The WNBA Finals were supposed to be the crowning moment of a landmark season for women’s basketball. Instead, they exposed a crisis at the heart of the league—one that goes far beyond the box score, and is embodied in the empty seats, plummeting ticket prices, and the unmistakable absence of rookie sensation Caitlin Clark.
Las Vegas Aces star A’Ja Wilson and Phoenix Mercury’s DeWanna Bonner entered the championship series expecting a celebration of elite talent and record-breaking fan engagement. What they found instead were half-empty arenas, tickets selling for as little as $6, and a palpable lack of energy. The scene was a stark contrast to the feverish atmosphere Clark and the Indiana Fever had generated all season long.
Camera crews struggled to hide the glaring swaths of vacant seats. The echo of the ball on the hardwood replaced the roar of the crowd. Players, visibly frustrated, realized that the momentum and excitement of the season had vanished with Clark’s early playoff exit. “This is the finals,” Wilson muttered in disbelief during warm-ups, her confidence shaken by the lackluster turnout.
The numbers don’t lie. When Clark played, arenas were packed and TV ratings soared. Her first playoff game with the Fever drew 1.8 million viewers—more than all other playoff games that day combined. Last year, a ticket to see Clark’s Fever in the playoffs cost $133 at minimum; this year, the finals couldn’t command more than the price of a fast-food meal.
Clark’s absence wasn’t just felt in the stands. It reverberated through social media, where fans roasted the league for its inability to capitalize on her popularity. “$6? That’s not a finals ticket. That’s a parking fee,” one viral post read. Split-screen images comparing packed Fever games to empty finals arenas hammered home the point: Clark was the draw, the story, the phenomenon.
Inside the locker rooms, disappointment turned to anger. Wilson and Bonner felt betrayed by a league that had promised growth and exposure, only to deliver empty promises and even emptier seats. Bonner’s postgame comments were raw: “You work your whole life for this. You want to feel the energy, the love, the fans, but look around.”
The resentment ran deep, especially as veterans like Wilson and Cheryl Swoopes had spent months downplaying Clark’s impact, questioning whether fans were only watching because she was white. Now, with the finals struggling for attention, those same players were confronted with the reality that Clark’s popularity was anything but superficial.
League officials scrambled for damage control. Commissioner Kathy Engelbert praised the “competitive spirit” of the finals, but her words rang hollow. Press conferences became battlegrounds, with reporters demanding answers for record-low attendance and declining engagement. Engelbert’s insistence that “this isn’t about one player” only fueled the backlash, as the disconnect between leadership and fans became painfully obvious.
Sponsors and networks took notice. Executives privately expressed concern, noting that their investment hinged on the momentum Clark had created. Some even began reevaluating future broadcast commitments, fearing the finals could not deliver the viewership Clark had guaranteed.
The finals exposed a deeper divide within the WNBA: the tension between veterans and the new wave of talent. Younger players quietly acknowledged that Clark’s rise benefited everyone—higher salaries, more attention, greater opportunities. Yet, some veterans viewed her success as a threat, not a gift. “Caitlin helped everyone. Why are people mad about that?” one anonymous player asked, capturing the sentiment of a generation ready for change.
As the finals limped toward their conclusion, the message was clear: the WNBA cannot afford to ignore the fans, the stories, and the players who bring life to the league. The leadership’s refusal to embrace Clark’s impact—and its inability to sustain the excitement she generated—has left the league at a crossroads.
The optics were devastating. The championship was played in an echo chamber, begging for an audience that had already moved on. Social media, sponsors, and networks all demanded accountability. Petitions calling for Engelbert’s resignation circulated online, while the hashtag #KathyMustGo trended across platforms.
The WNBA Finals of 2025 will be remembered not for the games played, but for the crisis they exposed. The league lost more than viewership—it lost credibility. Until leadership learns to embrace the stars who make millions care, every finals will risk the same fate: empty seats, muted celebrations, and a sport in desperate need of unity and vision.
Caitlin Clark gave fans a reason to believe. The league squandered it. Now, the path forward demands humility, honesty, and the courage to rebuild trust—before the echo of empty arenas becomes the new normal for women’s basketball.
Why do you think the finals were a disaster? Was it just the absence of Caitlin Clark, or is there a deeper problem at play? Share your thoughts below.
