Culture
Why March Madness belongs to the women: Star players, big ratings make it tourney to watch
There’s always a sign.
Last spring, I first noticed something special was happening when I couldn’t walk half a block in Dallas without running into large packs of Iowa or South Carolina fans. There were also my guy friends back home who, for the first time, were planning their weekend around the women’s NCAA Tournament games instead of the men’s. And all the sports talk radio channels were discussing Caitlin Clark and Angel Reese. My spidey senses were tingling.
I could feel it in my bones that the sport was primed for a breakthrough moment, though I couldn’t have imagined that nearly 10 million people would tune in for the Iowa-LSU national title game, shattering the previous record for viewership of a women’s basketball game. But I could tell that the barrier of apathy had been broken; these women, that late-game taunting, the sport itself — it’d all be talked about for days and weeks and months to come.
I have the same feeling right now.
Another giant leap is coming for a sport that ought to be growing accustomed to these gains. As we head into March Madness, it is the women’s side of the tournament that is taking center stage. It is the women’s stars who shine the brightest. It is the women’s game with the most intriguing storylines.
And … that’s not even debatable!
“We’ve been on a steady incline,” USC coach Lindsay Gottlieb said during my SiriusXM show Sunday night. “You combine the star power in our game, the fact that you have some of these established stars that fans have really built a relationship with like Caitlin Clark, Angel Reese, Cameron Brink — and then you add in this incredibly dynamic freshman class.
“What we’re seeing is that women’s basketball is a really marketable entity. People love it. We’re in a space where there’s an incredible amount of excitement around it. … It’s something that’s, really, a movement.”
We’ve seen those insanely long lines of fans waiting to get into arenas — any arena — to see Clark play. More than 3 million people watched Clark’s Hawkeyes beat Nebraska in overtime in the Big Ten championship game on CBS, with the audience peaking at 4.45 million (!) in overtime. Clark is so ubiquitous that she was discussed multiple times during this year’s NBA All-Star Weekend’s broadcast … while her State Farm commercials aired during its breaks.
GO DEEPER
Like Steph and Jimmer before her, Caitlin Clark is a ‘once in a lifetime’ experience
ESPN recently announced that this was its most-watched women’s college basketball regular season in more than 15 years, its viewership up 37 percent on ESPN platforms from last season. Its SEC championship last Sunday between LSU and South Carolina drew almost 2 million viewers, and the Pac-12 title match on the same day between USC and Stanford — the Trojans a No. 1 seed and the Cardinal a No. 2 seed in the upcoming tournament — drew more 1.4 million viewers, up 461 percent from last season’s championship. Those three title games out-rated three NBA weekend games.
With more eyeballs comes increased familiarity for fans, both new and old. Now, they know the stars by first name only. Caitlin. Angel. Paige. JuJu. Cam. Hannah.
Quick! Walk into your neighborhood sports bar and ask someone to name five men’s basketball players playing this week. Can they do it? I’m not sure I’d bet a beer on that.
Recently on his podcast, KG Certified, Kevin Garnett made the same point. “This is the first time watching college basketball where I know more girls than guys,” he said.”This is the first time we’ve got women’s basketball ahead of men’s basketball. Women’s college basketball is … electric. It is blowing the guy’s game out of the water.”
Of course, that won’t matter much when we sit on our couches or bar stools for 14 straight hours on Thursday and 14 straight hours on Friday. We’ll watch the men’s games just the same, falling in love with Cinderellas even though they bust our brackets. We’ll agonize over a coach’s horrendous late-game clock management. And we’ll keep watching the men because theirs has long been the best postseason in sports.
But parity on the women’s side has changed the calculus a bit. So has the transient nature of men’s college basketball; one-and-dones coupled with the transfer portal has made it harder than ever for players to become household names across the sport nationally. And so many of the men’s biggest stars — its Hall of Fame coaches — have retired and left the sport without its weightiness.
And that has opened a door for the women’s game to run through. This is the sport with players who stay three or four years and grow in front of our eyes. This is the sport with its Hall of Fame coaches still leading the way — many themselves recognized on a first-name basis: Dawn, Geno, Tara, Kim — even as parity increases and college athletics evolves under their feet.
