WNBA legend Sue Bird and former U.S. women’s soccer star Megan Rapinoe weighed in on the backlash over Caitlin Clark’s remarks about White privilege in her interview with Time magazine.

The Indiana Fever star spoke about her supposed White privilege as she said the WNBA has been built on the backs of Black players.

“The more we can appreciate that, highlight that, talk about that and then continue to have brands and companies invest in those players that have made this league incredible, I think it’s very important,” Clark said in the interview last week. “I have to continue to try to change that. The more we can elevate Black women, that’s going to be a beautiful thing.”

At the heart of this storm is the question of privilege. Clark’s willingness to name it—a powerful term in itself—was unusual for a star athlete in the middle of a breakout moment. And yet, in doing so, she opened herself up to the very scrutiny she referenced. Many saw her statement as courageous; others viewed it as unnecessary, even tactical. Conservative media personality Megyn Kelly called the comments “condescending” and “fake.”

Meanwhile, the backlash on social media became a case study in what happens when whiteness and stardom intersect in an arena historically dominated by Black talent but spotlighted through white-favorable narratives. According to a study from Rice University, social-media reactions to racialized incidents involving Clark and Black peers in the league revealed patterns of bias and coded language rather than overt slurs—but no less powerful for it.

This dual reaction—praise from some, condemnation from others—speaks to a deeper unease. When a white athlete acknowledges her privilege, it disrupts the expected script: “Just play the game.” And instead of being lauded solely for her achievements, Clark found herself pushed into a wider cultural conversation about race, equity, media, and fandom.

The backdrop to this moment is the transformation of the WNBA itself. Clark’s arrival coincided with skyrocketing viewership, marketing deals and attention that many had long hoped would elevate the league. Her so-called “Clark-effect” has been documented; the league’s attendance and fan engagement surged after her debut.  But for all the growth, voices inside and outside the game point out that the spotlight still disproportionately shines on her—whereas many Black women in the league remain under-recognized, under-sponsored, or stuck in narratives that cast them as villains rather than stars.

Indiana Fever guard Caitlin Clark, #22, walks past the photo backdrop on Wednesday, Aug. 28, 2024 during a game between the Indiana Fever and the Connecticut Sun at Gainbridge Fieldhouse in Indianapolis. (Grace Smith/IndyStar / USA TODAY NETWORK via Imagn Images)

Clark’s reaction sparked a ton of backlash on social media.

Bird said on the latest episode of her podcast with Rapinoe, “A Touch More,” that the anger around the White privilege comments proved something about her fans.

“Now this faction of her fanbase which we’ve discussed before that is now disgusted with her acknowledging is just showing they were never really here for basketball,” Bird said. “… Which by the way just proves that there are issues with race in this country. Like, to me, that just proves it. And I think where I’ve landed is I’d almost want to pose some questions.”

Bird then wondered whether there would have been any outrage about the incidents Clark was involved in during the course of her rookie season if she were Black.

“I personally think she deserves to be Time Athlete of the Year,” Bird continued. “I think she earned that, and she’s like, yeah, ‘I’ve done enough to earn this,’ and I agree and also is acknowledging her White privilege and that is something that you know you’re talking about your experience, that’s something I’ve had to acknowledge in my experience. I’ve won the championships, I’ve done the things, and there’s this other part to it that I’m also going to acknowledge.

“And that to me is just is the world we live in and to say it doesn’t exist is really saying you don’t live in the same world, or you’re not seeing the same things and that’s obviously the root of all the conversations that we see today, not just in women’s basketball, literally in our country period.”

Bird added that, at the end of the day, her race did not score points.

Sue Bird, left, and Megan Rapinoe look on in the first quarter between the United States and France in the men’s basketball gold medal game during the Paris 2024 Olympic Summer Games at Accor Arena in Paris on Aug. 10, 2024. (Kyle Terada-USA TODAY Sports)

Rapinoe took a shot at conservatives in her assessment.

“I think what Caitlin did in her quotes, or in the article, was speak explicitly about her White privilege, like and that is what is receiving so much criticism or backlash, and like that is the lesson,” the former NWSL star said. “So, you know, for conservative media coming at her now that obviously they’re just showing their whole a–.

“If fans are upset about her saying that and just acknowledging what is true, I think that says a lot. But I think the more that you speak directly to it the clearer it becomes what your stance is, and then you can’t be used in that way. It doesn’t really leave your beliefs or your stance as a white player to any sort of interpretation.

“You’re taking the space and owning the narrative yourself. I think another thing that I’m constantly trying to think of and be aware of, and I want other people to be aware of also, anytime there is a positive story in women’s sports, the area, the sort of quote unquote area is immediately flooded with divisive narratives.

“But for all of us to just be aware of that, that anytime there’s anything positive or any honestly just any news at all in women’s sports, it’s just like immediately flooded with insanity and really divisive narratives. And I think to that, like when we as athletes are being used, when is your narrative, when is your likes being used, when are the things that you’re saying being used.

