The Caitlin Clark Effect lifts father and son in a time of grief

Thank you, No. 22, for bringing light into our sad time.

Photo courtesy of the Indiana Fever.

Dear Caitlin Clark,

Thank you for the I-cant-believe-she-shot-it-from-there-oh-my-god-she-made-it three-pointers, for the passes that punched through defenses the way jets cut through clouds, for the smiles that spread as wide as your arms when you hype up the crowd, for your red-hot passion for America's greatest game, for your enduring all the hard fouls and downright dirty plays made in the name of jealousy, for always get back up off the floor and never falling into the media trap of trying to turn the women's game into another soap opera snit, for being goofy enough to stick out your tongue when posing for a photo with the WNBA Rookie of the Year trophy, for letting the whole world know about Des Moines' odd tradition of asking trick-or-treaters to tell a joke before they got their candy, and for being the Iowan we all wish we were.

But, especially from my dad and me, thank you for helping us get through losing Mom last November.

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She died suddenly the Monday after Thanksgiving. She fell in June. She endured two back surgeries and never recovered. Mom and Dad married in 1975 and had been by each other side every night except for 10 days — three nights when she had a bad case of the flu in the early 1990s and seven days related to those back surgeries.

Mom's greatest gift was making people feel welcome. She was joyful and sharing. She shared her food, her time, and her conversation. She could talk to anyone about anything and enjoyed listening and laughing with people from her family to her customers, as a hairdresser to neighbors, people she met in campgrounds, and friends of her second-hand son.

She was such a good talker that when she died, the silence hurt the most.

Dad and I gathered often, but we had to learn how to talk to each other. We weren't mute, of course. We were father and son, but Joyce drove the conversation. We talked, but in those early days, it felt as if the only thing we had to talk about was Mom not being there.

That's where you came in, Caitlin. Your games in the final season with the University of Iowa and your first season with the Indiana Fever became almost mandatory events for us.

We gathered at Dad's house or my apartment. The exploits of you and your teammates thrilled us. Your signature "logo threes" were salve for the sadness.

We loved your fire, the way you barked at the referees, the way you took it right at the best opponents in the nation.

We were disappointed when the Hawkeyes lost the national championship game, but not sad. We knew we had watched something wonderful, beautiful, and rare.

We kept watching and cheering when your WNBA career started. If the Fever were on broadcast TV, we watched the games at Dad's house. We watched at my place whenever the Fever played on cable or streaming.

We shared pizza and root beer. We got to know and appreciate your teammates.

We each picked our second favorite Fever star. I like Lexie Hull. Dad likes Kelsey Mitchell. We both love Aliyah Boston and root for Katie Lou Samuelson.

We never got too interested in the relentless effort by the media — and maybe some of the other WNBA players — to make your first season about anything other than watching a great basketball player we'd ever seen play at the highest level.

They say basketball is just a game. That's true.

But for us, the Caitlin Clark Effect was light and life in our time of grief. Your youth, spirit, intelligence, and fearlessness rubbed off on us.

You brought a father and son closer when we needed each other the most.

Conversations come more easily to my dad and me.

It wasn't as if we were stifled before. It's just that Mom was the talker. She took the lead.

In the old days, if Dad answered the phone when I called my parents, we talked briefly, but he usually handed the phone over to Mom.

These days, Dad and I talk almost every day. We hang out three or four nights a week.

Your WNBA season is over. You're reportedly taking the winter off. No three-on-three league. No international play.

We'll miss you, but we'll be OK.

With your help, we know we've got a lot to look forward to.

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Daniel P. Finney is a member of the Iowa Writers Collaborative. Please visit their page to view a full roster of writers and consider subscribing to their columns. Writing is hard work; people ought to get paid for it. If you enjoy it, throw them a couple of bucks. They earned it.

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