So, this week, I’ll be most interested in Clark’s last tournament run and whether she can will the Hawkeyes to another Final Four. I’ll want to see JuJu Watkins, the freshman phenom who has revitalized USC’s women’s program, on the big stage for the first time. I’ll want to pretend I have half of the energy in my daily life that Notre Dame’s Hannah Hidalgo does on defense in just one game. I’ll be on pins and needles waiting to see if South Carolina can complete a perfect season after falling just short a year ago.
There will undoubtedly be the usual Neanderthal takes, men who still try to claim that “nobody” watches women’s basketball despite all of the evidence to the contrary. Those opinions now get shouted down by the dads who bond with their daughters by taking them to games and the moms of little boys who wear Clark jerseys and don’t think there’s anything strange about idolizing a female athlete. Those men can cling to their silly little outdated punchlines that make no sense anymore, while we watch compelling basketball and join this rocket ship as it rises.
“Eyes were opened last year, and we just fed off of that momentum, and it didn’t ever stop,” Notre Dame coach Niele Ivey told me Sunday. “Great teams, great players — the women’s game is just hot.”
(Illustration: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic; Photos of Angel Reese, Caitlin Clark, Hannah Hidalgo: Eakin Howard / Adam Bettcher / Icon Sportswire, Joseph Weiser / Icon Sportswire)
Culture
Book Review: ‘Ghost Town,’ by Tom Perrotta
GHOST TOWN, by Tom Perrotta
Upon finishing Tom Perrotta’s new novel, “Ghost Town,” I found myself agreeably haunted by the corpulent specter of Harold Bloom: the late, great literary critic who called the Harry Potter books “rubbish only good for the dustbin where they will certainly wind up in a generation or so,” and Stephen King “immensely inadequate” and “a writer of penny dreadfuls.”
In “Ghost Town,” a successful author named Jay Perry, a minor-league version of the successful author Perrotta, is fretting about his legacy. He has suffered from a crude version of what Bloom called “the anxiety of influence,” maybe even with regard to … Stephen King.
A graduate of Princeton and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop (as Perrotta is of Yale and Syracuse), Perry had a 15-year run as a “literary writer,” with diminishing returns. His oeuvre includes a short-story collection featuring a Pennywise-like clown who dies during a kindergartner’s birthday party while one dad is making out with a mom ghost.
Perry promised his wife that his next book would be commercial, and pounded out a supernatural noir called “Ghost Teacher.” His agent persuaded him to make the teacher a “guiding spirit” for underdog students, and a successful young-adult series and animated TV show were born.
But Perry, now a financially secure empty nester with an infinity pool in the Hollywood Hills — if not quite the clout of Perrotta, whose sexy screen adaptations include “Election,” “Little Children” and “The Leftovers” (reviewed by King in the Times Book Review) — has grown melancholy and reflective. What story does he have left to tell?
Glancingly confronting themes of artistic integrity and abandonment, including self-abandonment, and unfolding mostly in flashbacks to the early 1970s, “Ghost Town” is a formulaic coming-of-age tale swirled in soft-serve spook.
Perry grew up Jimmy Perrini in Creamwood, N.J., fictional but recognizable Perrotta country (he’s from Garwood) that he’s avoided in adult life. When the mayor invites him back to a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new municipal building, he is prompted, after many years of burying the dark aspects of his past, to exhume them. The result is less penny dreadful than mild freaky-deaky. Your spine will not be chilled, nor even remotely cooled.
Whoever options “Ghost Town” will want to check if the set decorator and costume designer from Cameron Crowe’s “Almost Famous” are available. The novel is stocked with lemon shampoo; coconut suntan oil with low protection factor; Cap’n Crunch; a velour recliner and lava lamp. Characters wear bell bottoms or terry cloth gym shorts; they drive Camaros and Darts; they dodge the draft and toke up. The soundtrack to their young lives includes the Allman Brothers’ “Eat a Peach” on eight-track tape, and “Kung Fu Fighting” blaring from WABC on a portable radio.
