27 years: the montage edition

27 years. We all we got; we all we need. We all we are; we all we ever, ever were. 

27 years. Roll the tape. And then let's look at the outtakes. 

I start at the beginning, because that's where we started. There is not enough we can do or say for those who dropped the best of their years down the chasm, for whom our beginning was closer to their ending. No number of trophies won by other people can make up for that. There isn't a throng of cheering fans big enough to fill the little gyms in Italy, in Germany, in Japan, in Russia, in other spots all over the world from before Brooklyn was even an option.

They laid the foundation. This 2024 team reached the pinnacle. But you don't get from the foundation to the pinnacle without the floors in the middle. There's history there too, as much as it hurts to look at it. We are not who we are without them, either. 

Because there were Huskies in New York before Breanna Stewart, after Rebecca Lobo. There's something of Kiah Stokes, her old teammate, in the authority of her blocks. There's something of Swin Cash in the imperious tilt of her chin and the swift sure movements of long arms and long legs. There's something of Tina Charles in her, the craving to prove herself on the biggest stage she calls home, even as she's already proven her personal bona fides elsewhere; there too, is Orange County's own Stefanie Dolson and Suffolk County's own Bria Hartley. Pull the camera back a little, and coming home is nothing new to this franchise, from Long Island's Sue Wicks to Manhattan's Bethany Donaphin to the Bronx's Kia Vaughn to Brooklyn's Tanisha Wright. Look shallower into the numbers. We've seen #30 pulling down hard-earned rebounds before as Shea Mahoney fought for boards at MSG, as DeTrina White cleaned the glass on the stage at Radio City. #30's gone from Katelan Redmon on the bench to Katie Smith playing the final leg of her legendary career. We've seen #30 commanding the huddle before, Tanisha Wright pulling the team around her and forcing them to believe. After Breanna, we may never see it again. 

If anyone understands the heavy weight of legacy, it's Betnijah Laney-Hamilton, a player's daughter, a coach's goddaughter. Being in the second generation is nothing new to she who played on the banks of the Raritan, already familiar with the shadows of Sue Wicks and Cappie Pondexter even before her winding road took her to New York. But when she steps out on the floor, the echoes that answer are Essence Carson's and Erica Wheeler's, bringing the defense, willing to sacrifice on the offensive end for the good of the team. I can hardly think of two players less alike than Betnijah and Tamika Whitmore... until I look at the #44 on the front of the jersey. Pull back the focus, off the court to the sounds of someone enthusiastically singing Beyoncé: is that Betnijah or is that Kia Vaughn? In her glitz and glamour while injured, she invokes DiDi Richards, Tiffany Jackson, Shameka Christon. 

If you know your history, and I mean the deep lore, you know who Big 20 is. You know how long he's been with the Liberty, even before he was a Timeless Torch. And maybe the #20 is for Sabrina Ionescu now. But those who were there when the deep magic was written know that #20 was originally for Shameka Christon. Shameka was supposed to be the star who, buttressed and taught by the veterans around her, would take the Liberty to the next level. She was supposed to be the next generation. Instead, her fate was inextricably entangled with that of Cappie Pondexter, a superstar combo guard who could either score in bunches or make herself a selfless passer, but in so many ways never found a balance. Cappie chose New York, and then chose not to choose it. Sabrina, the superstar combo guard looking for- and more and more often finding- that on-court balance between volume scorer and selfless passer, was chosen by New York, and then chose New York. And so #20 goes from the historical footnote of Stacey Ford, to Shameka's potential frustrated and squandered, to Sabrina's ascendance as the star who brought the Liberty to the next level. 

The echoes are a little harder to pinpoint for Courtney Vandersloot, at least until the intros start and the vowels start getting drawn out: Suuuuuuuue, Spooooooooooon, Schuuuuuuuueyyyyyy, Kraaaaaaaaaay, Ekuuuuuuuunwe, Slooooooot. Maybe it's because so much of her history belongs to other cities, like Katie Smith's did, like Swin Cash's did, like Taj McWilliams-Franklin's did. Maybe it's because she's so far from the Evergreen State that made her, following in the footsteps of Leilani Mitchell and Alex Montgomery and Cathrine Kraayeveld. Maybe it's because #22 has so often belonged to easy smiles like Lindsey Yamasaki's and Jessica Bibby's, or the big personalities of Ashley Battle and DeMya Walker, and that's not the vibe for someone who tries to avoid all encounters with people. And maybe that's right for the quintessential pass-first leader: you find her by finding the connections around her. 

