In Minneapolis—home of resilience, reform, and revolution—the echoes of injustice hit differently.

Here, where the Minnesota Lynx have built a dynasty rooted in leadership and integrity, the current WNBA power struggle feels deeply personal.

No Assumptions, a Minneapolis-based impact apparel and justice-fused event collective, stands in full solidarity with Napheesa Collier and Coach Cheryl Reeve, amplifying what many are now naming as one of the most defining reckonings in women’s professional sports history. 

This isn’t just about basketball. It’s about value, voice, and visibility—three things women have always had to fight to keep.

The conversation over what a WNBA player is worth began before the league ever tipped off.

As Adam Minter, sports business writer for Bloomberg Opinion, shared in a recent MPR News interview:

“The discussion over what the value of a WNBA player is worth goes back to the late'90s and the start of the league. And, back then, quite frankly, from the point
of view of the W, of the league, they weren't worth very much. I think the top
salary during the first season was around $50,000.”

In comparison, the Women’s Sports Foundation reported that during the 1995–1996 season, the average salary for male NBA players was $1.7 million—24 times higher than the average $70,000 earned by women in the newly formed American Basketball League.

Fast-forward nearly three decades—29 years since the WNBA’s founding—and the pay gap remains staggering.

While NBA players take home average salaries between $10–12 million and claim roughly 50% of league revenue, WNBA players average just $120,000–$130,000 and receive less than a quarter of total league revenue.

This isn’t merely an earnings gap; it’s a structural inequity—a power imbalance rooted in a patriarchal sports economy that rewards silence, undervalues women’s labor, and justifies exploitation under the guise of “market realities.”

Even as attendance, TV ratings, and cultural impact soar, the money remains tightly held at the top.

It’s wealth hoarded, not shared—a familiar trait of systems where privilege reigns.

And like in any abusive relationship, those holding power continue to gaslight those who make the relationship possible—convincing them they should simply be “grateful” for crumbs.

At the heart of this crisis lies a distorted dynamic of control.

Players—the heartbeat of the league—are often treated less like partners and more like property.

When Napheesa Collier called out the WNBA for having the “worst leadership in the world,” she was not lashing out; she was naming a pattern that’s been normalized for decades.

That pattern includes:

• Gaslighting: Players are told to “focus on the game” as leadership minimizes or denies systemic inequities.
• Deflection & Silencing: Those who speak up—players, coaches, or advocates—face fines, suspensions, or thinly veiled public reprimands.
• Manipulation: Advocacy is twisted into insubordination; truth-telling labeled as troublemaking.
• Top-Down Control: Decisions about the players’ livelihoods are made in distant boardrooms, divorced from the lived realities of the athletes themselves.

It’s a textbook abuse of power—disguised as management.

The system rewards conformity and punishes courage, all while draping itself in the language of “growth” and "progress.”

But progress without equity is performative.

And leadership without accountability is just control with better branding.

Abuse doesn’t always leave bruises—it often hides behind corporate press releases and polished smiles. 

It looks like emails left unanswered after an injury report.

It sounds like a commissioner’s disappointment instead of accountability.

It feels like being told “it’s not that bad” when it clearly is.

When NBA Commissioner Adam Silver minimized the situation by saying the WNBA’s conflict had “become too personal,” his tone revealed the problem: A patriarchal reflex that reframes women’s courage as emotional instability.

That is gaslighting, dressed in a suit.

If WNBA leadership had led with empathy, transparency, and equity, this wouldn’t be an implosion—it would be an evolution. Instead, it’s a reckoning.

This isn’t “growth pains.” It’s irresponsibility of power—the same systemic disease that has infected countless institutions that rely on the unpaid emotional labor of women and the physical brilliance of Black and brown bodies.

To speak up in such a system is radical courage.

Every time Collier, A’ja Wilson, or Nneka Ogwumike steps to the mic, they are not just airing grievances—they are reclaiming agency in a system built to suppress it.

 This moment isn’t about rebellion—it’s about reclamation.

Because when you’ve been told for generations to “be grateful,” the act of demanding fairness becomes revolutionary.

These players are redefining what leadership looks like: integrity over image, authenticity over appeasement.

They’re teaching the league—and the world—that empowerment doesn’t require permission.

At No Assumptions, our mission has always been to fuse impact apparel with justice-centered storytelling—to transform solidarity into something you can see, wear, and live.

We create not for fashion, but for friction—the kind that ignites awareness, dialogue, and change.

We stand shoulder to shoulder with Napheesa Collier and Coach Cheryl Reeve, because what’s unfolding in the WNBA mirrors what we confront in every system built on inequity: the consolidation of power, the dismissal of lived truth, and the gaslighting of those who dare to demand better.

We believe YOU, PHEE.

We believe in every woman using her platform to expose the cracks in the system and demand accountability—not tomorrow, but now.

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In the end, this story is not just about injustice—it’s about legacy.

 When Napheesa Collier speaks truth to power, her daughter watches.

When Coach Cheryl Reeve stands in public solidarity with her players, her young child learns what courage looks like under pressure. 

They’re not just witnessing a sports dispute; they’re seeing a blueprint for integrity. 

But Collier isn’t stopping there—she’s building something bigger.

As the co-founder of Unrivaled, she is actively creating an alternative: a
women’s basketball league that grants players equity stakes, fair compensation, and a chance to build financial stability without
sacrificing family or identity.

Unrivaled model—paying players more than the WNBA and offering them ownership—exposes what’s long been hidden in plain sight: that these women have always been worth more.

This isn’t just a business venture—it’s liberation architecture.

A tangible pathway for players to cultivate their worth on their own terms, in their own home domains, without the forced exodus overseas just to make ends meet.

That’s not just empowerment—it’s evolution.

It’s the future our children deserve to inherit.

Because they will remember not who played the game, but who changed it.

—where truth takes center court, and justice always gets the last word.