Jimmy had a “normal” nuclear family that fissured fast. We barely get acquainted with his mother before she dies of cancer while he’s on the baseball field. From then on his older sister and their father, a union welder and volunteer firefighter, disappear into their own lives. (Besides grieving, Mr. Perrini is busy fabricating ductwork for a new A.&P.) The adults in this book are chalk outlines. Unpleasant topics — estrangement, architectural eyesores, drinking problems — are whispered in italics.
Jimmy bonds with Olivia, a smart older teen who lost her father and baby brother in a car accident. Trying to reach their dead parents using a Ouija board, they connect with a mysterious apparition identifying himself as Uncle Bob.
There’s a possibly creepy priest who tries to console Jimmy with a trip to the beach, a joyriding bad influence named Eddie and a clunky subplot about disruption to the racial homogeneity of Creamwood, whose on-the-nose name sounds like a brand stocked in that A.&P. frozen dessert aisle.
I have John Updike on the brain — A.&P.! — but then I always have Updike (dismissed by Bloom as “a minor novelist with a major style,” by the way) on the brain. Still, with Perrotta regularly anointed the 21st century’s foremost chronicler of adulterous suburbia, the eeriest thing about “Ghost Town” may be how its fiery denouement echoes 1971’s “Rabbit Redux.”
Does “Ghost Town” stink like the Oscar the Grouch garbage cans in downtown Creamwood? Nah. It has the practiced Perrotta polish; an easy shrug about how it will be received or remembered.
“That’s the thing about writing,” Perry tells a sparse crowd at the library where, “as the only famous writer our town has ever produced!,” per the mayor, he’s been invited to give a reading. “It’s all a big mystery. You don’t know where your ideas come from, you don’t know how to get them onto the page, and you have no idea how the world’s going to react to them. You’ve got to learn to be comfortable with the not knowing, or at least learn to live with it.”
GHOST TOWN | By Tom Perrotta | Scribner | 288 pp. | $28
Culture
Book Review: ‘If This Be Magic,’ by Daniel Hahn
But only in Hahn’s book could I have compared those two translations to understand this, which is symptomatic of the very fullness of the book. Hahn leaves no stone unturned, informing us that the languages quoted in the book include “Arabic, Azeri, Bulgarian, Cape Verdean Creole, Danish, French, Hebrew, Hungarian, isiXhosa, Italian, Japanese, Kurdish, Latin, te reo Māori, Portuguese, Russian, Swahili, Thai, Turkish and Yiddish.” “Hold me back!” say I, who harbors things like an LP from the 1960s of “Kiss Me, Kate” sung in German and an Estonian translation of the novel “Ragtime.” I admire Hahn’s intent.
But there can be no one-size-fits-all guide to translating Shakespeare, as each language presents its own challenges to the endeavor. This means that the book is essentially a tourist’s guide to the array of choices translators happen to have made here, there and everywhere. On your left is how they did this passage in Turkish, up straight ahead is how this came out in Mandarin.
The impossibility of a real through line ultimately means that the book is a little too, well, generous. It could lose a good 100 pages of its 400 and remain the fine thing that it is. Also, I am always in favor of nonfiction writers engaging in a chatty tone, but for some readers, Hahn will seem to overdo it in spots. To him, “Richard III” is one of the “uncliest” of the plays, and the final words of the book, on the difficulties he encountered in finding translated Shakespeare passages as his chapter titles, are “But it is annoying. …”
But in the end, the book is about how Shakespeare comes off not only to English speakers, but to the whole world. The book is a kind of master class in translation, a chronicle of the author’s healthy obsession, and a great way to catch up with Shakespeare’s work. We should know how people experience Shakespeare worldwide if, as Harold Bloom taught us, his work was “the invention of the human.” Hahn’s tour makes a lovely case for that.
IF THIS BE MAGIC: The Unlikely Art of Shakespeare in Translation | By Daniel Hahn | Knopf | 406 pp. | $35
Culture
Video: Poetry Month Reading Recommendations
new video loaded: Poetry Month Reading Recommendations
By Greg Cowles, Edward Vega and Laura Salaberry
April 25, 2026
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