The WNBA is a league perpetually on a knife’s edge, where every dribble, every stare, and increasingly, every casual comment made off the court is scrutinized through the microscopic lens of social media and rivalry. What was once considered harmless locker-room banter or a personal health update can instantly become a declaration of war, threatening to derail careers and set fanbases ablaze.
Nowhere is this tension more palpable than in the ongoing, culturally charged dynamic surrounding the Indiana Fever and the Chicago Sky. And this past week, the simmering cold war erupted into a full-scale social media conflagration, all thanks to a diet plan and a carefully placed punchline.
The central figure in this latest drama is Sophie Cunningham, the hard-nosed veteran guard for the Indiana Fever. Cunningham, a foundational piece of the Fever’s defense and a vocal teammate of phenom Caitlin Clark, has been spending her offseason focused not on the court, but on the arduous task of healing. After suffering an MCL tear in August, Cunningham’s recovery has demanded not only physical therapy but a total overhaul of her dietary habits—a sacrifice she recently detailed to her fans with her characteristic candor and humor.
Cunningham’s struggle was instantly relatable to anyone who has battled the tyranny of a restrictive eating plan. She lamented the sudden disappearance of her favorite comforts, admitting the process felt less like athlete conditioning and more like radical deprivation.
“A huge one I forgot to mention is gluten, which is in pretty much every carb possible,”
Cunningham said candidly. “And I know they make gluten-free stuff, but that s**t tastes weird to me. I can still eat chicken, though. That’s good.”
She detailed the rigorous restrictions imposed by her doctors: no pork, no beef, and a severe restriction on high-gluten foods and dairy. The dairy restriction, in particular, was a personal tragedy for the player. “The ones I really am like worried about is the dairy and gluten,” she admitted. “I’m not kidding, that’s in every meal that I eat. I put cheese on everything. It’s like one of my favorite things.”
The veteran player, known for her quick wit, attempted to spin this dietary hardship into a comedic positive. Giving up the staples of an American athlete’s diet, she joked, must mean she was about to achieve a new level of physical perfection.
“So, maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. I don’t know. But maybe I really am about to get fit and live my best life,” she mused. And this is where the simple health update turned into a headline-generating, fan-enraging controversy. She concluded the thought by saying, “Yeah, I feel like I’m kind of turning into a rabbit. So, I don’t know. guess I’m going to turn into a Victoria’s Secret model. Call me Angel Reese.”
In one fell swoop, Cunningham had crossed the invisible, yet volatile, line that separates casual sports talk from the WNBA’s current culture war.
The Power and Peril of a Name-Drop
To understand the sheer magnitude of Cunningham’s final three words, one must understand the significance of Angel Reese’s recent cultural achievements. Reese, the Chicago Sky star and Cunningham’s fierce rival, has transcended the typical boundaries of professional athletics. In 2025, she made global headlines by walking the runway at the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show in Brooklyn, becoming one of the first professional athletes—male or female—to serve as a primary model for the iconic lingerie brand.
Reese’s involvement with Victoria’s Secret is not just a sponsorship; it is a definitive statement about her brand, her influence, and her successful merging of athletic prowess with high-fashion celebrity. The move cemented Reese as a generational marketing phenomenon, a player who dictates culture as much as she dictates defensive possessions.
Therefore, Cunningham’s quip—that her restrictive diet might make her look like a Victoria’s Secret model, followed by the direct command, “Call me Angel Reese”—was instantly weaponized. Was it a compliment, praising Reese’s physique and success? Or was it a shade-filled barb, implying that the only way for a player like Cunningham to achieve that level of model status was through enforced, miserable deprivation? In the context of the Fever-Sky rivalry, the answer, for most fans, was clear: this was a strategic attack.
The Rivalry That Never Sleeps
The shadow looming large over this entire exchange is, of course, Caitlin Clark. Clark and Reese’s rivalry, forged in their college careers and transported wholesale to the WNBA, is the single most compelling narrative in the sport today. It is a rivalry built on mutual competitiveness, stylistic differences, and a relentless thirst for victory, all magnified by the media spotlight.
