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 and greasy Styrofoam containers, reducing spectacle misogyny to rat scraps.

Because they strut their redwood and cheetah bodies into stadiums wearing 5th Avenue brand tailored suits and extra baggy jeans and mini-skirts and bowties and baseball caps and stilettos and combat boots and Beatles sunglasses, and with each step, they part waters for broad spectrum sexy, flashing runway smiles that say, “Come, all ye.”

Because I wish I’d had the image of these women burned into my brain when, in 1997, the boy at the high school party looked at my oversized jeans and exhaled his beer-breath advice into my ear to “Show more ass.” Because I wish this future had projected itself onto a screen, a screen through which I could have smashed that boy’s head. A flagrant foul, but worth it.

Because there are so many players to crush on. Because discovering this playlist of hot, openly queer athletes all in one place is like stumbling on a cool, potable waterfall after a long walk in a tangled forest.

Because I feel the ball in my own hands when I watch these women play, feel the twitch of calves, the between-the-legs dribble, the mid-air scoping of rim. Because I see my wife’s hands and feet shadowing them too. Because it seems the spirits of our younger and tougher selves have been raised and reincarnated into new bodies, bodies that have ballooned that ferocity and refuse to bury it.

Because these days it seems every channel is playing doom and demise, every station blowing fear and facade into the atmosphere, the toxic cloud so thick and blended with wildfire smoke, it’s impossible to count all the ways to choke. But look here: hope. Between hard play and bruises, they’re dancing and holding each other. Sweat-dripping post game, they’re hugging opponents and offering kudos into TV cameras. They’re fighting for each other, for respect, donning t-shirts that say, “Pay Us What You Owe Us,” modeling for young girls—fuck it—not just for young girls—for all of us—honor, strength, courage, grace.

Because joy. Fans driven by camaraderie. Players reaching toward the stands, signaling connection, unity, thanks. Because the party. The arena rocking with chants and songs and hoots and cheers. Because half-time acrobatics, mascots with ballroom moves and dancers of all colors and sexes and ages grooving to pop beats. Because the power, the beauty, the fun of it all.

Because joy lives in a house built by women. Huge, strong, fast, talented, confident, tenacious women who could take you down any day of the week.

___

Emily W. Blacker’s writing has appeared in Ninth Letter, Under the Sun, Pithead Chapel, Fourth Genre, The Maine Review, Under the Gum Tree and Assay: A Journal of Nonfiction Studies. She holds an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts, is the founder of the Figure Eight Writers’ Workshop, and served as Nonfiction Editor for The Maine Review for five years.

Photograph by Sherry Shahan