Believe the hype: Sun guard Courtney Williams feeds off dad’s energy Don Williams is a constant presence at WNBA games and in his daughter’s life

Maybe you’ve seen Don Williams at WNBA games.

He’s the man grooving to whatever music the DJ is playing and recruiting other WNBA parents to do the same. He’s the unofficial mascot hyping the crowd from his courtside seat and, at times, an impromptu coach when his team is in a rut.

Most importantly, he’s the proud father of Connecticut Sun guard Courtney Williams, who has averaged 18.5 points per game during this playoff run. Whenever she scores, he holds an oversize cutout bearing his daughter’s face high above his head for all the crowd to see.

Don Williams, the father of Connecticut Sun guard Courtney Williams, holds up an oversize cutout bearing his daughter’s likeness as he celebrates during Game 2 of the 2019 WNBA semifinals against the Los Angeles Sparks on Sept. 19 at the Mohegan Sun Arena in Uncasville, Connecticut.

“He has definitely been this way always at all my games, doing the same thing,” Courtney Williams said. “But I love it. I feed off his energy when he’s over there clowning and jumping around and having a good time, then just telling me what I need to do and how I need to do it. It definitely keeps me going while I’m playing.”

Even after the Sun lost 94-81 to the Washington Mystics in Game 3 of the WNBA Finals to go down 2-1 in the series, Don and Courtney’s mother Michele were both in attendance to let their daughter know to keep her head up. That there’s another game to focus on, and they’ll be at that one too.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Kobe breaks down the play of Sun guard Williams

Kobe Bryant analyzes the performance of Connecticut Sun floor general, Courtney Williams, during Game 3 of the WNBA Finals. Watch the full episode of “Detail” on ESPN+.

For Williams, her father’s energetic spirit and extra antics on the sidelines are nothing new. In the Williams household, that was just Dad being Dad.

It was something that always kept Williams going as she developed her passion for basketball, which started at an early age while she played with other kids in her mother’s recreational league. When Courtney was around 7 years old, her father noticed that her skills were above average. Participating in a league where boys and girls played against each other, Courtney was already beating the boys.

“She’d just dribble that ball,” he said. “Nobody could stop her from scoring. I said, ‘Uh-oh! I got me one!’ ”

From there, Williams spent more time learning the game and falling deeper in love with the sport.

“[Basketball] was our recreational sport,” Don Williams said. “And we ran all the time. We’d run, run, run. I knew the skills were going to come because she had all the genes. Me and her mama had skills. I had no doubt about that. I just had to program her confidence.

“Early on I just thought, What am I going to put inside her head. [My kids] love and respect Daddy. Whatever Daddy says, it’s what it is. So I needed to put in her head that she’s the baddest, she’s the best. Can’t nobody beat her at nothing. Whatever it was, track or basketball, she always had it locked in her head that can’t nobody mess with her or beat her.”

That piece of advice stuck.

“When I was younger, he said, ‘Always be cocky, but be able to back it up,’ ” Williams said. “He told me that when I was little. ‘Don’t let people fool you and tell you that being cocky is a bad thing. Just as long as you back it up, you can do what you want to.’ ”

It was an attitude Williams would carry throughout her career at Charlton County High School in Georgia, where she once scored 42 points in a single game, breaking the school record her mother had set 22 years beforehand. The skills also transferred to her collegiate career at the University of South Florida, where Williams became the only player in USF’s history to compile 2,000 points (2,304), 900 rebounds (931) and 300 assists (318).

When Williams returned home during breaks and holidays, though, Don Williams continued to challenge his daughter. Only this time, Williams was better, faster, stronger.

“We had about a 4-mile run around the neighborhood and I would outrun everybody,” Don Williams said. “I told [Courtney], when she beat me in that run, then she’d be ready. The last time we did it, her second year of college, she made me look bad. That’s when I knew she was ready.”

In 2016, Williams was selected eighth overall in the WNBA draft by the Phoenix Mercury before being traded to the Sun two months later. She remains the highest WNBA draft pick in USF program history.