Sophie Cunningham, as Clark’s teammate, is seen by many fan factions as an extension of the Fever’s brand identity. Her words are not just her own; they are implicitly viewed through the lens of team loyalty. Critics immediately interpreted the “joke” as Cunningham’s attempt to inject herself into the Clark-Reese dynamic, serving as a verbal enforcer for her star teammate. It was seen as an unnecessary, petty, and highly strategic dig at a rival’s success outside of the basketball court.
The social media response was swift, brutal, and utterly unforgiving. Fans, particularly those loyal to Reese and the Chicago Sky, pounced on Cunningham’s comments, suggesting her motives were rooted in desperation for attention.
One fan comment, which quickly went viral, cut to the core of the accusation, stating plainly: “She’s unable to post content without mentioning another player — good or bad or shady. just a clout chasing jealous lil girl.”
Another response, dripping with visceral anger, suggested the comment had irrevocably poisoned the well: “I’ll slap tf outta her rn I don’t ever want her saying Angel name ever again.”
A third questioned the entire rationale behind the name-drop: “This is so weird. Why even bring her up like that?”
The tenor of the criticism was unified: Cunningham was perceived as leveraging the league’s most potent rivalry for personal relevance, attempting to generate views and clicks by riding the coattails of Angel Reese’s highly successful brand.
The backlash suggested a profound cultural misunderstanding: Reese’s Victoria’s Secret fame is sacrosanct territory for her fanbase, representing a successful challenge to traditional beauty standards and a monumental step in the integration of athletics and high fashion.
To frame it as the result of a grueling, rabbit-food diet was seen as diminishing the achievement.
The Defense and the Damage Control
While the initial wave of response was overwhelmingly negative, a contingent of fans and observers rushed to Cunningham’s defense, arguing that the comment was being willfully misinterpreted in the toxic atmosphere of the WNBA fandom.
“How are people taking this as a diss against Angel?? lmaoo,” one defender tweeted, expressing bewilderment at the controversy.
Another attempted to frame the comment as a clear positive, arguing, “It’s a compliment and it ain’t even backhanded.”
Yet, even some neutral observers felt the entire situation was poorly managed, regardless of intent.
One nuanced take suggested Cunningham had attempted an olive branch that was clumsily executed: “It wasn’t a straight up diss or anything but it definitely feels like shes overcompensating by trying to make it seem like shes cool with Angel like that. Hopefully people did watch the whole clip though.”
This perspective suggests that even if Cunningham intended a compliment, the current state of the WNBA rivalry is so poisonous that such a cross-pollination of names is simply impossible without an explosive reaction. The public sphere no longer allows for ambiguous humor between rivals; in the Clark-Reese ecosystem, every word is either a direct endorsement or a subtle attack. There is no middle ground.
The High Cost of the WNBA Spotlight
The Sophie Cunningham-Angel Reese episode is a sobering reminder of the new reality for professional athletes, particularly those in the WNBA. With viewership and cultural relevance reaching unprecedented heights, the athletes are under pressure to be transparent, relatable, and authentic—yet they are constantly being monitored by a global, polarized audience eager to weaponize any statement.
Cunningham’s initial intent was likely to share a personal, vulnerable struggle—giving up her beloved cheese—and end with a lighthearted joke. She spoke of her effort to “get fit and live my best life.” Instead, her simple off-season update has been swallowed by the rivalry machine, turning her dietary sacrifice into a public relations crisis.
The incident underscores the specialized terminology that WNBA stars must now internalize: it’s not just about ball handling and defensive sets; it’s about “clout chasing,” “branding,” and navigating the minefield of “shady” social media commentary. The physical game of basketball has ceded ground to the psychological and cultural warfare conducted online.
As Cunningham continues her recovery, she now has a second, equally challenging task: navigating the fallout from the joke that wasn’t funny to half the league’s fanbase. Whether the comment was a calculated diss or a massive social misstep, the damage has been done. When the Fever and the Sky meet again on the court, the tension will be palpable, fueled not just by the score, but by the raw, personal residue of one veteran’s attempt at humor that went spectacularly, and savagely, wrong. In the new WNBA, even a health update can become a declaration of war.
