They’re right.
She does.

Because millions of fans decided she deserved it.
The audience voted.
That’s how sports works.

Television executives don’t create ratings.
Fans do.

Sponsors don’t invent popularity.
Fans do.

Ticket buyers don’t fake attendance.
Fans do.

The consumers decide.
The market has spoken.
Loudly.

There will undoubtedly be readers who disagree with parts of this column.
That’s fine.

Imagine opening a restaurant...
Finally getting lines out the door...
Then insulting every customer who walks in.

Sounds like Hollywood celebrities insulting consumers on movie promotional tours.
But I digress.

Nobody is asking officials to give Clark points.
Nobody is asking defenders to let her score.
Nobody is asking for a coronation.

Just officiate the game.
Call obvious fouls.
Call any foul.
Protect every player equally.
Allow skill not retaliation to determine the outcome.
Dare I say, be honest.

Many fans aren’t loyal to the WNBA.
They’re loyal to Caitlin Clark.

Overnight.
In an instant.

The league knows it.
The television networks know it.
The sponsors certainly know it.

The question isn’t whether Caitlin Clark has transformed the WNBA.
She has.

Because history teaches a simple lesson.
A Golden Goose is hard to find.
Golden opportunities are even rarer.
Throwing them away is easier than anyone thinks.

Everybody gets a month.
Scripture gets a problem.
Again.

Nobody is talking about forcing religion on anyone.
Nobody is talking about mandatory church attendance between innings.
Nobody is suggesting the seventh-inning stretch tradition of singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” should be replaced by an old time Gospel hymn.

Their hat.
Their faith.
Their choice.

And these guys?
I admire them.

Not because they wrote a Bible verse on a baseball cap.
Because they were willing to stand publicly for what they believe.

Courage doesn’t always look like charging up a hill.
Sometimes it looks like quietly refusing to hide your convictions.

Their decision reminded me of the Scripture tattooed on my right arm:
“Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be courageous; be strong.” — 1 Corinthians 16:13

Standing by your convictions in a culture that increasingly demands conformity takes courage.
I’d say that verse describes them pretty well.

Military appreciation.
Cancer awareness.
Jackie Robinson Day.
Roberto Clemente Day.
Pride Month.
Heritage nights.
Community outreach.

You can wear symbols.
Just not those symbols.

You can express beliefs.
Just not those beliefs.

You can bring your authentic self to work.
Just not that authentic self.

Not the hat.
Not the Bible verse.
The conditions.

We witnessed a similar scenario earlier this year when the Chicago Bulls cut guard Jaden Ivey.
His crime?

The nerve.
Quick sidenote: One of my first columns was about the Jaden situation. Irked me then. This irks me now.

Agree with him or not, it is his right to express his faith.

Yet somehow the conflict keeps occurring.
Again and again.

The NFL is guilty.
The NBA is guilty.
And MLB is right there with them.

Apparently, activism is courageous.
Scripture is controversial.

A rainbow logo is self-expression.
John 3:16 is somehow a threat.

Players cross themselves before stepping into the batter’s box.
Point to heaven after home runs.
Pray before games.
Thank God during interviews.
Wear cross necklaces.
Attend chapel services.
Talk openly about faith after winning championships.
Even when they don't.

The only thing that’s changed is that some people have decided certain viewpoints deserve celebration while others deserve suspicion.
Or suspension.

The real test of tolerance isn’t how you treat people who agree with you.
That’s easy.

The real test is whether you can tolerate people whose beliefs differ from your own.

Can a Christian player quote scripture?
Can a Jewish player reference the Torah?
Can a Muslim player express his faith?
Can people peacefully disagree without demanding silence?

A free society answers yes.
Not because everyone agrees.
Because everyone has the same rights.

The beauty of America was never that we all believed the same thing.
It was that we didn’t have to.

A clubhouse is full of…
different races,
backgrounds,
languages,
cultures.

And beliefs united by a common purpose.
Win.
Be a good teammate.
Depend on one another.
Respect one another.

All of it.
The rainbow logo.
The military veteran.
The immigrant.
The churchgoer.
The atheist.
The conservative.
The progressive.
The player quoting Scripture.
The player who doesn’t.

Everybody gets a month.
Everybody gets a cause.
Everybody gets a flag.

Read the book they wrote.
Watch the movie they produced.
Visit the website they built.
Listen to the live streaming they host.
Read the press release they approved.

At some point, doesn’t that sound a little strange?

That’s marketing.
There is a difference.
A big difference.

They have a website.A podcast.
A YouTube channel.
Social media accounts.
A newsletter.
A documentary.
A book.
A second book explaining the first book.
Pictures filling a wall.
And if all else fails, a TED Talk.
Do people still do those?