Williams has been making waves with her energy during her four seasons in the league. The 25-year-old was the second-leading scorer on the Sun this season, averaging 13.2 points per game. She also averaged 5.6 rebounds and 3.8 assists per game.

Connecticut Sun guard Courtney Williams (center) uses a towel from her father, Don (right), after being hit in the mouth during Game 2 of the 2019 WNBA semifinals against the Los Angeles Sparks. The Sun swept the Sparks to advance to the WNBA Finals against the Washington Mystics.

Anthony Nesmith/Icon Sportswire via Getty Images

On Tuesday night, the Sun will face the Mystics with their season on the line, but they can count on Don Williams grooving to some beats, waving a giant cutout high above his head and giving his daughter the confidence she needs.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

“I know there are a lot of people who don’t have their fathers in their lives,” Williams said, “but I’m blessed to have him and my mom both very present.”

The black falconer: One man’s love for birds in pictures How Rodney Stotts’ passion transformed his life

Rodney Stotts is an unlikely figure standing before the room full of young campers. Tall and gaunt in a black T-shirt and shorts, in worn Timberlands, he stands with a large owl perched on his gauntleted hand. He explains that Mr. Hoots, a Eurasian eagle owl, is an unreleasable bird that he has owned and taken care of for more than 20 years. Stotts moves his arm and Mr. Hoots spreads his wings and flaps hard, creating a breeze over the grade-schoolers and eliciting gasps as the children laugh in nervous amazement. His demeanor is serious, but he softens his tone a little for the kids. Eventually, a few of the adventurous ones come up to touch Mr. Hoots, and Stotts melts just a little more as he explains his love for the birds.

Stotts’ journey to master falconer and his position as raptor program coordinator for Wings Over America, part of the nonprofit Earth Conservation Corps, started when he was a young man growing up in Southeast Washington during the height of the crack cocaine epidemic. That period saw the district dubbed the “murder capital” for several years running during the late 1980s and ’90s. Stotts, now 48, recalls the part he played during those years. “Actually, I’d been selling drugs for almost 14 years before I ever got locked up on a drug charge. I used to sell crack and pills and stuff.”

When mandatory minimum sentences for crack were instituted in the ’90s, Stotts switched to weed, he said. When he was arrested, he faced five years but ended up serving five months in jail with two years’ probation. He was 31 years old and had already run the raptor program at Earth Conservation Corps but had left after a falling-out with a supervisor. He had another job, but said the real money came from the drugs.

He eventually got out of the drug life because of his mother and his daughter. “My daughter was little, and she just looked at me one day and she said, ‘Dad, I love you.’ And I was just sitting there and I was saying to myself, I want to hear that for a long, long, long time, and what I was doing, I wouldn’t.” His mother, who was addicted to crack herself for a while, would always jump when she heard a police car or ambulance and would check to see if all her children were accounted for.

Stotts realized all he really needed was to see his mother happy. “So I stopped. I slowly [left] the drug life … left that alone and just worked. The animals helped change me, which in turn let my mom see something that I wanted to see before she left here. So when she died three years ago, I know she was proud of what I was doing. That’s the biggest thing that made [me] want to change.”

His birds were a crucial part of that change. “The first time a bird flew to me and landed on my glove … there’s no food, sex, drug, adrenaline rush … I don’t know what you want to call it, but there’s nothing that can compare to it,” Stotts said. He returned to work at Earth Conservation Corps, where he’s worked with injured birds and does raptor presentations and other conservation work. He’s especially proud of the work he and the nonprofit did to restore the bald eagles to the Anacostia River; from 1994 to 1997, they released 16 bald eagles. “So the nesting pair of eagles that people see along the Anacostia and out through the Chesapeake now started from the original 16 bald eagles that we originally released,” he said.

