The finality first hit me on the way home from the Liberty bus trip in August.
I already knew that I hadn't been to Mohegan for the last time.
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The finality first hit me on the way home from the Liberty bus trip in August.
I already knew that I hadn't been to Mohegan for the last time. We bought our tickets as soon as we saw the schedule and knew that it would be Connecticut's final regular-season game. We didn’t know in April what the future held. We didn't know that, through some combination of bad luck, injury, incompetence, intent, or what have you, the Sun would not have a postseason- that September 24th would be the final Sun game, period.
But it hit me that this would be the last time I'd ever ride a bus back from a Sun game at Mohegan. Our plans for September involved Amtrak. 23 seasons of bus rides had all come down to one last trip: the last time I'd be squirming in a scratchy cushioned seat, trying to find a way for feet and knees and back to all be comfortable at the same time; the last time that taking the seat in the back meant that the dry air of the bus would come with the dueling odors of bathroom cleaner and the things bathroom cleaner is used on; the last time the door would flap open and shut on the bumps in the road, and whoever had the aisle seat would have to close it; the last time I would see the glittering towers of Mohegan Sun rise out of the forest along the Thames River, the last time I would lean my head against that model of window at that particular angle and watch the greenery of Connecticut go by in a blur as we whizzed up and down I-95 and 395, or see the sunset golden over one of the highway bridges crossing one of the many rivers.
23 years. 16 years of waiting on street corners, first in Manhattan's Chinatown, then in Flushing, finding the tour guide and hoping that there were enough tickets left for the bus we needed, picking up our vouchers, throwing some free play on the Wheel of Fortune or the pai gow tiles, then taking advantage of the food voucher for lunch or dinner. $13 up, $2 back, and for that you got $20, then $25, of free food. That was enough for a tostada bowl, a drink and a couple of sweets for the road at Geno's Fast Break, before it closed, or a burger, a shake, and maybe a side at Bobby's Burger Palace after that. We usually grabbed a candy bar or something to give to the "tour guide" who gave the bus company a veneer of respectability, whose job it was to wrangle unruly and sometimes drunken gamblers so that the bus could leave on time with the right number of people on board.
Sometimes, especially but not always after the pandemic, it was a bus chartered by the Liberty. The earliest ones left from near MSG or Grand Central, when we were still at MSG; we got sandwiches from Lenwich (I got food poisoning once) with chips or crackers and bottles of apple juice. There was an epic weekend where Kym Hampton, Sue Wicks, and Ashley Battle rode up with us; we stayed overnight at Foxwoods (our jersey sponsor at the time), got served Liberty-themed breakfast, ogled Ashley's UConn championship rings, and then descended on Mohegan en masse.
After the pandemic, after the sale, when Connecticut finally had to schedule us on a weekend, the buses would leave from Barclays. And it was buses. I still remember getting to Barclays half an hour before the recommended arrival time and the wonder in my chest when the third bus lined up. The team commissioned bagels for the trip, dyed in team colors. Find a Liberty at Sun game that took place on a weekend, and you'll almost certainly hear us in the background. You'll see seafoam in the stands. You won't see us doing the Ellie Wave and whirling our towels, because our seats were always in the darkest recesses of the upper deck, but we were there.
Connecticut, in their glory days, reciprocated. I remember seeing the big red Dattco buses lined up outside and knowing that we'd be hearing it from a swathe of fans in orange or red.
And now it's over. Completely over and done. 27 years of franchise history consigned to the shadow realm so a corrupt billionaire can claim to reanimate the legacy of a team that died of neglect and starvation 17 years ago. And yes, I said 27, because I will not forget that the Connecticut Sun were once the Orlando Miracle, before the Mohegan tribe stepped up where NBA owners turned their backs and bought a franchise to save it from extinction, thus becoming the first independent ownership group in WNBA history.
Think of the risk that was. Two teams had folded due to their NBA partners not wanting to operate a WNBA franchise. Portland finally got the WNBA back in 2026. Miami got Unrivaled in 2024, and that's as close as Miami's gotten to the league since. Another team moved in the chaos, the Utah Starzz to San Antonio under the auspices of the Spurs. They're in Las Vegas now, and the Aces know their history like no other franchise does.
The Connecticut Sun were something different, something new to the league: independently owned, located outside of an NBA market, trying to provide proof that a team could thrive solely based on how much people wanted to see women's basketball, that a WNBA team could succeed on its own merits.
And it worked.
There's been an influx of new fans in the last few years, the ones who've only seen Uncasville set in contrast to the glitter of Las Vegas, the glory of Ballhalla, the glamour of Barclays, the hordes that follow Clark or Bueckers, the massive crowds across the league, the games moved to larger arenas to accommodate the increased fan bases. They see the small town and the mid-size arena and the lack of amenities, and it's true that the Sun were lacking in the things that have become the new standard.
