The WNBA: Where Fantasy Meets Reality Clark Sheffield

Author’s note: this article was originally intended to run near the conclusion of the 2004-05 NBA season.  Flipside’s short-lived demise and Sheryl Swoopes’ coming out party have led to this pushed-back electronic publication. There used to be a time when only baseball existed to fill the void left when the basketball season ended.  Despite the efforts of David Stern and various media conglomerates, the NBA playoffs only seem interminable.  At some point in mid June (or is it early July now?), a world champion will have been crowned and basketball will have ended for another season.  Or will it have? It is at this time that the baton is passed to the girls of summer.  The curtains drop on upper decks, and lower levels of half a dozen arenas around the country, particularly right here in Indy, will fill up nearly halfway.  The seats at Conseco Fieldhouse will have more bush than the White House (either in DC or Dallas, take your pick) and you’ll be able to count more mullets than at an NHRA event at Indianapolis Raceway Park.

Whether you’re a woman who likes women or a budget-conscious father who can no longer afford to take his family to a real sporting event, this is the place for you.  So what if they can’t run or break a full-court press?  They’ve got a fuzzy red mascot and the Fever Inferno Hip Hop Dance Squad. And if those things don’t appeal to you, feel free to revel in the sheer novelty of women playing professional basketball.  It’s like 90 minutes of watching that water-skiing squirrel, which is well worth the price of admission. The Fever experience, in fact, is very much akin to a day at IRP, hockey hair notwithstanding.  The abundance of children and estrogen results in a delayed reaction to questionable officiating; what starts as singular scattered “boos” gradually escalates for a few seconds before tapering off again.  This serves to create a Doppler Effect of sorts, conjuring visions of powerful automobiles approaching and passing at high velocity.

Aside from the poor quality of play and ignorance of much of the fan base, the only real drawback comes from the death of all men’s mutual dream.  Like most males, I’ve always fantasized about booking a flight and traveling to the Isle of Lesbos.  Herve Villechaize and Ricardo Montalbon would lead me from “de plane, de plane” to a plush resort, where I would be catered to by a cadre of Playboy-worthy maidens. My first trip to Conseco Fieldhouse for a Fever game was accompanied by an enormous explosion as my own personal Fantasy Island went the way of Krakatoa [ note to the uninitiated: not all lesbians look like the ones in those videos you stash under your bed].  It was as though all of the softball leagues in the city had shut down for the day.  I thought I had died and gone to Holland.  At least the Pacers had the Dunkin’ Dutchman; the Fever just had a lot of dykes.  After surveying the crowd, I got around to (sort of) watching the game, which was somewhat like witnessing the events leading up to a car accident and being powerless to stop them.  Now, if the game itself is the business up front, then the action at The Pub (across the street from Conseco, for those of you unfamiliar with downtown Indy geography) is the party in the back.  Still feeling somewhat shell-shocked from the game, I agreed to accompany some friends to the bar.  Not a sanctioned part of the official WNBA experience, The Pub is the home of the after party.  Apparently, it is also the home of the Rosie O’Donnell look-alike club.  Even the Rocky Mountain freshness of multiple 23-oz. Coors Light drafts (note: summer special $2) could not cleanse me of my unease.  The feeling I had at that moment was not unlike the one I have right now, knowing that one or two actual people might read this. March has now passed and basketball as we know it is slowly being ushered into the vomitorium, so if you’re looking to feed your jones, just head down to the Fieldhouse on a balmy July afternoon.  I have returned several times since that first outing, each successive trip marginally less painful than the last.  In fact, my discomfort has slipped enough that I plan on chronicling the upcoming season with a running Flipside.com diary We’ve got the Fever here in Indianapolis, sports fans, and I’m afraid it’s going to take a lot more than cowbell to cure it.