Stotts’ desire to learn more about the raptors is what pushed him to become a falconer. He didn’t want to work only with injured birds. “So when I first said I wanted to do it, everyone started looking at me like I was crazy.” He needed a sponsor to pursue his falconry license but was met with racist skepticism. “Yeah, this white guy told me that … black people don’t fly birds, y’all eat them. These [are] hawks. These ain’t chickens. I met him like two years later and he said, ‘You’re Rodney. That was me on the phone that day. You know, I was joking.’ I said, ‘That bird right there? That one is mine. So I wasn’t.’ ”

Stotts created his own nonprofit, Rodney’s Raptors, to address what he saw as a flaw in the work he did for Wings Over America: He could work with youths only after they had been adjudicated and had to turn away young people who showed interest but were never in trouble. He saw a parallel in the way he worked with injured birds, rehabbing and only sometimes releasing them. Most raptors perish in their first year. As a falconer, he could trap a wild bird, train it, help it get through the winter, then release it stronger and fitter. “I wanted to start getting birds before they got injured so that we can do the transformation of getting you before you got hurt, helping you to get yourself on track and then releasing you, because 85 to 90% of the birds die in their first year. Eighteen-year-olds to 21, before they become that age, usually have a criminal record, been shot, [are] in the system in some way, shape, form or fashion. So I wanted to be able to get to them the same way with the birds — before they got hurt, before they got locked up — and then release them and let them grow.”

Sometimes, Stotts will just take his birds out into the city. It’s meaningful to him when somebody looks out his window and sees a hawk land on a black guy’s arm. “Everybody’s not going to be 50 Cent, everybody is not going to be LeBron James, everybody is not going to be Colin Kaepernick or whoever in the NFL. Everybody’s not going to do that,” he said. He cautioned that he doesn’t view himself as a role model. “I’m not the first black falconer. I’m not the first black person to hold a bird. I’m not first any of that. So to me, I don’t look at it like that because then … you’re not humble anymore. The minute you become happy, and you this and that, you start to take it for granted and don’t understand that that was a blessing. To be able to do what I do is a blessing for me.”

Despite this work, Stotts prefers the company of animals to people. “It’s like I have Asperger’s when it comes to people because I just don’t want to talk to them. I don’t want to be around them. They just irritate me. If I had the option of being around all animals, all the time, and no people? Give me my animals. Because I know that this animal that’s snarling at the cage and doing all of that, I have to earn its trust, and when I earn its trust, it’ll never do that to me again. That person that I’ve earned their trust, which I thought I did, they’ll stab you in the back in a heartbeat, throw you under the bus in a minute. So no animal is going to say, ‘Hey, Rodney did it,’ and bring the police to you. They’re going to run with you.” Stotts knows where he is most comfortable. “Give me my animals. I love my animals.”

You can learn more about Rodney’s Raptors at https://rodneysraptors.webs.com.

Rodney Stotts speaks to visitors along with Mr. Hoots, his Eurasian eagle owl, during a raptor presentation at the Monique Johnson Anacostia River Center in Southeast Washington.

Rodney Stotts brings Mr. Hoots, his Eurasian eagle owl, and Petunia, a Harris’s hawk, to a demonstration for young children attending the Capitol Hill Day School Summer Camp.

Rodney Stotts watches a young camper pet Mr. Hoots, whom he has taken care of for more than 20 years.

Rodney Stotts has a tender moment with Mr. Hoots during a raptor presentation at Earth Conservation Corps. “If I had the option of being around all animals, all the time, and no people? Give me my animals,” Stotts said.

While working with Gloria, one of his Harris’s hawks, Stotts gently pulls her down to avoid getting her tangled in the lines that run to the house after she flew onto the roof.

Gloria, a Harris’s hawk, eats a bit of mouse meat.

At the Wings Over America site in Laurel, Maryland, Rodney Stotts sets up an enclosure for some of the birds he has there.

Rodney Stotts prepares to move one of his Harris’s hawks to another enclosure at the Wings Over America site in Laurel.

Rodney Stotts, 48, trains a lot of Harris’s hawks because they are social and will live and hunt together. Here, Agnes and Joey are about to be moved to another enclosure.