Jonquel Jones is one-of-one in so many ways, but the simplest is this: no one else has worn #35 in the regular season for the New York Liberty. Let her stay, let her keep rising, and maybe no one else ever will. The parallels aren't as elegant; the path isn't as smooth. She's not the first from the Atlantic 10, both old and new; before her came Quanitra Hollingsworth and Ta'Shia Phillips. She's not the first from the islands; before her there was Antigua's own Desiree Francis, and before either of them was one of our first, Simone Edwards, the Jamaican Hurricane, and may her memory be a blessing as bright and joyous as she ever was. In her astonishing passing eye, in the angles no center seems to have a right to find, there's a trace of Janel McCarville. In JJ's unabashed, unfettered, unrelenting pride, there too is an echo of Shavonte Zellous, and they've both picked up their pens to write about it. 

#35 is one-of-one as a jersey number for the New York Liberty. #13 is far from it. #13's been there since the beginning, from our neglected pioneer Sophia Witherspoon, to Marina Ferragut's soft touch in the paint, to the toughness of Mactabene Amachree, to all that never was for Jocelyn Willoughby. Now it's on the back of Leonie Fiebich, and it's an omen of ill fortune for the guard looking up at her. She's not the first German to find her way to New York; there's always going to be a special place in my heart for the sweetness of Linda Fröhlich, for whom I learned how to type diacritical marks, and for Martina Weber, The One Who Made It for the Iona Gaels. But wind it back. It's a short jump back to the phenomenal defensive flexibility of Natasha Howard, inside and out; it's a longer jump back to the backcourt trapping of Sue Wicks and Becky Hammon driving opposing guards mad. There's something of Elena Baranova and Cathrine Kraayeveld in those corner threes, so unexpected from someone of that height and that build. 

And where you find Leonie, you find Nyara Sabally. Because you always seem to find Nyara as part of a pair, don't you? The two Germans, the two Ducks, the two sisters. Bookends, like K.B. Sharp and Erin Thorn waiting outside Radio City. But let Nyara stand alone, too, straight and tall while a would-be defender bounces off her like water off a Duck's back- and there's Cathrine again, setting a Screen of Death to free up a teammate. There's Carolyn Swords, the big body in the paint, making space as defenders run headlong into that #8 jersey. There's another #8 sliding through the gap thus created, Edwige Lawson-Wade finding the seam for the drive and dish. Listen close to the thunder of the "SA-BA-LLY!" chant and there is a hint, an echo, a trace of "OL-GA! OL-GA!", for Olga Firsova, a folk hero on a smaller scale than Nyara ever was. 

In so many ways, Kayla Thornton fits into the history of this team. #5 has belonged to an eclectic mix of players, from defensive specialist Kisha Ford, to the faded glory of Venus Lacy, to Grace Daley who we don't talk about, to the sharpshooter Erin Thorn, to deceptively diminutive Leilani Mitchell, to the one-year-wonder of Shoni Schimmel, to Chelsea Hopkins, to Kia Nurse. It seems appropriate that Kayla, herself an eclectic mix, should follow in their collective footsteps. But we have to go deeper than the commonality of a jersey number or the alma mater she shares with Natasha Lacy to find Kayla's predecessors. There's something to be said for her off-court unpredictability, the kind of quirkiness that's made Ashley Battle a long-time favorite fondly remembered out of proportion to her skill and role. Go further still, and beneath the lightness of seafoam there has always been steel, deep in the heart. There's Kayla fighting for a loose ball; there's Tiffany Jackson-Jones battling on the glass; there's Plenette Pierson, ferociously boxing out. 

The easiest parallel to Jaylyn Sherrod is Chucky Jeffery, the Colorado alumna who wore 0 before Jaylyn did. Easy- but New York doesn't do easy. Wouldn't have taken 27 years to get here if we did. New York never stops moving, never stops hustling, never gives up. It's no wonder Liberty fans took a shine to Jaylyn and the energy she bursts with. Give us the speedsters who never learned how to stop, blurring behind her like an afterimage as she breaks to the basket: Jazmine Jones, Brittany Boyd, Sydney Colson, Sherill Baker, Jessica Bibby.   Give us the ones who beat the odds, like Erica Wheeler, like Sami Whitcomb, like DeMya Walker, like Becky Hammon, who chose instead of being chosen, seized that chance with both hands, and whether here or elsewhere, raised it up like a trophy to the heavens.

