But if there’s anything I know from all the ups and downs I’ve experienced throughout my career, it’s that your situation can change in an instant.
On September 7 we were playing against the Washington Mystics, a team whose chance of going to the play-offs was slimmer than ours. But they were putting up a fight, and eight minutes into the game, I dove onto the ground for a loose ball, and my thumb jammed into the floor. Pain shot through my hand. I couldn’t reach for the ball, much less gain control of it, and I knew right away something was wrong.
When the ball went out of bounds, I walked to the sidelines, hanging my head and clutching my hand.
“Pokey, I can’t play. Something’s really wrong with my thumb.”
Pokey and I had developed such a strong relationship that she knew just by looking at me if I was sick. If I came to practice with a glassy look in my eyes, she understood right away that Lyme disease was about to attack. She took my health seriously, and that meant she took me seriously.
“Okay,” she said, “let’s get a trainer to look at it.”
While I was being checked out, I missed the rest of the game, and the Mystics tramped all over us, 118–81.
“You tore the UCL, a ligament in your thumb,” a doctor said later. “You’re going to be day-to-day.” Sure enough, I missed the next game too, and we lost 95–88.
Getting into the play-offs is a matter of skill, but also luck. As luck would have it, other teams in our conference—who’d had similar records to ours—had started to slip in the rankings. When they did, our chances of making it into the postseason went up. After we won our next game, we got the best news in the world: we’d sealed our bid for the play-offs.
But whether or not I’d be there was still a question.
Chapter Forty-One
Bad Things Will Happen
Because the Sky had climbed our way back to a winning season by the skin of our teeth, we’d managed to end up with the number-four ranking in the league. That meant we advanced automatically into the second round, skipping the single-game elimination that existed in the first round. In the second, more advanced round we’d compete in a single-game elimination against one of our biggest competitors, the Atlanta Dream.
Earlier in the season, in June, we’d had a thrilling last-second overtime victory against the Dream. And we hadn’t just won that game against them. We’d beaten them again, 90–82, in our first matchup after the Olympics. Defeating them twice, though, didn’t mean we were necessarily the better team. In fact, we’d lost an early-season game against them, and if you added up the total points of all four games, they’d outscored us! They were aggressive on offense, and they had the highest average points per game against us in the entire league. We knew the key to victory would be to outmaneuver them on offense and defense. We couldn’t let them make baskets, and we’d have to double up our efforts to get as many points on the board as possible.
I was dying to play. Even though most of the season had been rocky, we had so much momentum coming off the end of the season. This could be our year to win the finals. I just knew it.
Unfortunately, I wouldn’t get the chance to be a part of that. I’d been told by one doctor that I should wear a splint on my hand for four to six weeks—which would bench me for the rest of the season—so I’d sought a second opinion from a specialist. That doctor had recommended a surgery that would fix the tear for good and might let me play in the championships—if we got there. I needed that sliver of hope that I might be back by the finals, so I chose surgery. It was a tough decision that I agonized over, but I knew what was the best decision for my body, so I trusted myself.
I think you have to realize that just when you’re sure that things can’t get worse, they might. I’m not saying you should be on your toes at all times, expecting awful things, but just be aware that setbacks happen. Then be prepared for them as much as you can. If you don’t, the next disappointment might absolutely destroy you.
I was calm and collected before my surgery. I knew having an operation and being sidelined for a few play-off games weren’t the worst things that could happen to me, and I didn’t let them throw me off. That’s why when something else bad came up, I didn’t crash. I dealt with it.
This new setback was something I never in a million years would have seen coming: my private medical details were leaked by a group of Russian hackers. You read that correctly. Right around the time of my surgery, a group of Russian hackers broke into the Olympic drug testing database and released the confidential records of a number of high-profile Olympians, including Simone Biles, Venus and Serena Williams, and little old me. Then the hackers published the name of a drug I take for one of my Lyme disease–related conditions—something that had been banned in competition except in special cases like mine—and the World Anti-Doping Agency had to investigate.
Officials were quick to answer.
“[We] can confirm . . . that the athletes mentioned did not violate any anti-doping rules during the Olympic Games Rio 2016,” said the International Olympic Committee in a statement.
Of course I hadn’t broken the rules. I’d had what was called a “therapeutic use exemption,” and I’d been following doctor’s orders. But someone out there had been trying to tarnish the reputation I’d worked so hard to maintain, and that hurt. On top of that, I’m a very private person, and it made me crazy that my life could be and had been broken into—literally.
Between that and missing the beginning of the play-offs, I could have fallen apart. But I didn’t. I was prepared, balanced, and knew that, like all bad things, this too would pass.
The would-be scandal not only went away, but life also got better. I sat on the sidelines and watched the Sky beat the Dream in a thrilling, hard-won 108–98 victory. Chicago would be moving on to the semifinals against the Los Angeles Sparks, and if we won that, we’d advance to the WNBA finals.