Rodney Stotts cuts up some mouse meat to feed his birds.

Rodney Stotts coaxes Gloria, one of his Harris’s hawks, to his glove with a mouse.

Rodney Stotts feeds Gloria a bit of mouse meat after she flies to him.

 

Beyoncé’s ‘Homecoming’ Emmy snub is historic disrespect Let’s take a look into what made her Netflix concert film excellent

On Sunday, Fox will air the 71st Primetime Emmy Awards show at 8 p.m. EDT. But the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences’ credibility as an arbiter of excellence will face justified skepticism because Beyoncé went 0-for-6 at the Creative Arts Emmys last week.

She was nominated for her work on Homecoming, a documentary that captured her performance as the first black woman to headline the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival. And just as it was with 2016’s Lemonade, her previous visual album, America’s greatest living pop performer was royally snubbed.

For insight on how that snub might have been received, we can look to the self-titled album released at the end of 2013, which was accompanied not just with music videos but also documentary snippets that explained her mindset. One was about losing, and why she chose footage from her first professional loss — her childhood group, Girls Tyme, losing Star Search — to precede the grimiest, most boastful song on the album, “***Flawless.”

“I was only 9 years old, so at that time, you don’t actually realize that you could work superhard, and give everything you have, and lose. It was the best message for me,” Beyoncé explained. “When I put Ed McMahon introducing us as the ‘hip-hop-rapping Girls Tyme,’ it clicked something in my mind. I feel like something about the aggression of ‘Bow Down’ and the attitude of ‘***Flawless,’ — the reality is, sometimes you lose. And you’re never too good to lose and you’re never too big to lose. You’re never too smart to lose. It happens. And it happens when it needs to happen.”

The pop star’s shutout at the 2019 Creative Arts Emmys didn’t need to happen, but it did. And it’s completely reasonable that her team is having trouble embracing the outcome.

Beyoncé’s Netflix concert film Homecoming was nominated for six Emmys: outstanding directing for a variety special; outstanding variety special (prerecorded); outstanding costumes for variety, nonfiction or reality programming; outstanding music direction; outstanding production design for a variety special; and outstanding writing for a variety special.

Here’s what won:

  • Directing — Springsteen on Broadway
  • Variety special (prerecorded) — Carpool Karaoke: When Corden Met McCartney Live From Liverpool
  • Costumes — RuPaul’s Drag Race
  • Music direction — Fosse/Verdon
  • Production design — Rent
  • Writing — Hannah Gadsby: Nanette

The television academy’s decisions for music direction and variety special strike me as, at best, misinformed and, at worst, insulting. To understand why, let’s take a deeper look into what made Homecoming excellent, first with musical direction and then the show.

In crafting the musical arrangements for Homecoming, Beyoncé and music director Derek Dixie did something incredibly ambitious, something that requires an encyclopedic knowledge of black music and a broad imagination and acuity for music theory.

Beyoncé Knowles performs onstage during the 2018 Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival at the Empire Polo Field on April 21, 2018, in Indio, California.

Photo by Kevin Mazur/Getty Images for Coachella

What dominates Homecoming is a sustained nod to New Orleans. It extends past the tracks that originated on Lemonade, an exploration of Beyoncé’s Creole heritage. Dixie and Beyoncé didn’t just adapt her music for a marching band; they conducted a sonic archaeological dig and placed her within a continuum of black music. The orchestrations are reminiscent of the approach to pop music at Motown. Queen Bey’s hits benefit from the use of modern technology, which allows artists to take advantage of infinite possibilities. But they’re also written in a way that comes alive with a live band, an indication of top-notch songwriting and inspired orchestration.

See: the Homecoming arrangement of “Deja Vu,” which, after the first few measures of its bassline, drives into the song with horns that take a little from the funk of B.T. Express’ “Do It (T’il You’re Satisfied),” which is sampled on “Deja Vu,” and mixes it with strings more associated with Philadelphia soul.

