Angel Reese and Caitlin Clark have become the central figures in one of the most talked-about rivalries in recent sports history—but there’s a deeper dynamic at play.

Since their iconic clash during the 2023 NCAA championship, they’ve been pitted against each other by media narratives, fans, and increasingly, by the WNBA itself.

But beneath the surface of intense competition and culture wars lies a larger, more troubling question: Is Angel Reese being used as a pawn in a broader campaign to suppress and diminish Caitlin Clark’s rise? And if so, at what cost—to both players and the league itself?

Reese entered the WNBA as a national champion and one of the most recognizable faces in college sports. Her powerful presence on the court, unapologetic personality, and embodiment of Black excellence made her a hero to many and a target for others. She’s bold, charismatic, and fiercely competitive, the kind of player with magnetism both on media platforms and hardwood floors.

Clark, on the other hand, came into the league with a historic spotlight. She carried the weight of record-breaking viewership, a Nike signature contract, and the hopes of WNBA expansion on her back.

Instead of celebrating two generational athletes rising together, however, the narrative quickly shifted. Their rivalry became less about basketball and more about identity, race, politics, and agendas.

Reese’s actions—trash talk, gestures, post-game comments—were dissected in a way Clark’s often weren’t, and vice versa. Rather than being equals embarking on a shared journey, they were framed as opposites battling for basketball supremacy and cultural relevance.

And that framing wasn’t organic. It was manufactured. The media’s obsession with stoking division—“Reese vs. Clark,” “Black vs. white,” “villain vs. sweetheart”—created a polarizing spectacle that overshadowed the deeper connection they actually share as young women breaking barriers in a historically underfunded league.

But perhaps more disturbingly, what’s emerged recently is a sense that Angel Reese is being used—not necessarily by her own doing, but by a league and media infrastructure that benefits from division and clicks over unity and growth.

In this “war” against Clark—whether real or perceived—Reese has often been placed at the frontline. Every time Clark takes a hard foul, goes unprotected by referees, or faces hostility on the court, the analysts and crowds look to Reese for a response.

Whether it was a tackle-like foul in a Sky/Fever game or subtle digs in press conferences, Reese is often credited or blamed for “setting the tone” in the ongoing resistance to Clark’s stardom. Yet rarely is she asked whether she wants to be part of that narrative.

The problem isn’t Angel Reese herself. The problem is how her image is being used to challenge Clark’s place in the league—without always giving Reese agency in how that story is told.

Every disagreement, every hard foul, every media comment is hyper-analyzed not as an individual act of competitive grit, but as a move in a larger chess game. And that game is turning Reese into an unwilling symbol of defiance, when she may just be trying to assert her own space in the spotlight.

That spotlight, however, isn’t always cast fairly. Despite leading all WNBA rookies in rebounds, double-doubles, and establishing herself as one of Chicago’s core pieces, she is often discussed solely in relation to Clark.

“Is she retaliating?” “Is she jealous?” Questions like these dominate the headlines. Instead of being allowed to stand on her own merit as a rising star, Reese is boxed into the “anti-Clark” position—a paradox that limits her story while elevating controversy.

What’s even more frustrating is the silence from the WNBA. As Clark continues to face inconsistent officiating, unusually physical play for a star player, and a lack of public support from within the league, the response has been muted.

Reese, meanwhile, becomes the de facto symbol anytime critics want to argue that Clark “isn’t special” or “needs to toughen up.” The league, in its hesitation to police narratives or protect all of its players with equal fairness, allows this dynamic to fester unchecked.

By allowing Reese to be cast as the rival, the enforcer, or even the aggressor, the WNBA deflects from its own responsibilities in managing player safety, marketing equity, and cultural narratives.

Much of the public heat now aimed at Reese—death threats, harassment, social media abuse—isn’t just unfair, it’s a byproduct of how emotionally charged this dichotomy has become. And Reese, for all of her strength and resilience, shouldn’t be burdened with carrying that weight alone.

There’s also the risk of this so-called “war” devaluing both athletes’ legacies. Rather than letting two transcendent rookies rise together like Magic and Bird, we’re seeing a forced opposition—one that poisons the fanbase and drowns out real conversations about progress in women’s sports.

The truth is, Reese and Clark have more in common than not. They’re both relentlessly competitive, highly marketable, and fiercely vocal in their own ways. This rivalry, if left untethered, could prevent the WNBA from capitalizing on one of the greatest dual-talents rookie classes in history.

Fans must also confront their role in this dynamic. Too often, they fall into binary thinking—“Team Reese” vs. “Team Clark”—when they could be advocating for a world where both succeed.

Both provide different styles, stories, and strengths that women’s basketball needs. If the fanbase chooses division over expansion, they play right into the hands of media outlets and agendas that don’t genuinely care about growing the sport—but making money off controversy.

The road forward is simple in theory, if difficult in practice. The league must do better in managing how it handles rising stars and their relationships with one another. Media must accept responsibility for creating narratives that pit women against each other.

And both Reese and Clark deserve the respect to grow, evolve, and lead—as individuals, not as avatars in a cultural battle none of them consented to fight.

Angel Reese is not a villain. She’s not a pawn. She’s a young woman commanding space in a league that has rarely seen this kind of attention, navigating fame, criticism, and pressure in real time. And Caitlin Clark is not a victim. She is an elite player doing everything the league has asked of its stars: performing, showing up, promoting, and growing the game.

The fight, if there is one, isn’t between these two athletes. It’s between an outdated sports model and a future that demands authentic, complex storytelling—one that makes room for both Reese and Clark to be great, without being enemies.