Chapter Forty-Two
Shake-Up
We didn’t win the semifinals. We lost game one by twenty points, were defeated 84–99 in game two, and then shocked everyone by winning game three in a four-point-margin stunner. But Los Angeles had two WNBA MVPs in Candace Parker and Nneka Ogwumike, had had an unbelievable 26–8 season (compare that to our 18–16 season!), and hadn’t reached the finals since 2003, so they were really eager. They crushed us in game four, 95–75, and I can’t say I was all that surprised.
I think they just wanted it more than we did, I thought. I think they were prepared to fight harder.
I stewed for days about losing the series. I kicked myself that I hadn’t been able to play, and I wondered what—if anything—I could have done to prevent us from losing. I hated not being in control. Then I realized I was being too hard on myself—and my team. We’d worked like crazy to save ourselves from a losing season. We’d turned things around when no one had expected us to, and we’d persisted through injuries and illnesses, with our rookie players rising to the occasion time and time again. We had even taken a team that had gone 11–0 in the beginning of the season to a major showdown in the semifinals. Everyone had assumed that LA was unbeatable, but we proved otherwise! We had a lot to be proud of, and even though we hadn’t reached our goal of winning the WNBA championship, we were winners.
Be happy with that, I told myself. And I was.
I’d need to keep that attitude more than ever during a series of staff changes in the Sky organization just after the end of our season.
• • •
As you know, I’d worked closely with the Sky’s assistant coach Christie Sides over the course of my time in Chicago. She’d become my training partner before the 2014 season and had pushed me toward a more aggressive, in-your-face style of play than I’d used in the past. I owed a big part of my 2015 MVP season to her.
Two days after the season ended, my teammates and I found out that Christie was leaving the Sky. She’d been offered a job as the assistant women’s coach at Northwestern, and she’d taken it.
In professional sports, loyalty is a tricky thing. People expect you to abide by the terms of your contract and not break it, but taking a new job when your contract ends is both understandable and totally acceptable. Christie had thrived during her time with the Sky, but Northwestern was offering a package she couldn’t refuse. She had to accept it. Her move wasn’t selfish and didn’t break any kind of trust. It was logical, even smart. I was happy for her. She deserved a great job, and Northwestern was offering that.
In late October, though, even bigger news broke—and it sent ripples through our team and the whole WNBA.
Pokey Chatman had been fired. After six seasons with the Chicago Sky, her contract was terminated, and she was forced to look for a new job.
It’s not unusual to fire a head coach. If you have losing season after losing season, huge player turnover, or cause infighting or general disruption within your team, your contract might be broken or just not extended. But Pokey had turned a perpetually losing team around. She’d led the Sky to their first play-off appearance in 2013 and their first finals in 2014. In 2015, Sylvia Fowles had shocked our team by sitting out half the season so that she could be traded, and Pokey had dealt with that with grace. And the 2016 season had been a big mess of injuries and ups and downs, but she’d handled it—then led us to a winning season.
Now she was leaving, and the media was fishing for answers.
“Is it because Elena Delle Donne is unhappy with her?” some media speculated.
That wasn’t it. I respected Pokey as a coach. Plus, whatever the speculation, no single player has that kind of power. At the Chicago Sky a firing was the decision of the team’s owner.
“It was because she never brought home a championship trophy,” other media declared.
I realized that must have been it. When you turn a team around and start winning, owners expect you to take the franchise all the way. They want a championship, and they won’t settle for anything less than that.
In the WNBA—as with most professional sports teams—expectations are sky-high. If you want to be an elite coach or athlete, you have to prove that you can lead a team to victory after victory, then win the biggest prize of all. Pokey understood this, so she was more than gracious when she got the news.
“I’m good,” she said in one interview. “I can hold my head high. I am proud of our players and what we were able to accomplish. But at the end of the day, we weren’t able to get a championship.”
The Sky’s owner, Michael Alter, thanked her repeatedly—publicly and privately—but he acknowledged what everyone had suspected: that he felt Pokey couldn’t take them to a championship. He wanted more, and he thought the team needed a shake-up for that to happen.
Maybe these things are destined or just part of the system, but honestly, it was hard. We knew there would be another head coach, as there always was, but change and saying good-bye are always stressful. That’s why I’m glad everyone handled it so rationally, never fueling the rumor mill, lying, or trying to destroy anyone’s reputation. Not making tons of drama out of something that just happens can make the transition even smoother.
I’d need to remember that as I began to wonder whether it would be time for me to say good-bye to Chicago too.
Chapter Forty-Three
Take a Risk
Sports contracts are complicated, and I don’t want to bore you too much, but I need to describe them just a little bit so you’ll understand what I was dealing with just after Pokey got fired.
When I was drafted by the Chicago Sky in 2013, I signed a contract that bound me to them for four seasons. If I left the team anytime within those four years, I could be penalized in all kinds of ways. I’d had no desire to go, of course, so that wasn’t an issue. But when the 2016 season ended, I became what they call a “restricted free agent,” which meant that I could be traded to any other team within the WNBA. If Chicago matched that team’s offer, I would have to stay with them. If they didn’t, I could leave.