When Beyoncé offers an assessment of the students’ abilities during an interlude, she’s not being hyperbolic. “The amount of swag is just limitless,” she says.

Ambitious ideas are one thing. Execution is another. And there is evidence that Beyoncé’s famously high standards were present in the show. The horn runs on “Say My Name,” for example, are exquisite — a blizzard of notes, played not by one person but a group. The greater the number of musicians attempting to play the same run in unison, the greater the likelihood that the sound will become muddied, which is why a classic choice for trumpet section battles at football games is “Flight of the Bumblebee.”

On “Say My Name,” those runs are clean, tight and distinguishable. But they are part of a bigger sonic and visual machine. Besides the horn runs, there are the vocal harmonies from Beyoncé and her Destiny’s Child mates, Kelly Rowland and Michelle Williams. Then add the percussive beats, separate from the drum line, that come from the steppers.

Everything has to happen in unison and is being performed in large part by college students. To attempt to do the whole thing not once but twice, and then stitch both performances together in postproduction, is, in a word, crazy.

When Beyoncé offers an assessment of the students’ abilities during an interlude, she’s not being hyperbolic. “The amount of swag is just limitless,” she says. “The things that these young people can do with their bodies and the music they can play and the drum rolls and haircuts and the bodies — it’s just not right. It’s just so much damn swag.”

Then there are the screaming trumpets that are integral to the sound of a historically black college or university (HBCU) band. If you’re listening to the Homecoming album, you can hear them in full force at about 1:37 into the first track, “Welcome,” and again in the last 40 or so seconds. Hitting those notes requires a skilled level of musicianship. Being able to hit them again and again over the course of a two-hour set, as Homecoming calls for, is harder because horn players have to retain their chops, or their embouchure, so that their facial muscles aren’t giving out before the performance is over.

These challenges are different from those faced by the music department of Fosse/Verdon, led by Alex Lacamoire, which won the Emmy for the first episode of the seven-part miniseries. Fosse/Verdon is about the personal and professional lives of dancer and actor Gwen Verdon and her creative and romantic partner director and choreographer Bob Fosse.

Lacamoire was charged with an assignment that was almost the reverse of what Dixie and Beyoncé were doing. He had to take highly recognizable songs across several different musicals, written by different composers, and aurally unify them, creating a soundtrack that feels like it’s a collection of songs from one musical called Fosse/Verdon.

Even though “Big Spender” is from Sweet Charity, and written by Cy Coleman and Dorothy Fields, and “Mein Herr” is a number from Cabaret, written by John Kander and Fred Ebb, Lacamoire’s arrangements make them sound like they belong in the same television show. In Lacamoire’s case, the artists unifying the collection are a dancer and a director, not a leading vocalist. The Music of Fosse/Verdon is from a variety of artists, from The Fandango Girls to Alysha Umphress to Bianca Marroquín. Creating and shaping that thematic continuity is not an easy feat.

Still, the recording sessions for Fosse/Verdon didn’t have to take place during a live concert in which the musicians are also performing choreography for two hours — without sheet music. The songs of Fosse/Verdon, which included “Cabaret,” “All That Jazz” and “We Both Reached for the Gun,” were originally written for musical theater. That doesn’t mean they aren’t difficult to play, but they were composed with the intention that a live orchestra would do so for eight shows a week on Broadway.

Listen to the Fosse/Verdon version of “All That Jazz,” the opening number of Chicago and one of the most iconic songs in musical theater history:

Sometimes songwriters will torture Broadway musicians with arrangements that test the limits of human endurance, but it’s usually vocalists who suffer. That’s what happened to Audra McDonald when she did Porgy and Bess on Broadway. Her teacher’s assistant at Juilliard described the role as “difficult” and a “voice-killer” because of the range it demanded and the frequency of the performances. In a 2012 Fresh Air interview with Terry Gross, McDonald spoke about the arduous task of singing “What You Want With Bess” eight times a week.

When Beyoncé took the stage in April 2018 at Coachella, the festival livestreamed the performance. In real time, the singer’s contemporaries marveled at what she’d accomplished.

