Culture
As Team USA women go for eighth-straight gold, one question mark lurks
PARIS — From a small, fluorescent lit gym just north of Paris, Team USA coach Cheryl Reeve was asked about her team’s biggest advantage in the Olympics.
Depth, she paused. No, size.
“1A, 1B,” she decided.
Reeve isn’t wrong. With three players taller than 6-4 and a bevy of guards in the 6-foot range, Team USA will have a height and length advantage, one through five, on nearly every opponent that takes the floor during these Olympic Games. And when it comes to depth, though other countries have continued to build talented rosters over the years, which might be able to compete well for an extended time with the States’ starting five, the real gut punch for opponents comes when Reeve rolls out her backups and rotational players, for whom no opponents’ six through 10 can hold pace. It must feel something like, Oh, you thought those five WNBA All-Stars were tough to guard? Well, how about you try five more? And then, for good measure, another two?
There’s also the fact the Americans have the two best players in the world, A’ja Wilson and Breanna Stewart, the most experienced Olympian, Diana Taurasi, and four members of the two-time defending WNBA champion Las Vegas Aces (including Wilson).
So, yes, per usual, Team USA has more than a few advantages in these Olympic Games even before mentioning the legacy this team carries into these games.
Because there’s no dynasty as dominant in sports now as the U.S. women in international basketball. For seven consecutive Olympics, the women have brought home the gold, building the expectation (and, assumption) with each consecutive win.
Team USA hasn’t lost a single Olympic game (including pool play) since the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona, Spain. The closest game in Olympic play since those 1996 Games — the start of the gold medal streak — was a 4-point win over Russia in 2004, but those close games are rare. Just three times in the last seven Olympics have opponents kept their losses to single digits.
So, to say that this Team USA women’s basketball team doesn’t know anything except Olympic gold medals isn’t just a figure of speech. For the majority of this roster, it’s factually true. Just three players on the roster were alive the last time a Team USA women’s team lost an Olympic game — Aug. 5, 1992 (and, Alyssa Thomas was barely 4 months old at the time).
And yet, with all those advantages — both historically and in this specific moment — Reeve is hyperaware of the drawbacks that come with a country this full of women’s basketball talent.
Because of the depth Team USA has in its player pool, and not just with the final 12 players who made the Olympic roster, the personnel rotates more significantly throughout the four-year cycles between Olympics than in other countries. When the team’s roster was announced in June, the full 12 had never actually been in a camp together before. And when they took the floor in the All-Star Game earlier this month, the 12 had only had two practices with the full complement of players. That kind of truncated prep time affects chemistry (which was quite clear during their loss to the WNBA All-Stars).
“Talent is not going to be the reason why we win,” Cheryl Reeve says of Team USA. “It’s going to be the chemistry of our talent.” (Gregory Shamus / Getty Images)
But Reeve knew that would be one of the hardest challenges of this team. In her first on-floor appearance as Team USA’s coach in 2022, Reeve addressed the obvious with her team. They would play teams who knew one another better, who had played together more, who had practiced together more, but they could never use that as an excuse for their not finding a way to play well together.
“Talent is not going to be the reason why we win,” Reeve said. “It’s going to be the chemistry of our talent. And we have to work hard at that and focus on that.”
Between the All-Star Game and Team USA’s friendly against Germany last week, the group made strides. Defensively (Reeve’s calling card), the group looked more together. Reeve, who also coaches the Minnesota Lynx, leaned on her WNBA experience from this season, when the Lynx, returning just five players, managed to jell well enough during the league’s two-week preseason to put together one of the most impressive first halves to the WNBA season with a win in the league-wide Commissioner’s Cup in June.
Team USA knows that in its own pool — Japan, Belgium and Germany — the players on those teams have gotten more reps together as teams, not just in this last Olympic cycle but also with some cores playing together for many, many years. But with the talent, depth and every other advantage Team USA has going its way, the team hopes to use every minute on the floor together to accelerate its jelling and allow its advantages to overshadow whatever drawbacks might exist from its lack of time together.
Because 13 days from Team USA’s opener against Japan on Monday, they plan to be on the podium with the program’s eighth consecutive gold medal, holding up the expectation that the seven teams ahead of them made perfectly clear.
Reeve has made sure this group tries to separate the legacy of Team USA’s 55 consecutive Olympic wins from what this group hopes to do over the next two weeks, but make no mistake about it: Just as this program has over the last three decades, the goal and the expectation is one and the same. It’s gold, and nothing less. Big wins, and nothing less. It’s the Team USA way, and nothing less.
(Top illustration: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic; Juan Ocampo / NBAE / Getty Images; Ryan Stetz / NBAE / Getty Images)
Where do you turn when you need advice? A chatbot? A life coach? A wise and trusted friend?
How about a poet? Poets may not be famous for making the best life choices, but because they subject the mess of human existence to the discipline of language, they can be as helpful as any therapist or mentor.
Good poets know the rules and when to break them, which is something they can teach the rest of us.
To wit:
Giving advice is a peculiar literary undertaking. It flourishes in certain popular genres — graduation speeches, newspaper columns, country and western songs and poems like this one — but what, in these contexts, is it really for?
I’m thinking of situations when you don’t urgently need help but nonetheless enjoy reading answers to questions you may not have thought to ask. What interests you isn’t the content of the advice — you could get all the life hacks you want from A.I. — so much as the voice of the person dispensing it.
Wendy Cope is an English poet, born in 1945, who has been a fixture of her country’s literary scene since the 1980s. More recently, her short, buoyant poem “The Orange” has been widely memed online, bringing her to the attention of new readers beyond Britain.