There was one other option, though. I could choose to sit out the 2017 season if I didn’t get a deal I wanted. Then, when the off-season began, I would become a free agent, and any of the eleven other WNBA teams could vie for me. Other players, like Sylvia Fowles, had done this in the past, and it was really the only way for a restricted free agent to control her destiny.
Some people call sitting out selfish, and in some ways it is. But it’s also a big decision and a strategic move. I knew if I sat out, I wouldn’t get paid by my team or by the companies I had endorsements with; I also couldn’t bear the thought of letting my teammates down.
I really hoped I wouldn’t have to make that choice. I’d loved living in Chicago. I had a home there, I’d met my future wife there, and I’d even named my dog after one of its most famous landmarks. I’d built a career with a team that had embraced me with open arms from moment one, and its coaches, owner, and players had helped me reach almost all of my goals—from becoming MVP to going to the Olympics. I owed them so much, and almost every day I pinched myself for how lucky I’d been for four straight years.
But my rookie contract had ended, and it was like the universe had suddenly presented a new, uncharted course to me. I could explore it if I wanted to.
Did I, though? I wasn’t sure.
I’ve done so many interesting things in my life, but I’ve never considered myself a huge risk taker. I’d so much rather be sitting at home watching old movies with my family than jumping out of airplanes or taking crazy last-minute vacations. My decisions have always been careful and considered, and, most of all, driven by my gut.
I wasn’t sure what my gut was saying about Chicago, though. If I stayed there, I’d be happy, but was something else calling me?
Opening my options up to teams other than Chicago was a risk too. I might not get a terrific offer from a team where I wanted to be, and Chicago might not counteroffer. Or I could receive an offer from somewhere I knew I’d love, but Chicago would match, meaning I’d have to choose to take Chicago’s offer or sit out. Finally, it was almost unheard of for a top WNBA player—let alone one who’d become MVP, like me—to leave a team after just a few years. For no reason in particular, WNBA culture had dictated that players sign contracts with one team and stay put for most, if not all, of their careers. No elite player had ever switched teams before age thirty-six, when they were in the twilight of their careers, and even then only two women had done it. You were just expected to stay with one team forever. Would a move be viewed as a betrayal, even though there were no concrete rules barring me from doing it?
There were so many possible scenarios that my head was spinning. I started to feel like I had before the WNBA draft, when I’d suddenly realized that, for the first time in my life, I wasn’t fully in control of my future. All the opportunities before me were risky, controversial, or just plain scary.
And I still have no idea what I want to do, I thought.
People who like to be in control, like me, have a hard time when the future isn’t totally clear. But I’ve grown to realize that sometimes conclusions just make themselves evident when the time is right. A door may open when you least expect it, or a relationship or situation might suddenly shift, revealing your answer. But you can’t force it. You just have to sit back and wait for it to happen.
In early December the Sky announced their new head coach. Her name was Amber Stocks, and she was a former player from the University of Cincinnati who’d been an assistant coach for the Los Angeles Sparks for the previous two years. Apparently she’d been a long-shot choice when Michael Alter had begun interviewing because her résumé was much thinner than other candidates’, but she’d won him over. They saw eye to eye and agreed about what Chicago needed. One of those needs was a stronger defense. The other was what she called “a championship culture,” meaning building a team that would, no question, remain in the top of the league year after year. To do that, they’d need players who were heavily invested in the franchise and who, above
all, really wanted to be there.
They’re looking for players who are truly passionate about this team, I realized. Yet there’s a little voice in my head saying that that’s not me.
Why? Because, once again, I missed home. I longed for Lizzie, Mom and Dad, and Gene. I wanted to be near my clinics, my doctor, my trainer, and everyone who had nurtured me since I was a little girl. But most of all, I wanted to get married and start another chapter of my life close to my favorite place in the world: Delaware.
Suddenly, just by acknowledging that I had second thoughts about Chicago, I knew I wasn’t fully committed. It reminded me of my one day at UConn, when the Huskies captain had told us to play with passion, and I’d realized I had none of it. I just couldn’t be that wishy-washy player again. I had to open myself up to other options, or I’d become miserable, and then I’d burn out—big-time—for the second time in my life.
In mid-December, just three days after the Sky welcomed Amber Stocks, I made a decision. I was going to shock the basketball world by announcing that I was prepared to leave Chicago.
Just go for it, Elena, I thought. You shook up basketball eight years ago when you left UConn. Why not do that again?
So I did.
Chapter Forty-Four
The Mystics
I didn’t commit to leaving Chicago immediately. Though my mind was pretty much made up, I needed to be vague to keep my options open, so I spoke carefully.
“Some things will be moving forward for me,” I said on a radio show. “I’ve loved playing with my teammates. There’s a great group of young women there. And hopefully with Amber and a new system, it’ll be great for them. But for me, wherever I end up, I’ll be ready to play basketball.”
My Shot Page 17