On Sunday, Caitlin Clark became the leading scorer in NCAA Division I basketball, passing Pistol Pete Maravich’s longstanding mark in Iowa’s 93-83 win over Ohio State.
Now, I’m going to repeat that, because an awful lot of “yes, but” conversation seems to have emerged over the last few days.
Caitlin Clark. Broke. The record.
The breaking of the record, of course, was not unexpected. She had already passed Kelsey Plum’s women’s NCAA Division I record and Lynette Woodard’s AIAW record. To best Maravich, she needed just 18 points, something that she is seemingly able to do blindfolded and with one hand tied behind her back. Indeed, she finished the game with 35 points, nine assists, six rebounds, and -- just for good measure -- three steals. Iowa fans -- all fans -- were more than ready for the moment, with former WNBA star Maya Moore -- Clark’s basketball idol -- and Woodard (more on her later) in the seats. Clark, too, had come prepared, announcing only a few days earlier that she will leave her college career behind to enter the 2024 WNBA Draft.
What has been unexpected -- and honestly, will I ever learn? -- are those who seem to be taking her massive accomplishment with a grain of salt, asking for a context not often demanded when a record falls. Maravich wasn’t allowed to play varsity at LSU his freshman year. There wasn’t a shot clock. There wasn’t a 3-point line. He did it in fewer games. And, one desperate soul reminded me, the women play with a smaller ball -- 28.5 inches to the men’s 29.5 inches -- but the standard hoop, meaning they have a better chance of controlling their play and sinking their shots.
All of this is true. But those things aren’t how records -- or sport -- works. There are always differences in terms of who broke the record, when they broke the record, and where they broke the record. What is perhaps more important to consider is when “what about”s get put on the table and when they don’t. Who gets to break a record without someone wanting to add an asterisk or adjustment?
Sometimes the conversation is absolutely warranted. Just ask Woodard -- whose record bested Plum’s by some 122 points. So why wasn’t the NCAA talking about Woodard’s women’s record instead of Plum’s? Because it was not the governing body of women’s basketball when she played and, thus, does not recognize Woodard’s stats -- or any stats prior to 1982. That, unlike the size of the ball, is context worth noting.
In tennis, we differentiate records that are “in the Open Era,” which started in 1968 when professionals were allowed to compete against amateurs in Grand Slams. In track and field, technology certainly has enhanced times -- cleats and uniforms have come a long way (and still have nothing on the Speedo LZR era in swimming) -- but has also allowed for more precise records that adjust for the impact of wind and altitude.
I mean, it wasn’t exactly an accident that at 8000 feet above sea level, Bob Beamon jumped so far at the 1968 Mexico City Olympic Games -- 29.2 feet -- that the officials didn’t have an instrument long enough to mark the sand. But his record stood, and that was right.
When Hank Aaron began to close in on Babe Ruth’s home run record, the death threats that landed in his (and the Braves’) mail boxes, the n-word filling page after page, came fast and furious. Indeed, Aaron received so much mail -- close to one million letters, much of them filled with things that cannot be said on the radio and shouldn’t be said ever, anywhere -- that the U.S. Postal Service gave him a plaque for receiving the most mail of any American.
The record Aaron set on April 8, 1974 stood until 2007 when Barry Bonds beat it. There wasn’t a lot of talk about how many seasons had been played or how many at-bats each athlete had or how many intentional walks each one endured. But with Bonds, there was talk, of course, about steroids, as his record is murky at best because of the accusations that plague his record.
Indeed, the legitimacy of sport records has perhaps never been as intensely questioned as the steroid era of baseball. It took over three-plus decades for Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire to break Roger Maris’s single season home run record, which of course had been the record that took down Ruth’s. The asterisks next to their names demonstrate how steroids undermined our ability to compare hitting in baseball across seasons.
And yet those original records of Babe Ruth? He was a generational athlete who played -- as did Pistol Pete Maravich, who played in the SEC -- in a segregated league, meaning that top talent was not necessarily in the pool of competition, yet another example of how all records have their “what about” aspects. And while nowhere near as consequential as the impact of Jim Crow on sport, it is likely worth mentioning that in 1968, the height of the pitcher’s mound was lowered, empowering the hitter. And those pitchers that McGwire and Sosa were slugging against? Yeah, they took steroids too.
So, when people try to compartmentalize Clark’s achievement as something separate -- something easier -- to accomplish than the record she broke, let’s remember that records happen in different moments, in different eras. It is the nature of sport’s persistent hold on us. Anyone who wants -- needs -- to put an asterisk next to Clark’s record because she had more games or gets to shoot 3-pointers or because men defend shooters better than women or nutrition protocols are better or balls bounce higher or are smaller or bigger or -- you know -- whatever. It isn’t how records work. It isn’t how sports work. She broke it. Done. Get over it. And if you really, really, need more convincing? Check out her field goal percentage stats.
Amy Bass is professor of sport studies and chair of the division of social science and communication at Manhattanville College. Bass is the author of ONE GOAL: A COACH, A TEAM, AND THE GAME THAT BROUGHT A DIVDED TOWN TOGETHER, among other titles. In 2012, she won an Emmy for her work with NBC Olympic Sports on the London Olympic Games.
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