Cope favors rhyme, meter, brisk jokes and tart aperçus. She addresses romance, friendship and the petty absurdities of modern life with disarming good humor. The last line of “The Orange” is “I love you. I’m glad I exist.” Somehow she makes it the opposite of cringe.
This isn’t the kind of poetry you would describe as “confessional.” And yet …
Question 1/7
Stop, if the car is going “clunk”
Or if the sun has made you blind.
Don’t answer e–mails when you’re drunk.
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.Want to learn this poem by heart? We’ll help.
Fill in the missing words below. You can always refer to the reading by A.O. Scott and full
text above.Let’s start with the first stanza.
A strong sense of place can deeply influence a story, and in some cases, the setting can even feel like a character itself. This week’s literary geography quiz highlights places where authors were born (or lived) that later became locations in their books. To play, just make your selection in the multiple-choice list and the correct answer will be revealed. At the end of the quiz, you’ll find links to the works if you’d like to do further reading.
AMERICA, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation’s Anniversaries, by Eddie S. Glaude Jr.
For those of us in the national memory-keeping business, anniversaries hold near-totemic power. Satisfyingly round units of time, ideally bearing fancy, Latin-derived names, serve as the overburdened pegs on which to hang think pieces and museum exhibits, revisionist documentaries and maudlin public ceremonies. The arbitrary nature of such occasions is precisely what gives them their charge, inviting us to set aside complacency and submit to a comprehensive check-in.
In his new book, “America, U.S.A.,” Eddie S. Glaude Jr. presents an intriguing variation on the genre, seeing the country’s 250th birthday as an anniversary of anniversaries: 50 years since the malaise-ridden, schlock-heavy Bicentennial. A century since the subdued Prohibition-era Sesquicentennial. A century and a half since telegraphed reports of George Armstrong Custer’s defeat by the Lakota and Cheyenne at Little Bighorn rudely interrupted the Gilded Age Republic’s 100th birthday party.
If an anniversary offers a snapshot of a moment, the core of Glaude’s book is an old-timey photo album, a collection of notable episodes from earlier national reckonings, long-ago glances in the mirror. An estimable scholar of Black history, politics and religion at Princeton — best known for “Begin Again,” his 2020 meditation on James Baldwin’s relevance for our times — Glaude focuses, as his subtitle puts it, on “how race shadows the nation’s anniversaries.”
Such celebrations, he contends, have never really been the moments for honest self-reflection they are often advertised to be. Instead, the nation usually shatters the mirror, refusing to accept what it prefers not to see. “American anniversaries are often moments to turn a blind eye to the evils of the past and the present,” Glaude writes, “to suppress the fact of America’s divided soul.”
It’s a clever concept, and, needless to say, perfectly timed. Last year, Glaude notes, the Trump administration executed a hostile takeover of the government’s studiously bipartisan 250th anniversary planning. It is now preparing a program that is certain to conceal more than it reveals about the country ostensibly being celebrated.
Glaude, in no mood for celebration, argues that such omissions and evasions also defined commemorations in the past. In 1875, Frederick Douglass predicted “one grand Centennial hosannah of peace and good will to all the white race of this country.” He was right: The nation reached 100 years old at a crucial moment in the post-Civil War fight over racial equality, with white Northerners ready to give up on Southern Reconstruction. The occasion would help the once-warring sections to reunite around a shared commitment to white supremacy. On May 10, 1876, at the opening of the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia, the police tried to bar Douglass from the grandstand, until a white politician vouched for him.
The 150th anniversary came soon after a resurgent Ku Klux Klan successfully pushed for a restrictive immigration law aimed at keeping America a “Nordic” nation. At the lavishly funded, lightly attended celebrations in Philadelphia, Black veterans of World War I were excluded from marching in the opening parade. A writer with The Associated Negro Press wondered “what was in the breast of those black men who fought to make America safe for Democracy and on Monday stood on the sidelines, forgotten, as the Nordic strode by in all his vain pride.”
By 1976, when the nation marked its Bicentennial, the violence of the ’60s had destroyed any semblance of consensus. Vietnam and Watergate had eroded trust in the government. The commission initially tasked with organizing the anniversary was disbanded amid reports of corruption. Corporations filled the vacuum, Glaude explains, with “star-spangled whoopee cushions; patriotic toilet seats; Liberty hamburgers; red, white and blue beer cans.” The author, around 8 years old at the time, dimly remembers donning a pair of tricolor trousers.
A half-century later, Glaude is refreshingly honest about the depths of his despair. “I do not love America, and never have, especially now,” he writes in one of the more startling opening sentences I’ve read in some time. He dismisses this year’s Semiquincentennial as reaching back “to a storybook America that requires either the banishment of Black people from view or the reduction of our role in the country’s history, so as to affirm America’s ongoing quest to be a more perfect union.”
Undoubtedly true. But Trump doesn’t own the country, at least not yet, nor the 250th anniversary of one of the most radically liberatory and confusingly contradictory events in world history — an inspiration, as Glaude shows, even to critical observers of the American experiment, like Douglass. Far from the revanchist MAGA-palooza in Washington, I suspect this summer’s unasked-for invitation to national soul-searching may surprise us yet.
Despite his despair, Glaude concludes that “the past still offers resources for us to freedom-dream.” So, too, does this book.
AMERICA, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation’s Anniversaries | By Eddie S. Glaude Jr. | Crown | 270 pp. | $31
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