Why I Can’t Stop Watching Women’s Basketball

Because biceps and quads and shoulders for days. Because lit women, hungry women, growling look-at-me fast-breaking behind-the-back-passing three-point-shooting-28-feet-out swoosh women. Chest-crashing blood-spitting skull-cracking and play on women. Women who own ball, court, confidence, six-plus feet of bone and plasma and muscle and ass-kicking. Own swagger, own fans, own media, own dominance, own queerness, own the divine kaleidoscopic cloudburst cornucopia of female design. Because me at 4, me at 8, me at 12, me at 15, me at 18 trying to own a feminine body, a body like a jump shot bouncing off the rim. Because me alone in my childhood bedroom donning an oversized Knicks jersey and backwards baseball cap, costumed in toughness, flexing in the mirror, staging a play of me as player, me as boy-girl, until the door opens. Because my wife, with her old high school basketball injuries still haunting, electrifies as Wilson stuffs, Cloud scoops, and Plum drives, calling out un-called fouls and rewinding grace-notes for us to watch in slo-mo. Because for four quarters we disappear into that dance together. Because when crypto-bros throw florescent sex toys on the court, these women kick those dildos to the sidelines, clearing that trash like crushed soda cans […]