But we do not get to that point without the Mohegan tribe and the Connecticut Sun. We don't see a franchise under independent control in Chicago or Atlanta without Connecticut proving that, in the 2000s, the diffident support and haphazard resource apportionment of an NBA brother team were not a necessity. We don't see ownership groups like Force 10 saving the Storm when the Sonics were hustled away to Oklahoma City. Tulsa was a disaster, but the Shock franchise survived and has finally taken flight in Dallas. How much of this happens without the proof of concept that Connecticut provided?
When the league stumbled, the tribe was there to pick up the slack. Why do you think so many All-Star events took place there, before you had franchises vying for All-Star festivities? Have we forgotten the drafts they hosted, when the event outgrew a soundstage in Secaucus? They put their money where their mouth was. We do not get to this place where the Sun's facilities aren't good enough without going through the stretch where that franchise set the standard.
They didn't always pack the house. Sometimes it's unrealistic to bring your kids to the casino on a weeknight, you know? It's hard to fight the traffic for an odd start time. And the thing is, the Sun weren't just Connecticut's team, they were New England's team. You had season ticket holders from as far up as Maine. Those people would rather set their own hair on fire than root for a team from New York, no matter who tries to convince them, even if that's now the closest WNBA team. I don't know if that's a bridge that can be rebuilt any time in the near future. Not with the way the deal went down.
Because that's the thing I circle back to, over and over again: Uncasville might have had to lose their team, but there was no good, legitimate reason for New England to lose their team when there were bids in Hartford and Boston that could have worked. There were flaws- I'm not stupid enough to deny that- but better a flawed plan that could be adjusted with time than a complete abandonment of the market, for the sake of appeasing a potential owner by giving him a ready-built team with no expansion fee at a bargain price. These fans were betrayed for greed, and I don't know if they'll forgive that easily or soon.
But that's a rage that's been rehashed time and time again in the last few months, when it became clear that no option that left the Sun in New England was a permissible option. We've been there before, we'll be there again. I don't want to remember that right now. I want to remember the Connecticut Sun, to close my eyes and see the soft orange walls of the lower deck and the black of the upper deck and the distant vista of the small suites up top that held pieces of the tribal history. I want to be pressed up against that tall fencing along section 13, Sharpie in hand, cards and roster clipped tightly onto a clipboard, keeping my footing on the metal bleachers as I collected autographs, giving extra cards to kids (and on one memorable occasion at All-Star, Cheryl Ford's mom). I want to be weaving my way around the concourse, following the ribbon-like design in the tan floor like a kid jumping over cracks in the sidewalk, taking in the scents of pizza and pretzels, reading the placards at the Connecticut Boxing Hall of Fame, dodging the writhing mass of chaos that was the merch stand- no, I want to go back further, to when the merchandise stand was larger and to the magical weekend of the yard sale when we bought Aliyyah Handford's jersey and eventually gave it back to her, when we saw but didn't recognize Shenneika Smith's in time.
And now I'm going to digress, because we spent two seasons with a Sun partial plan while the Liberty were stuck in That Dump in Westchester, and to say that Lindsey was the fourth-best ticket rep I've ever had is the equivalent of being named All-WNBA Second Team, given that two of the three ahead of her went on to much, much bigger things. Lindsey went over and beyond the call of duty multiple times for the sake of low-tier partial plan holders, was great at communicating, and was a joy to work with. I've had worse and less competent reps with a full plan in New York. Shoutout to you, queen, you were fantastic and I hope you've gone on to bigger and better things. Without her, Shenneika doesn't get her jersey back.
But let's go back even further, to where we should have started. Let's go back to the beginning. Let's go back to random endcourt folding chairs earned with swipes at penny slot machines. Let's go back to the red and yellow jerseys. Let's go back to Nykesha Sales's Afro puffs that made her look like Sailor Moon. Let's go back to Katie Douglas, and to Brooke Wyckoff so often mistaken for her. Let's go back to Pee-Wee Johnson and Debbie Black making life hell for opposing guards. Let's go back to Lindsay Whalen and her ability to find the right person in the right place at the right time, which sounds trite, but sometimes you just need simplicity.
