The sound is the first thing you notice. It’s a roar that has been building for years, a wave of energy crashing through sold-out arenas across the country. This is the new era of the Women’s National Basketball Association. Fueled by a new generation of transcendent stars like Caitlin Clark, the league has broken into the cultural stratosphere. Viewership is shattering records, merchandise is flying off the shelves, and the games themselves are electric displays of world-class athleticism. For the first time in a long time, the WNBA is not just part of the conversation; it is the conversation. But in the shadows of this bright new spotlight, a strange and unwelcome phenomenon is taking root, one that threatens to derail the narrative. It’s a problem that isn’t coming from the playbook or the locker room, but from the stands.

It happened in a flash of neon green. During a high-stakes matchup between the Indiana Fever and the Los Angeles Sparks, the familiar rhythm of the game—the squeak of sneakers, the bounce of the ball, the calls of the players—was jarringly interrupted. With just a couple of minutes left in the second quarter, an object flew from the crowd and landed on the court. It was a sex toy. Indiana’s Sophie Cunningham, positioned nearby, saw it land and recoiled, her body language a perfect mix of startlement and utter disbelief. Before the moment could fully register, her teammate Kelsey Plum, acting on pure instinct, swiftly kicked the object out of bounds, a bizarre but necessary act of on-court maintenance. The game moved on, but the incident became a symbol of the league’s strange new predicament.

After the game, the official responses were swift and sharp. Los Angeles Sparks coach Lynne Roberts did not mince words, calling the fan’s action “ridiculous, dumb, and dangerous.” Her frustration was palpable. In her eyes, it was an egregious act of disrespect, a senseless stunt that jeopardized the safety of the players who put their bodies on the line every night. It was a stark reminder that while the players are professionals, they are not immune to the foolish and reckless actions of a few.

At the center of it all is Sophie Cunningham, who has unwillingly become the face of this bizarre trend. Known for her candid and often funny personality, Cunningham has been forced to navigate a situation that is equal parts alarming and absurd. This wasn’t her first brush with the issue. In a prescient social media post just days before the L.A. game, she had pleaded with the public, “Stop throwing dildos on the court. You’re going to hurt one of us.” When the incident happened just feet away from her, her follow-up tweet was laced with irony: “This didn’t age well.”

What could have been dismissed as a single, bizarre prank in Los Angeles was soon revealed to be a larger, more coordinated trend. That same night, similar green objects were reportedly thrown at games in Phoenix and New York. While those didn’t make it onto the court, the message was clear: this was becoming a “thing.” In the span of one week, the WNBA had at least three such incidents to contend with. As Cunningham later explained, the situation is a paradox. “It’s wild. It’s funny, but it’s also dangerous,” she said, articulating the core conflict. “If it hits someone in the face or causes someone to trip, that’s not a joke.”

Speaking on a podcast, Cunningham delved deeper into the players’ perspective. She recounted a story that grounded the prank in real-world consequences. “People joke about it, but those things can cause injuries,” she insisted. “I’ve tripped on one before — not even at a game — and they’re not great for ankles.” She also wryly acknowledged the potential for a different kind of injury: one to her reputation as a serious athlete. Imagining if the object had hit her, she laughed, “That’d be what I’d be known for the rest of my life. That’s not what I trained for.”

The absurdity of it all has even reached her inner circle. She shared that the new pre-game ritual now includes texts from her own mother, whose recent message wasn’t one of encouragement, but a surreal warning: “Watch out for flying dildos tonight.”

This is a distinctly 21st-century problem, where a real-world event is instantly amplified and distorted by internet culture. The incidents became fodder for memes and jokes across social media, with some users mockingly telling players to “stop playing basketball on the dildo range.” More disturbingly, the trend was briefly gamified, with online betting markets popping up to allow wagers on the color of the next toy thrown, turning a safety hazard into a cheap thrill.

The league is not sitting idly by. One individual involved in the stunt has been arrested and issued a ban from WNBA games, a clear signal that there are consequences. And yet, the core security challenge remains. How do you stop something that a metal detector can’t find? “They’re rubber,” Cunningham noted of the objects. “You can sneak it in pretty easily if someone really wants to.” This reality leaves venue security in a difficult position, trying to prevent a problem that is easy to conceal and motivated by a desire for viral notoriety.

This leaves the WNBA at a crossroads. How does a league, in the midst of a historic rise, handle a narrative that is so far off-script? Embracing it as “good publicity” feels cheap and risks trivializing player safety. Ignoring it feels irresponsible and allows the trend to fester. It’s a delicate balancing act. As one commentator warned, “The WNBA wants to be taken seriously… You can’t build a brand around this kind of chaos.”

Ultimately, the players are the ones who have to perform amidst this strange new circus. They have to block out the noise—both literal and figurative—and focus on the game. “It’s not streakers. It’s not violent. But it’s weird,” Cunningham conceded. “But at the end of the day, we’re athletes. We’re here to play.” It’s a sentiment of resilience, a declaration that their professionalism will not be derailed by absurdity. As the WNBA’s star continues to rise, it’s clear that its athletes are not just competing against other teams, but against the unpredictable forces of modern fame, where the line between adoration and disruption is becoming dangerously blurred.