Lisa Bluder, left, and Caitlin Clark talk during practice for the NCAA women’s college basketball championship game between Iowa and South Carolina on April 6, 2024. (Zach Boyden-Holmes / USA TODAY NETWORK via Imagn Images)

“You know the sort of like ecosystem of people in women’s sports that really do care about whether it’s you know athletes, fans, owners, people that work with teams, whatever. Like when are you being used by this like, sort of meta narrative or these like divisive narratives and to be really smart about that.”

She stepped onto the court carrying not only a basketball, but a symbol—a white woman with historic scoring records, a national spotlight, and expectations that stretched far beyond the lines of the WNBA floor. That woman is Caitlin Clark. But what seemed destined to be a triumphant rise and a new era of visibility for women’s basketball has instead become a lightning rod for racial tensions, privilege debates and cultural fault-lines in America. When Clark publicly acknowledged she benefited from “white privilege,” the eruption that followed laid bare not just discomfort with race in sports, but the deep unease many have with conversations about equity, power and identity.

From her college days at the Iowa Hawkeyes to becoming the top pick in the WNBA draft, Clark’s trajectory was meteoric. Yet along with the hype came a backlash rooted not only in her performance but in her identity: a white athlete ascending rapidly in a league built on the backs of Black women, many of whose brilliance was rarely translated into mainstream stardom. In December 2024, when Time magazine named her Athlete of the Year, Clark used the platform not only to accept the honour but also to reflect publicly:

“I want to say I’ve earned every single thing, but as a white person, there is privilege. A lot of those players in the league that have been really good have been Black players. This league has kind of been built on them.” 
That moment triggered an avalanche: conservative commentators accused her of self-flagellation, others accused her of being disingenuous, and some fans recoiled at the sight of race being discussed in what they’d preferred to see as sport’s apolitical sanctuary. The controversy has unravelled far beyond Clark’s individual words; it has forced a reckoning over how race, recognition and fandom intertwine in modern athletics. What emerges is the shocking truth: this isn’t just about one athlete. It’s an unmasking of America’s hidden racial war—as contemporary, fraught, and unresolved as ever.

Black players and commentators have framed Clark’s rise not merely as earned (which it is), but also as conditioned by factors beyond the court—race, marketability, straight-white-mainstream-appeal. For example, when comparing how the public and social media responded to a hand gesture by Clark versus a similar gesture by her rival Angel Reese (who is Black), the contrast was striking: Reese was slammed as “classless,” while Clark received admiration.

In short: while Clark silently accepted responsibility for her privilege, the public reaction suggested she may have inherited advantages far beyond her own efforts—that the platform itself is still tilted.

The explosion of discussion around Clark also reflects how race remains a flashpoint in the fandom of sports. For many fans, Clark symbolises hope: a generational talent shaking up women’s basketball. For others, she represents something more unsettling: the “Great White Hope” syndrome resurfacing in a sport long dominated by Black athletes. As one journalist summarised:

“White America has rallied around Caitlin Clark. The support looks mostly amazing, sometimes fanatical and territorial, sometimes racist.” 
What’s particularly disturbing is that the funneling of “support” often masked bias. Some members of her fanbase used Clark’s success as a wedge in broader culture wars—against Black athletes, LGBTQ+ women players, and progressivism in sport. The rivalry between Clark and Reese morphed into a proxy battle over race as much as basketball. The league even had to launch investigations into “hateful fan comments” at a game featuring the two. tive—we are looking at how society reacts when a white figure acknowledges systemic advantage. The backlash is not just evidence of resentment toward her—it’s evidence of the uneasy place race still holds in public life.

But why did the backlash matter so much? Because it exposed the fault-lines between fandom and fairness. For decades, women’s basketball has fought for legitimacy, recognition and respect. Black women have carried the fight. Players like A’ja Wilson and others have repeatedly called attention to how much harder they’ve had to work to be seen, paid and valued.  When Clark’s comments framed it this way—“as a white person, there is privilege”—they were a rare moment of recognition from someone inside the star system acknowledging the structural advantage. That’s why the response was so strong: because it threatened a comfortable narrative that top athletes succeed purely on merit, without social context.

It also triggered fear among parts of the fanbase—a fear that the sport they enjoy was being “politicised.” Many fans prefer to believe in a colour-blind view of sport: that the best player emerges, the record matters, the game is equal. But the friction around Clark’s rise shows how imperfect that ideal is. Behind the record-setting stats and shot charts lies an ecosystem of media, sponsorships, audience demographics and racial signalling.

In naming her privilege, Clark pulled back the curtain. And in doing so, she ignited something deeper—a public argument about who gets to count as star, who gets the backing, and who remains invisible or villainised. It is indeed a “hidden war” in America: where race still dictates who rises, who breaks out, and whose story is told.

