Sophie Cunningham was supposed to be one of the WNBA’s most marketable stars. She had the charisma, the shooting ability, and the personality that could light up both the court and the cameras. Yet somewhere along the way, the league that should have embraced her as a cornerstone instead let her slip through its fingers.

Today, Cunningham represents not just a missed opportunity but a symbol of how the WNBA continues to lose control of its own narrative and its most compelling players.

From her college days at Missouri, Cunningham had already built a reputation as the kind of player who drew attention. Fans either loved her competitive fire or despised her trash talk, but no one ignored her.

That’s the type of polarizing presence every sports league needs—someone who keeps fans engaged even when they aren’t rooting for her team. But when she entered the WNBA, instead of capitalizing on her personality, the league seemed hesitant, even uncomfortable, with giving her the spotlight she clearly knew how to handle.

Her early seasons in Phoenix gave glimpses of what she could become. Cunningham hit clutch threes, got under opponents’ skin, and drew headlines for her confrontations. In a league struggling to create stars who could attract mainstream attention, she should have been an obvious candidate.

Yet broadcasts barely mentioned her, promos rarely featured her, and when she finally did make waves, it was more often because of social media clips than league-driven promotion. The WNBA had a star in its hands and chose to downplay her edge instead of leaning into it.

As the years passed, Cunningham’s frustrations began to show. She became bolder on the court, playing more physically and letting opponents know about it. Fans noticed, but so did critics. Instead of protecting one of its most entertaining players, the WNBA let her reputation as a “villain” spiral unchecked.

Opposing players targeted her physically, broadcasters mocked her, and the league’s silence left her isolated. When controversies came—flagrant fouls, heated exchanges, or viral moments—the WNBA could have stepped in to frame the narrative. Instead, it stood back and let Sophie Cunningham become a lightning rod without support.

The turning point came when Cunningham’s clashes escalated with stars like Caitlin Clark and others who were drawing massive attention. Rather than using these moments to market rivalries that could bring fans in, the WNBA allowed the discourse to turn toxic.

Cunningham wasn’t framed as a fiery competitor in a league of rising stars—she was painted as a problem. Once again, the league lost control of the story, and once again a player was left to fend for herself against criticism that could have been spun into entertainment value.

Behind the scenes, Cunningham’s role on her own team became just as complicated. Inconsistent coaching decisions left her coming off the bench some nights, starting others, with no clear plan to maximize her skills.

Her three-point shooting, toughness, and energy could have been a major part of a system built around spacing and grit. Instead, she was shuffled around, her potential squandered by a lack of vision. Fans could see it. Analysts could see it. But the WNBA never demanded better from one of its franchises.

Meanwhile, Cunningham leaned into her personality off the court. She became a social media presence, posting unapologetically and building her own following. She embraced her style, her confidence, and her willingness to stand out.

This was a golden opportunity for the league to showcase her as part of the growing culture of women’s basketball. But once again, the silence was deafening. Players like Cunningham had to build their own brand from scratch while the WNBA watched from the sidelines, never taking initiative.

Now, the league finds itself in an impossible position. Cunningham has carved out her own identity, one that doesn’t need the WNBA’s approval. She has fans who follow her every move, rivals who know exactly how much she can get under their skin, and a reputation that ensures she will always be talked about.

But she has little reason to trust the league anymore. The WNBA had years to support her, promote her, and use her as a face of its entertainment value. Instead, it left her to be typecast as the villain, forcing her to carry that identity alone.

This failure is bigger than just Cunningham. It highlights a larger problem within the WNBA’s strategy. The league consistently fails to recognize the value of polarizing stars. It craves safe, marketable images but refuses to acknowledge that sports thrive on tension, drama, and personality.

Sophie Cunningham was a ready-made story: tough, emotional, sharp-shooting, unapologetic. The league could have marketed her as the player you love to hate, the spark every game needed. Instead, it ran from that opportunity, leaving her miscast and misunderstood.

The fans aren’t blind to what happened. Many have voiced frustration that Cunningham is consistently overlooked in league promotions. They see her as a player who brings energy to every matchup, someone who generates engagement whether people are cheering for her or booing her.

That kind of magnetism is rare, and yet the WNBA seems unwilling—or unable—to fully embrace it. Fans who tune in expecting rivalries, narratives, and personalities often feel disappointed, and Cunningham’s treatment is Exhibit A in that larger disappointment.

If there’s one lesson in this saga, it’s that the WNBA cannot afford to keep losing control of players like Sophie Cunningham. Stars are not manufactured—they emerge naturally, through moments, personality, and storylines.

The league’s job is to amplify those stories, not bury them. With Cunningham, the WNBA had a star who was loud, visible, and impossible to ignore. Instead of channeling her fire into a positive force for engagement, it treated her as a problem to be contained. The result is a player who has become bigger than the league’s ability to control her.

Now the WNBA faces the consequences. Sophie Cunningham isn’t going away. She will continue to be fiery, controversial, and polarizing because that’s who she is. But instead of the league owning that narrative, it has handed it entirely over to social media, where clips are interpreted however fans want.

That means less control, more chaos, and more missed opportunities. The WNBA could have made Cunningham one of its most marketable assets. Instead, it let her slip away, and the fallout is a league scrambling to catch up.

The story of Sophie Cunningham is not just about one player—it’s about the WNBA’s repeated failure to harness the power of its most dynamic personalities. Until the league learns how to embrace its villains as much as its heroes, it will continue to lose control of the very players who could save it. Cunningham, for better or worse, is proof of that.