Coming Home

by Brittney Griner

Every sport has an off-season, but pro women hoopers often work year-round. We earn about 250 times less than NBA players and have a hard cap on our salaries. In the WNBA that year I made around $220,000. Overseas, I earned a million plus. That pay gap is why I was in Russia in the first place.

For Putin, my worth was as a pawn. My arrest gave him leverage in his clash with the West. He was well aware of America’s long history of racial tensions, and he knew how to use that to his benefit. As the news sank in that morning, I cried because I’d let down my father. The Griner name was now stained around the globe: dopehead, drug dealer, dumb. I hurt because I knew I’d handed the world a weapon. When you’re Black, your behavior is never just about you. It’s about your entire community. You live with this responsibility to represent the best of us, to prove the haters wrong. Doesn’t matter if you actually want that job; how you act will be seen through that lens. If someone white messes up, most folks just shake their heads. But if a Black person makes the same mistake, it’s like, “See, I told you they were worthless.” I wear my Blackness with pride, just as my parents do. I cried not just because I’d failed Mom and Pops, but also because I felt I’d shamed my people.

The girl I once was now lay in a heap of dreads on the concrete floor. But the true me, the survivor, remained. I’d always thought of myself as someone who could endure almost anything. At a labor camp in Russia in the dead of winter, I found out just how tough I was.