Kennedy Burke's far from the first Bruin to cross the country and lace them up for the Liberty; Lisa Willis and Nikki Blue blazed that trail before her. And her number of choice is far from illustrative, or so we hope; #2 has a star-crossed history, from the misuse of Shay Doron to the warped and twisted intensity of Candice Wiggins to the travails of Adut Bulgak. No, that's not Kennedy's legacy either. We find her precedents on the waiver wire, in long trails of transaction history. We find her in Reshanda Gray pulling down a contested rebound, in Avery Warley-Talbert boxing out a taller opponent, in La'Keshia Frett sending back a shot with extreme prejudice, in the experience of Barbara Farris leading from the bench. We find Kennedy's place within Liberty history in a litany of places, in a suitcase, in a passport stamp.

What do you say of a player you've hardly seen? How do I draw from the past to illustrate Marquesha Davis's present? I can't turn to the surface-level similarities, not when #1 has a history shorter and scanter than almost any number not in the Ring of Honor thanks to Maddie wearing it for so long, not when the only other Rebel we've had was of the Nevadan variety. Among the youngest of our players, we look not to the future, but to the concept of the future, to everything we've ever hoped for our first-round picks, whether they soared like Shameka Christon, or were cruelly grounded like AD Durr, or were potential we never developed like Toni Young. In that slow Southern drawl, there's echoes too: Shameka again, another daughter of the Gemstone State; Tupelo's own Tamika Whitmore; so many others who called the Southeast home. 

We got to see flashes of what Ivana Dojkić showed more consistently elsewhere. Is it fair to try and fit her into place based solely on those? Two simple ties anchor her to Liberty history: the second #18, following Lorela Cubaj; the second Croatian, following Korie Hlede. I keep wanting to look deeper. Surely there's a better match. If the bigger picture doesn't work, snapshots will: the 14-point win against Chicago, where we needed every one of her 12 points and her single steal. "Next man up": everyone has their day, like Stefanie Dolson going completely unconscious from three, like Erin Thorn and the two halfcourt heaves, like Bethany Donaphin and the jump shot. It's a good day when you don't need that kind of day, but there's something to be said for those who stay ready. 

A lot of Liberty fans were politely bemused during the championship celebrations when Rebekah Gardner was brought out on stage with the rest of the team, despite never spending a second on the active roster. But they also serve who stand and wait, or so Milton wrote. (John, not DeLisha.) There's Kamiko Williams in the stands with her crutches; there's Carolyn Jones-Young, working her way back through an ACL tear, more known in Liberty history for who she wasn't than what she ever did; there's Simone Edwards on the developmental roster, watching, learning, waiting. Bek had to do a lot of waiting, too, waiting and working overseas for most of her prime until she finally got a chance to play in the US at 31. So many of the originals can relate to that; after all, in 1997, they were all rookies, even 31-year-olds like Trena Trice and Teresa Weatherspoon. And it's almost become a recurring joke how often players who share her name, albeit in a more familiar spelling, have found their way to New York: Rebecca Richman in the draft, Rebecca Allen through international free agency, Rebecca Hammon as a legendarily undrafted rookie (even if she does persist in going by Becky)... and we end where we began, the last to the first: Rebecca Lobo, one of the first players to put faith in the WNBA, one of the first to wear Lady Liberty's torch over her heart. 

So roll the tape. And then look between the frames. Between Kym and Nyara posting up, you might catch a glimpse of Jessica Davenport. Between Spoon's braids and Jaylyn's locks flying in the air, you might see Loree Moore's braids whip around. Off camera, between Sloot's pass and Crystal's finish, maybe Kara Braxton's screening off a defender. Pan instead of cut. Pull the camera back. 

History can be a chain if we let it be, if we let six years and one year define all twenty-seven. Looking too far to the past risks overlooking the moments in the middle, the ones that have shaped this team as much as any others. The zenith at Barclays would not be as high without the nadir of Westchester; the championship would not be as sublime without the ridiculousness of Radio City; the homecoming to Brooklyn would never have felt so sweet without the years in Newark. This title belongs, first and foremost, to the players who earned it on the floor, and then to those they choose to share it with. But we can't say that only the trailblazers matter. It's a disservice to the players who were never given the chance to enjoy the bright lights to leave them in the shadows. We all we got/we all we need means all.