Clark’s situation is complicated. On one hand, she deserves massive credit. Her competition record, her influence in bringing fans to games and her excite-factor are real. According to Forbes and other outlets, the value of her team, the Indiana Fever, has soared since her arrival. On the other hand, the way her fandom allied so quickly with broader culture-war narratives suggests her success is not just about basketball—it’s about identity, marketing and perception.

Even more striking: when she tried to speak—even briefly—about race, the backlash was swift and harsh. Less than many might expect for a sports figure. That suggests that racial self-reflection from elite athletes remains rare—and risky. Clark said she is comfortable in her skin and tries to block out noise.  But that doesn’t negate the fact that she became a vessel for millions of opinions on race.

If the league and society choose to look deeper, Clark’s story offers a chance. A chance to hold up a mirror to how sport reflects social structures rather than escapes them. The praise and condemnation she has received both show how little has changed and yet how much needs to. When we allow a white female athlete to dominate in a historically Black-female-dominated league, and then largely attribute her rise not just to talent but to her race or identity—what does that say about the league’s values? What does that say about how society consumes sport?

It’s possible to imagine a positive outcome. If Clark and her peers lean into the privileges and responsibilities that come with prominence, they could use that platform to elevate the Black players who built the league, press for equity in pay and recognition, and expose the structural imbalances still present. That is exactly what some players like A’ja Wilson commend Clark for. But to reach that potential requires transparent action, not only talk. The league needs to ensure that sponsorship dollars, media narratives, and awards reflect more than just who is photogenic or marketable—they must reflect who has historically been overlooked. Fans, too, need to be honest about how race and identity influence which athletes they celebrate and why.

Yet, there is a risk. The narrative could turn sour. Fans who feel left behind might retreat further into grievance. Media may continue to pit athletes of different races against one another rather than elevating collective progress. And athletes like Clark may become casualties in a broader culture war, rather than be agents of change. The backlash she faced after mentioning “white privilege” showed how fragile engagement is when sport intersects identity. It was not simply disagreement—it was fury. And fury often burns longer than applause.

Moreover, the optics of the situation threaten the mood of the WNBA. If Clark is framed as the “white saviour” of women’s basketball, that diminishes the legacy of the Black women who built the league and the current cohort fighting for recognition. Some owners and commentators have already voiced concerns. The question becomes: will the league reward talent, or will it instead reward the marketability of whiteness?

For Clark, personally, the road ahead is laden with expectations. How she handles the dual role of star performer and unintended cultural flashpoint will define her legacy. She can choose silence or engagement—but silence may be interpreted as complicity, and engagement may invite further backlash. She has already said she only cares about the opinions of her loved ones and close teammates. But in this moment, she has become more than a basketball player. She has become a symbol, and symbols carry weight, whether one likes it or not.

If she uses her platform to advocate for greater investment in Black players, to push the league toward equity in spending, to shine a light on sponsorship disparity, then she might help transform the spotlight that raised her into a spotlight for many. But if the conversation falters, if she retreats from it, the backlash may become a cautionary tale for other athletes—warning them that speaking about privilege carries risk.

Ultimately, the shocking truth that’s igniting fury is this: sport is not divorced from society. The concerns around Caitlin Clark’s white privilege and the backlash it generated are not isolated to basketball—they reflect how America grapples with race, identity, success and recognition. Clark did not create the imbalance; she just happened to ascend in its shadow. Her remarks pulled back the curtain on how privilege still operates—even in an age where we claim to be “post-race.”

The conversation is difficult, messy, uncomfortable. It will not end with a single quote or a single season. But perhaps it can begin with this moment. A moment when a white athlete acknowledged her advantage and society responded by trying to deny, diminish or debate it—a moment when the hidden war over race was laid bare on the hardwood.

And maybe that’s the point. Because for too long, the conversation has been silent; race has been avoided in sport to protect the “purity” of competition. But the purity was an illusion. The league already reflected society in all its imperfect, messy reality. Now, it is being forced to confront it.

So when we look at Caitlin Clark, we must look past the three-pointers and the marketing deals. We must look at the platform, the spotlight, the lineage of those who came before her—and admit that yes, there is privilege. And yes, people noticed when she named it. And yes, the backlash tells us just how far we still have to go.

We, as fans, as sports-consumers, as society, are complicit if we ignore it. Because acknowledging privilege is not an apology. It’s a recognition. And from recognition comes change. Whether that change will come in the WNBA, in sports media, in sponsorship boards, or in our own consumption habits remains open. But one thing is certain: the hard truth she exposed will not fade quietly.

If she is to be more than a flash in the pan, Clark’s legacy may depend not simply on points and wins—but on whether she uses her megaphone to widen the lens. Because at the end of the day, the real victory would not be her alone—it would be for those who have been overlooked, undervalued and under-celebrated. And if this moment leads to that, the firestorm might just have been worth it.