I’ve written scripts.
I’ve written commentaries.
I’ve produced films.
I’ve directed films.
I’ve sat behind microphones.
I’ve sat in front of microphones.
I’ve broadcast football and basketball games on the radio.
I’ve yelled from the stands… and at the TV.
But, I digress.

The point is this.
I’ve spent enough time in media to know everybody gets to tell their side of the story.

And they should.
That’s fair.

Because if the only evidence for someone’s greatness comes from something they… wrote,
edited,
narrated,
approved,
financed,
and distributed themselves.

 You may not be getting the truth.
You may be getting the trailer.

Hollywood figured this out a hundred years ago.
I know.

I spent more than twenty years doing exactly that for Walt Disney Studios HE.
Writing and creating trailers and TV spots for movies.

Every film looks fantastic.
Every joke lands.
Every explosion is perfectly timed.
The music swells.
The hero delivers the perfect line.
It gets you pumping your fist or with a tear in your eye.

The audience leaves thinking they’ve just witnessed the greatest movie ever made.
Then they buy a ticket.
A job well done.

I have even received feedback that I created a trailer for the movie they wished they made.
Again, a job well done.

Politics works the same way.
Business works the same way.
Public figures work the same way.
Influencers work the same way.

Everybody has a trailer now.
Everybody has a brand.
Everybody has a carefully curated image designed to present the best possible version of themselves.

Again, there is nothing inherently wrong with that.
We all put our best foot forward.

Because character isn’t what someone says about themselves.
Character is what other people say about them when they have nothing to gain.

Integrity isn’t measured by your biography.
It’s measured by your behavior.

And credibility isn’t something you announce.
It’s something others grant.

Margaret Thatcher once said:
“Being powerful is like being a lady. If you have to tell people you are, you aren’t.”

If someone constantly has to tell you…
how honest they are,
how courageous they are,
how successful they are,
how brilliant they are,
how persecuted they are,
or how important they are.

The most accomplished people I’ve met usually do the opposite.
Military heroes talk about the men beside them.
Successful business leaders credit their teams.
Great athletes talk about coaches.

The genuinely humble often seem uncomfortable discussing themselves at all.

Meanwhile, the self-appointed legends can’t wait to tell you their story.
Again.
And again.
And again.

What do former coworkers say?
What do longtime friends say?
What do critics say?
What do people who disagree with them say?
What do the facts say?
What does their track record say?

Because truth has a remarkable ability to withstand scrutiny.
Marketing doesn’t always do so well.

That’s why healthy skepticism isn’t cynicism.
It’s wisdom.

A trailer has a purpose.
Its job is to make you interested.
Its job is to persuade.
Its job is to sell.

There’s nothing wrong with that.
Just don’t mistake it for the entire movie.
And don’t mistake it for objective truth.

In the end, everyone gets to tell their story.
That’s America.
Tell it.
Write the book.
Make the movie.
Build the website.
Start the podcast.
Go for it.

Just understand that none of those things automatically prove the story is true.
They simply prove the story was told.

The real test comes afterward.
When independent facts are examined.
When witnesses are heard.
When records are reviewed.
When time passes.

Because eventually every trailer faces the same challenge.
People watch the movie.

That’s why when someone says:
“If you want to know the truth about me, read my book. Watch my movie”

My first thought is usually this.
“Maybe.”

But I’d also like to hear from the editor.
The coworkers.The critics.
The neighbors.
The people who knew you before the cameras arrived.

Because truth doesn’t need special effects.
Truth doesn’t need dramatic music.
Truth doesn’t need perfect lighting.
Truth doesn’t need a marketing budget.

Great bars.
Terrific bands.
Music pouring out of every doorway.
Every rooftop.
Every open window.

Cleaner.
Friendlier.
Welcoming.

Figure that one out.
They told us why.
Still cracks me up.

We drove through rolling green hills and farms.
Passing Civil War battlefields filled with history.

People who almost made it.
People who should have made it.
People who maybe still will.

They want certainty.
Polling data.
A focus group.
An emotional support llama.

And honestly, I respect and admire every one of them.
Because they are still trying.

Most people abandon dreams long before failure ever gets a chance to.
Fear gets them first.

Southern rock sounds like freedom.

Like...
open highways,
summer nights,
motorcycles,
football Saturdays, 
old pickup trucks, 
county fairs, 
dive bars, 
and people who still wave from front porches with an American flag hanging proudly.

Terrific musicians.
Huge regional following.

“People Like You.”
“Green Country Mountains.”
“Long Time Lovin’ You.”
“Ain’t No One (To Love You Like I Do)”

I still listen to their songs.
I still wear the t-shirt.

There’s no formula.
Which is probably why people still chase it.