I played basketball against a 9-year-old

A story about the WNBA kicking off, Caitlin Clark, and somehow Art Garfunkel

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The WNBA’s 28th season kicks off tonight. There are so many compelling storylines — can A’ja Wilson (who has a shoe coming out in 2025!) lead the Las Vegas Aces to a three-peat? Can the New York Liberty get revenge after that brutal Finals loss last year? Will Arike Ogunbowale be one of the top five shooters in the league again? How will rookies Angel Reese and Kamilla Cardoso play together in Chicago when Cardoso is healthy? What about Cameron Brink and Rickea Jackson on the Sparks? And Nika Mühl in Seattle? Is this Diana Taurasi’s last chance to win a championship?

But of course, the person that most people are talking about outside of women’s basketball circles is — you guessed it — Caitlin Clark. The Indiana Fever take on the Connecticut Suns tonight, and Clark will make her debut alongside reigning Rookie of the Year Aliyah Boston. This is the first time Connecticut has sold out an arena since their first game ever in 2003.

Clark’s role in the rise of women’s basketball is undeniable. So is her impact on the millions of people who watch her play. And I have a small example that I’d like to share with you. It’s the story of how I ended up playing basketball with a 9-year-old stranger and his nanny.

Cooper Neill/NBAE/Getty Images

I should preface this by telling you that I’ve been making my husband play basketball with me this spring. He was a great player in high school and has been gracious enough to coach me over the past couple of months as I try to get better. I played as a kid, but not at a high level. I was pretty short until high school, and by the time I had a growth spurt, it was too late. I was already playing squash. Hopefully that is the most obnoxious New England Prep School Thing I could tell you about myself. I fear it isn’t, but maybe we’ll unpack that in a different essay someday.

My Playing Basketball Journey began few months ago, when I saw a tweet with an excerpt of an article from the ‘90s about Art Garfunkel (yes, Art Garfunkel — stay with me here, I swear it’ll make sense soon). After he split with Paul Simon, Garfunkel went through a period of time when he retreated into himself, which somehow involved practicing free throws every day at a New York City park. He alleged that his record was 104 shots in a row, but that’s hard to believe.

Regardless, it inspired me to start playing basketball. I’ve grown bored with normal, grown-up workouts. I’d rather put a kettlebell through my television than swing it one more time. I also talk about basketball for a living; getting a physical feel for it connects me to the game more when I watch. 

My husband, however, was not home the Sunday of the NCAA women’s national championship. I was so inspired by how South Carolina and Iowa played that I felt the urge to shoot some hoops. It was the same need to move my body that I felt after the 1999 Women’s World Cup, which I watched with my youth soccer team. We all went out and played soccer in the backyard afterwards; it was a compulsion more than a choice.

So, that Sunday, I took myself to the park near our apartment. The park has two hoops — a group of teenagers were playing at one, while a little boy and a woman were playing at the other. 

It was only once I got there that I became self-conscious. What was I, a thirty-five-year-old woman, doing there by myself? Was this too weird? But I pushed through whatever awkwardness I felt and waited near the second hoop. The boy and the woman were playing a pretty intense game of one-on-one, so I practiced dribbling and did some sprints on the asphalt nearby.

At one point, the boy launched a three from about 30-feet out and yelled, “I’m Caitlin Clark!” 

The woman saw me smiling and smiled back at me. She didn’t look like his mother, but I couldn’t be sure. She told me they were almost done playing; we started chatting as the boy kept shooting from impossible distances. 

The woman’s name was Virginia. The boy was Nathan. Virginia was Nathan’s nanny, and Nathan, I learned, was nine years old. He was the only fourth grader on the fifth grade basketball team, and they’d recently won whatever championship you win as little kids. He was, in other words, pretty good for someone who clocked in at around five feet tall.

He had also become obsessed with Clark over the past year. Nathan and Virginia watched the national championship, as well as every game of Clark’s last season at Iowa. Nathan was excited to watch the WNBA draft, which was a week away. Clark was rightly presumed to be the No. 1 pick, headed to the Fever.

“We already bought Liberty tickets for when the Fever come to town,” Virginia said. 

Nathan came over to us. 

“Do you want to play Around The World?” he asked me. 

I panicked. If you haven’t been asked to play Around The World by a stranger who doesn’t reach your shoulders, let me tell you that it’s surprising.

“No, pal, I’m good — you keep shooting,” I said. 

“He doesn’t mind losing,” Virginia said. 

“Please?!?!” Nathan begged. 

I didn’t tell Virginia that I wasn’t worried about beating Nathan; I was worried that Nathan would beat me. I also thought, “this isn’t what most people think adults do.” And then I thought — who cares? Why adhere to the rules of what I think other people think “being an adult” means? Why not say yes?

So Nathan and I played Around The World. Virginia rebounded for us, and this kid trashed-talked me the whole time. Whenever I missed, he’d sarcastically say, “Okay, Caitlin Clark,” rolling his eyes. I can neither confirm nor deny whether I called him a punk and told him that South Carolina coach Dawn Staley would be disappointed as he missed a free throw.

We played for an hour and a half. Only when the sun set and Nathan’s mom texted Virginia did he reluctantly agree to stop. 

Did Nathan and I came out even in games? Yes. That’s right, I’m not embarrassed to admit that I got beat a few times by a nine-year old (but, as I said, he was pretty good). Did I sink a three to win at the buzzer once? Yes. Did I yell, “Who’s Caitlin Clark now?!” afterwards? Also yes. 

Nathan and Virginia said goodbye to me and they left the park. I was a little sad as I watched them walk away. But there’s no good way to say, “Hey, Virginia, can I get your number so I can play basketball with the nine-year-old you take care of while you rebound for us?” 

Everyone talks about how great it is for little girls to watch women like Clark, how she’s a role model for what they can become. This is true! But it’s just as crucial for little boys. When all genders grow up wanting to be like the women they admire, it starts to chip away at the archaic, sexist idea that it’s an insult to say someone “plays like a girl.”

I know this, because I saw Nathan do everything in his power to play like Clark.

This all happened more than a month ago. Since then, my husband and I have played basketball many times. I’ve gotten better, and now I really think Art Garfunkel was lying. One hundred and four free throws in a row is a lot.

At the park, I look for Nathan. I think I could take him now. Or maybe I’ll run into him and Virginia at a New York Liberty game when the Fever come to town.