At Michelob Ultra Arena, home of the Las Vegas Aces, her aura precedes her. It’s over an hour until tip-off, there are people wearing A’ja Wilson jerseys, everywhere. In the stands, a sea of signs: “I WANT TO BE THE NEXT A’JA!” “I GOT MARRIED LAST NIGHT AND ALL I WANT FOR MY HONEYMOON IS AN A’JA AUTOGRAPH!” “THIS IS MY FIRST A’JA WILSON GAME!” When Wilson eventually appears—not physically, just on the Jumbotron—the crowd erupts. One woman jumps up so quickly to cheer she spills her nachos. On her nails, No. 22 painted in glittery silver polish.
Sitting in front of me, a tween girl wearing a “WNBA We Love To See Us Win” T-shirt and pink sneakers, holds her phone in the air, ready to snap a photo of her “favorite player” when she comes running onto the court. Wilson, she tells me, is the reason she hoops and rolls her basketball shorts just so.