Ambitious ideas are one thing. Execution is another. And, there is evidence that Beyoncé’s famously high standards were present in the show.

“How. in. The. Fuh. Did. She. Pull. That. Shiii. OFF!!!!??? It’s like 170 musicians onstage,” tweeted Questlove. “I mean the stage plotting. The patch chords. How many monitor boards were used??! Bandleading that s— woulda gave me anxiety. Hats off man. Jesus H Christ.”

If Questlove, who is about as experienced and virtuosic a bandleader as a person can be, declares that the job would have given him anxiety, that’s a good indication that what’s taking place onstage is extraordinary.

So why didn’t the television academy see it that way?

“It’s got everything to do with the voting membership, which skews much older, whiter, and more male than the industry or audience,” tweeted actor Rebecca Metz, who plays Tressa on the FX show Better Things. “The awards reflect their taste and viewing habits. I’m on a mission to recruit young, diverse members for this very reason.”

Let’s turn to the broader picture: What makes Homecoming uniquely great television? What Beyoncé accomplished in two performances at Coachella and with the Homecoming documentary is like a Broadway show. There’s singing, there’s dancing and there’s a story. Remember, the Emmy is not for the live performance itself but for the documentary. We’re asking specific questions here: How do Homecoming and Carpool Karaoke, which won the Emmy, function as pieces of television? What do they offer visually? What role does the music play in the delivery of a larger narrative?

Again, Beyoncé is operating in a space that’s not dissimilar from her competition. Corden, before becoming a late-night host, was an actor. He sings and dances, as evidenced by his stints hosting the Tony Awards. Both Corden and Beyoncé are invested in a type of musical theatricality. Corden is just more self-effacing about it.

“Carpool Karaoke,” Corden’s running gag on The Late Late Show, is reliably great. Corden has a magical capacity for disarming his guests. He offers a fun, anodyne form of celebrity schmoozing that isn’t weighted with self-serious pretension. It’s viral internet gold: Corden drives around with popular musical artists, sings their songs with them, and the whole thing is recorded. Past participants include rappers Migos, singer Adele and even then-first lady Michelle Obama, who rode with artist Missy Elliott.

Look at the episode of Carpool Karaoke that won the Emmy for best variety special (prerecorded) over Homecoming, in which Corden sings with Paul McCartney while driving around the Beatles’ hometown of Liverpool, England.

There’s some editing that takes place when Corden and McCartney are singing the “beep beep beep beeps” of “Drive My Car.” Clearly the show was able to get McCartney to do the bit at least twice, once in the passenger seat and then once as the driver, with both edited together.

Beyoncé does something similar in Homecoming, but she takes it to the extremes we have come to expect but perhaps do not appreciate. Homecoming editors Alexander Hammer and Andrew Morrow are responsible for a great cut that takes place about 6 minutes and 15 seconds into Homecoming, when the band, dancers and steppers are transitioning from “Crazy in Love” to Juvenile’s “Back That Azz Up.” First, the band is facing the cameras dressed in yellow. When Juvenile says, “Drop it,” the band members turn. Their backs are to the crowd, and everyone is in candy pink — which was the color of the uniforms for the second Coachella performance. The two were cut together, and the effect is almost supernatural. For that tiny bit of visual trickery to work, all 151 performers had to hit their marks at the same time, in the exact spots, for both performances, doing JaQuel Knight’s choreography.

That’s not for the Coachella audience — that’s just for television.

By the way, that choreography is informed by the history of New Orleans. While it’s identified in modern parlance as twerking, the moves go back to the days of segregated New Orleans, when black dancers performed in the city’s nightclubs that lined Rampart Street, such as the Dew Drop Inn and the Tick Tock Tavern. They performed something called “shake dancing,” one of the many descendants of the mixed-race social dance that took place at events known as quadrilles, held in 19th-century New Orleans ballrooms.