Let's go back to Erin Phillips and her blonde mop-top and her infinite willingness to go for her opponent's ankles, to sacrifice her body at the slightest excuse. Let's go back to Le'Coe Willingham's elaborate curls and her physicality in the paint, one of the last of the small power forwards, or perhaps the template for what Naz Hillmon would later become. Let's go back to the hustle of Kerri Gardin in the paint and the criminally underrated career of Allison Hightower. Let's go back to Taj McWilliams-Franklin and Asjha Jones anchoring the paint- I don't know what it is, but Aaliyah Edwards reminds me so much of Asjha that it almost hurts. Let's go back to Kelly Faris's sharp edges and the terrifying loyalty she drew from UConn fans. Let's go back to when Chiney Ogwumike still had knees instead of a microphone and was a powerhouse down low. Let's go back to Renee Montgomery's brilliant smile and the trade that changed the world.
Let's go back to the MVP, Tina Charles, so cool and so inherently herself that in an era of nicknames and initialisms, she's always just been Tina Charles. It's insane to think how short her time was there, and how much of an impact she had in that time, and how even in her departure, she built the foundation for the team's next era.
Let's go back to Alyssa Thomas, the Engine who became sui generis with the Sun, strength and finesse wrapped up in a single labrum-free package. Let's go back to Jonquel Jones, who won everything but a championship with the Sun, becoming a threat inside and out. Let's go back to Courtney Williams being an absolute menace on offense. Let's go back to DiJonai Carrington with the mini-mic driving her teammates crazy. Let's go back to Natisha Hiedeman's motor and that crown of golden curls speeding down the court. Let's go back to Banham bombs, both before the game and during the game. Let's go back to Shekinna Stricklen from deep.
Let's go further back, because the more I think, the more I remember. Let's go back to Margo Dydek of blessed memory, so tall and so sweet, swatting shots like it was nothing. Let's go back to Laura Summerton's broad shoulders. Let's go back to everything that could have been for Danielle McCray if she hadn't gotten hurt. Let's go back, let's go back, let's go back.
See it with me: Mike Thibault stalking the sidelines in his suit, Curt Miller's frustration on the bench, the angular figure of Anne Donovan blocking people's view, Stephanie White and her leather jackets. Blaze, before they slimmed him down and then slimmed him down again, shimmying his hips like a hula hoop, running around with the t-shirt launcher, bright orange and sunshine yellow in his various Sun jerseys. The evolution of the t-shirt gun, from the barebones model that we used to call Eric's high school science project to a proper Maude Flanders killer with full Sun branding on the cylinder. Solar Power, Shine Squad, whatever you want to call the dance team, on the court shaking what they got.
See it with me. Hear it with me. I still associate "Come Down" with Courtney Williams, "The Drum" with Alyssa Thomas. Feel the fire; smell the smoke.
Hear it with me, booming from the PA on a basket: the quiet drawn out A to start Asjha Jones, the singsong of Margo Dydek, the key change from low to high on Lindsay Whalen, the trill of the Ls in Courtney Williams, the rounding of the Os in Jonquel Jones, the rumble in Taj McWilliams-Franklin's last name, the way Katie turned into KT for Katie Douglas, the growl of all the Rs for Kerri Gardin.
Hit the three-clap with me: Let's! Go! Sun! Let's! Go! Sun!, never a break, just continuous sound. Come back the other way, and there's only one beat between your DE-FENSE repetitions; mess that up and you'll be off the beat the whole time. Clap along when they pull out the "Car Wash" opening riff, but be ready for the visiting fans to go off script if it's a Liberty game.
In video clips, in photographs, in newspaper articles, in blog entries, in fading memories, the Sun are always playing: Jasmine Thomas or Lindsay Whalen or Renee Montgomery or Leïla Lacan orchestrating the offense, Shekinna Stricklen or Marina Mabrey or Brooke Wyckoff or Charlisse Leger-Walker lining up a three, Courtney Williams or Tan White or Asjha Jones or Kennedy Burke pulling up for the midrange jumper, Chiney Ogwumike or Taj McWilliams-Franklin or Brionna Jones or Aaliyah Edwards fighting for the rebound, Katie Douglas or Allison Hightower or Natisha Hiedeman or Saniya Rivers blowing up the passing lanes, Margo Dydek or Tina Charles or Jonquel Jones or Brittney Griner swatting shots down low, Kelly Faris or Kalana Greene or Ketia Swanier or Olivia Nelson-Ododa checking in to the roar of the UConn faithful.
Memory fades with time, or with effort in some cases. People will call some of these players Houston Comets and think them the heirs to that legacy. The greatest of those who once wore Sun or Connecticut across their chests will see their glory celebrated in Phoenix, or New York, or Minnesota. Future fans will see the logo in the background of old highlights and not recognize it. Maybe someday there will be another franchise in New England, whether it be Hartford or Boston or elsewhere in the region. Maybe they'll pick up the history of the last great bridesmaids; maybe they'll even finish the job. Or maybe they'll nod to that history but not reclaim it fully.
But the Northeast remembers. Always. Forever.
Let's go Sun.
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