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June 21, 1997: Vickie Johnson defends Penny Toler in the first game of the WNBA.
(Photo by Todd Warshaw/NBAE via Getty Images)

For the most part, your intrepid blogger tends to shy away from non-game posts. But this season, as the Liberty finally give due honor to their past, I'll be doing retrospectives on the honorees. They may all end up turning into mini-essays the way this one did; we shall see how far down Memory Lane each of these nights takes me.

First up, "at guard, 5-9 from Louisiana Tech, number 55, VICKIEJOHNSON!"

Somehow, it's appropriate that Vickie Johnson is the first inductee into the Liberty's Ring of Honor. Somehow it's appropriate that on a relentlessly hot summer day in New Jersey, we honored a Louisiana kid who never wanted to be so far away from home.

She wasn't our first- those were Rebecca and Spoon, Kym and Sue. She won't be our last. But she was a constant, steady as bedrock, reliable as the tick of the clock, there for whatever needed to be done. Most sung for being most unsung, the favorite for those who never claimed favorites, she was the symbol of a team that was greater than the sum of its parts. Her unorthodox jumper- leaning back slightly, with an exaggerated follow-through in her wrist- is as much an icon as the Liberty torch.

Vickie Johnson is a Johnson, and that means she came to New York with a PA call already made for her. That means that she shared the same growl over the loudspeaker that Larry Johnson did, venerable Mike W.'s rapid one-word call whenever one of those silky jumpers or fast break lay-ups went in. "Vickiejohnson!" She was woven into our traditions easily, as if we knew she belonged even before she did. I'll admit that when the lineup ends with a 5-9 guard, when the last announcement starts with "and at guard, 5-9 from"... my head fills in "Louisiana Tech, number #55, Vickie Johnson!" It's been that way since Loree Moore, and it stays that way with Cappie Pondexter.

She was so young when she came to us, pretty much fresh out of college, rejected by the ABL, wanting no part of New York until Teresa Weatherspoon was assigned to the team, doing yeoman's work at the 2 and the 3, her hair short and messy. We watched her grow up, watched her shift to the backcourt when Crystal Robinson replaced Sophia Witherspoon, watched her grow out her hair into the neat straight braids that so seldom changed except in length, watched her score when she needed to score, watched her defend the best guards in the league. On a team that prided itself on defense, one with a two-time Defensive Player of the Year, she was the one Cynthia Cooper singled out as the best defender she had ever faced.

We watched her grow up, and then we watched her leave, and our hearts were broken. That wasn't the way it was supposed to end. That was never the way it was supposed to end. We all knew how it was supposed to end: she would retire in honor with the New York Liberty, and someday right around now, 17,000 people would stand and cheer as her #55 was raised to the rafters at Madison Square Garden. There was never supposed to be "she said, she said", or the years in San Antonio (which is no offense to the Silver Stars and their fans, you've taken very good care of her).

The jersey I've owned for twelve years, the one that serves to mark me, is Rebecca Lobo's #50, but that's a story for another time. Cost conscious even in my teens, I saw price tags and never asked for jerseys or shirts. I wish I had. VJ's jersey was one of the three I would have asked for. (You'll definitely find out about one of the others. Hopefully, if my fellow fans agree with me, you'll find out about the third.)

The numbers- and they are majestic in the way they accrued as she simply went about her business- speak volumes. But last night, she said that the stats don't tell the whole story, and that's true as well. There's so much here about what she did on the court, because it's easy to sum up who she was off the court: class act, ambassador for the game and the team and the city, everything you could ask for in a person.

It's nearly impossible to single out a VJ memory. The consummate team player, she's woven into every memory of those days. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of shots blur together into one gestalt of that legendary left-handed jumper; dozens of fast breaks blend into each other until only the knowledge that she and Teresa Weatherspoon had to be reading each other's minds for her to be in that place in that time to get that pass and hit that shot remains.

And maybe that's the way she would want it. Maybe the woman who spent her time in the spotlight at center court thanking her teammates would prefer it that way. But maybe, in this era of highlight reels and superstar worship, it was long past time to honor and appreciate someone who simply gets the job done.

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