Shake dancing, as LaKisha Simmons explains in Crescent City Girls: The Lives of Young Black Women in Segregated New Orleans, was not just an illicit thrill. It was a rejection of respectability politics and of arbitrary definitions of propriety. It represented creativity and sexual freedom, two of the themes that pervade Beyoncé’s oeuvre. But it wasn’t seen in such generous terms by white writers documenting the culture of Rampart Street, or well-to-do blacks who avoided it. So putting the dance moves of these women onstage at Coachella and setting them off with sequins, discipline and precision becomes a way of honoring them and their labor.

In executing her Coachella set, Beyoncé elevated to an enormous stage an aspect of American culture that tends to be overlooked and misunderstood: the role of HBCUs in shaping pop culture. She used the marching band in Homecoming as both a bridge and a framing device to show how her own sound fits into the broader narrative of the African diaspora. She repeatedly demonstrated how the mélange of cultures in Louisiana, from the French whites to Afro-Caribbean residents to enslaved and free African Americans, influenced American culture.

“At least two centuries had passed since those unnamed slaves Thomas Nicholls observed had helped their mistresses in and out of their shoes, so that the white ladies could learn routines increasingly redolent of Africa, perhaps while their servants snuck away to try out some French steps of their own,” NPR music critic Ann Powers wrote in her 2017 book Good Booty: Love and Sex, Black & White, Body and Soul in American Music, making the connection between New Orleans quadrille balls and Beyoncé’s decision to appear in the music video for “Formation” as both a quadroon and a bounce dancer. “In that long span, countless dances had been danced, many identities blended and forced apart. The taboo baby had grown up and become a matriarch.”

She used the marching band in Homecoming as both a bridge and a framing device to show how her own sound fits into the broader narrative of the African diaspora.

Beyoncé was able to seamlessly and coherently weave together the words and cultural contributions of Nina Simone, James Weldon Johnson, Toni Morrison and others with contemporary figures such as Lil Yachty, Fast Life Yungstaz, Sister Nancy and O.T. Genasis. She pulled from the go-go sounds of Washington, D.C., the horn-heavy jazz of New Orleans, J Balvin’s “Mi Gente,” OutKast’s “SpottieOttieDopaliscious” and the music of her own husband, just to name a few, within an epic recounting of her 25-year repertoire. It was all valid, all valuable, all part of a vast quilt of what it means to be black, to be a woman, what it means to be American, to be human. And she was the vessel embodying all of it, from the militant self-love of Malcolm X to the regality of Nefertiti.

In that way, the work is euphoric, forward-looking and optimistic, even as it’s held together by the glue of the past.

The shows in which Verdon danced and Fosse directed and choreographed are in no danger of being overlooked. Chicago is the longest-running American musical in Broadway history. Certainly the legacy of the Beatles has been well-appreciated. These artists have been beatified with awards and decades of recognition.

But the musical and dance tradition that informs so much of American pop music, beyond Beyoncé’s, isn’t regarded with the same reverence for its innovation, its influence, its history. Instead, it remains marginalized as part of the African American story rather than the American story.

What a shame that American institutions such as the television academy still bypass recognition of the epic historical record and scholarship embedded within Beyoncé’s music because it is easier to see it in work that’s long been regarded as classic. This time it is they who have lost, not she.

Exploring the intersection of sports and criminal justice reform Maya Moore, Michael Rubin discuss how athletes are effecting change

WASHINGTON — The time for national criminal justice reform is now and the opportunity for athletes to effect that change has never been greater.

That was the primary takeaway from a discussion Tuesday centered on criminal justice reform and sports, held in Washington, D.C. The conversation, hosted by The Undefeated and The Marshall Project, featured WNBA superstar Maya Moore, Philadelphia 76ers co-owner Michael Rubin and The Undefeated columnist Clinton Yates.

During a two-hour discussion, the group covered an array of topics ranging from prosecutorial misconduct to the impact of athlete platforms.

Rubin was propelled into criminal justice reform after being present in the courtroom where his close friend, rapper Meek Mill, was sentenced to two to four years in prison when a judge ruled he had violated his probation. Rubin said the moment changed his life.

“I watched a probation officer recommend a reduced sentence. I watched a district attorney recommend a reduced sentence. Then I watched a judge send him to jail for two to four years for not committing a crime. I was shook to my core,” Rubin said.

In January, Rubin and Mill launched the Reform Alliance along with New England Patriots owner Robert Kraft, Brooklyn Nets co-owner Clara Wu Tsai and rapper/entrepreneur Jay-Z. The initiative was started with a mission to overhaul the probation and parole system. The group has a goal of freeing at least 1 million people caught up in the system within the next five years.

During the discussion, Rubin said he believes that Mill would still be in prison today if it weren’t for so many athletes who were front and center pushing for his release. He is channeling that approach for the Reform Alliance, which will aim to leverage the likeness and following of athletes and celebrities to tell the “crazy” stories of everyday citizens.“What we’re going to do with the Reform Alliance is we’re going to have big celebrities, athletes and influencers tell everyday stories,” Rubin said. “We’re trying to find the person you’ve never heard of, find a crazy story and then have people tell the story on social media.”

Philadelphia 76ers co-owner Michael G. Rubin sits on a panel discussing the intersection of criminal justice and sports on Sept. 17 at The Google Space in Washington D.C. Rubin was propelled into criminal justice reform after his close friend, rapper Meek Mill, was sentenced to two to four years in prison when a judge ruled he had violated his probation.

Jeff DiNicola

Rubin’s Alliance Reform partner Jay-Z made waves last month when he signed a multiyear partnership with the NFL to produce its Super Bowl halftime show and amplify the league’s social justice initiatives. Rubin strongly defended Jay-Z’s motives for partnering with the NFL, which have been criticized by some as monetizing a movement largely propelled by Colin Kaepernick’s protests.

“This is a guy who does not care about money, he cares about doing right,” Rubin said about Jay-Z. “The reason he got involved with the NFL is because he felt from the inside he could make a real difference. Anybody who is questioning Jay-Z, they don’t know what he’s about.”

Moore, an example of an athlete attempting to use her platform to enact change in the criminal justice system, shook up basketball when she announced in February that she would sit out the WNBA season. Moore has only spoken publicly on a handful of occasions since her announcement, focusing her year away from basketball on her family and her ministry work. She’s also dedicated much of her time to the criminal case of Jonathan Irons, who has been incarcerated since 1997 after being found guilty of burglary and assault with a deadly weapon and given a 50-year sentence. Moore, who met Irons through her family when she was 18, believes Irons was wrongly convicted.

Moore said the deeper she got into Irons’ case, the more she learned about the infrastructure of the criminal justice system and how it operates, giving her added motivation to educate communities about the problems pertaining to social justice occurring in their neighborhoods.

“Through getting to know Jonathan and his story, the world of criminal justice reform, mass incarceration and racial equality have become so real to me. Part of what I want to do when I tell people about Jonathan’s story is not just look at this story but look at the stories in your community.”

Four-time WNBA champion Maya Moore speaks on a panel discussing the intersection of criminal justice and sports on Sept. 17 at The Google Space in Washington D.C. Moore shook up the basketball world when she announced in February that she would sit out the 2019 WNBA season.

Jeff DiNicola

When asked by a member of the audience to detail why she didn’t play in the WNBA this year, Moore said a large part of her decision was to ensure that she would be available to see Irons’ legal proceedings through. Irons’ evidentiary hearing to potentially reopen his case — which Moore plans to attend, according to a report by The Associated Press — is on Oct. 9 in Missouri. For context, the WNBA playoffs, which began last week, could run as late as Oct. 10.

“It’s extremely hard to be engaged in these issues and be at the top of your craft,” Moore said. “I couldn’t imagine what this year would look like for me if I was fully invested in my team and trying to bring Jonathan home and raise awareness for some of these causes.”

Moore emphasized that Irons’ story is just one of many that require attention and education.

“This is a real-life story. There are more Jonathans out there.”