The roar at Footprint Center had barely subsided from the opening tip between the Phoenix Mercury and the visiting Indiana Fever when a collective gasp replaced the noise.
Two minutes into the first quarter, Brittney Griner rolled hard to the rim for an alley-oop, Caitlin Clark darted under the screen to help on a baseline drive, and the pair collided in mid-air—Griner’s forearm catching Clark’s shoulder, Clark’s elbow grazing the bridge of Griner’s nose.
The contact looked innocuous in real time, but Griner crumpled on landing, clutching the left side of her face while Clark steadied herself against the stanchion. Trainers from both benches sprinted onto the floor, and a crowd primed for a showcase suddenly sat stone-silent.
Griner was helped to the locker room with a towel pressed to her cheek, blood visible between her fingers. Clark, assessed a common personal foul, lingered near the Mercury tunnel until play resumed, making sure her counterpart was able to walk without assistance. Television cameras caught her mouthing, “I’m so sorry,” a gesture that briefly quenched any suggestion of malice.
Still, social media ignited within seconds, hashtags like #ClarkVsGriner trending worldwide even before local Phoenix stations confirmed that Griner was undergoing on-site imaging to rule out a fracture.
Inside the bowels of the arena, what the public didn’t see was the rapid escalation of medical concern. According to two team sources who spoke on condition of anonymity, Griner reported sharp spikes of pain radiating from her left cheekbone into her ear, paired with a sudden onset of vertigo.
The Mercury medical staff requested an immediate CT scan, fearing an orbital fracture or, worse, a temporal bone fracture that could compromise both hearing and equilibrium.
“Better safe than sorry” became the mantra, but Griner’s history of head and neck injuries—dating back to her collegiate days at Baylor—turned caution into near-panic.
When the preliminary scans came back, they offered a mixture of relief and anxiety. No break in the orbital rim appeared on the images, but doctors noted a previously undetected bone spur pressing against the temporomandibular joint. The spur itself wasn’t caused by the collision; rather, the impact and sudden swelling had made it painfully obvious for the first time.
Team physician Dr. Evan Steiner explained the finding to Griner in blunt terms: “You can probably play through the soft-tissue bruising, but the bone spur is a ticking time bomb. One wrong hit, and we’re talking nerve damage or chronic lockjaw.”
According to a staffer in the room, that was the moment Griner’s normally stoic facade cracked—she buried her face in her hands, whispering, “How long have I even had this?”
Back on the court the Fever built a double-digit lead, but the Mercury crowd’s attention kept drifting toward the tunnel, hoping to see their franchise center re-emerge.
Every time Clark touched the ball she was met with a subdued murmur rather than the usual mix of cheers and jeers—a sign fans recognized the gravity of what had transpired.
Meanwhile, the Mercury’s PR team huddled with doctors, weighing whether to break news of the bone spur discovery during the broadcast or wait for a post-game statement.
Griner herself, sources say, pressed for immediate transparency. “People will speculate if we don’t tell them,” she argued, still in warm-ups but now sporting a protective mask molded to her face.
Word finally leaked into the arena late in the third quarter, courtesy of sideline reporter Holly Rowe: Griner’s jaw would need further evaluation, and surgical removal of the bone spur was “on the table.” The phrase sent shockwaves through the WNBA community because such a procedure typically carries a four-to-six-week recovery timeline.
Phoenix, hovering in the middle of the playoff race, could ill afford an extended absence from its seven-time All-Star. On Twitter, former players like Lisa Leslie and Sylvia Fowles instantly chimed in, lamenting how an “incidental basketball play” had uncovered a potentially season-altering medical surprise.
Caitlin Clark learned of the diagnosis during a fourth-quarter timeout when a Fever staffer relayed the update. Her face blanched; she bent over, hands on knees, as if the weight of unintended consequences rested squarely on her shoulders.
After the Fever sealed a 96-83 victory, Clark bypassed normal post-game celebrations, instead requesting entry to the Mercury locker room to offer a personal apology. The Mercury granted the request.
Accounts from team personnel describe a brief but emotional exchange: Clark entered, mask still required because Phoenix’s locker-room policy hasn’t relaxed its COVID protocols, extended her hand and said, “BG, I never want to be the reason anyone misses time.” Griner, still in her protective face gear, replied, “It’s part of the game, kid. Just pray the scans are clean.”
That sense of unity, however, couldn’t shield Griner from swirling internal dread. Sources close to her say she spent the majority of her post-game session not on the trainer’s table but Googling “TMJ surgery complications,” a rabbit hole that did little to soothe nerves. She fired off texts to fiancée Cherelle and to her personal physician in Houston, seeking second and third opinions before dawn.
“After Russia, I thought nothing could scare me,” she reportedly told a teammate, “but the idea of my jaw locking on me—while I’m talking, laughing, playing—feels like a nightmare I can’t dribble away from.”
For the Mercury organization, the medical revelation dovetailed with existential questions about roster construction. Phoenix’s offense is built around Griner’s gravity in the low post.
Without her, the burden shifts to Diana Taurasi—who turns 42 this month—and to combo forward Sophie Cunningham, herself nursing a nagging ankle sprain.
Coach Nate Tibbetts, already under scrutiny for a sluggish start, now faces the prospect of installing a five-out system on the fly or hunting the waiver wire for emergency size.
General Manager Nick U’Ren admitted after the game that the front office had “contingency lists,” but none involved suddenly losing a 6-foot-9 Olympian to an accident-turned-medical-oddity.
Clark, for her part, addressed the media only after ensuring Griner had received her message. She opened with a statement: “Basketball is physical, but intent matters. I play hard, not dirty.
I’m relieved Brittney avoided a fracture, and I’ll be praying the next round of scans gives her peace of mind.” Reporters peppered her with whether she felt the collision might change how she attacks the rim against towering centers.
“It’s a lesson,” she said, “that space is tighter at this level, but pulling back isn’t who I am. You learn, you adjust, you keep playing.” The quote trended almost as quickly as footage of the collision, sparking debate on sports-talk shows about responsibility and speed differences between college and pro competition.
Lost in the storyline of panic and prognosis is the nuanced medical reality: bone spurs along the jaw can often be removed arthroscopically with minimal downtime. Yet in rare cases—particularly for athletes who absorb constant contact—they trigger cascading issues from chronic migraines to nerve paralysis.
Dr. Rachel Pham, a maxillofacial surgeon unaffiliated with the Mercury, explained on ESPN’s late-night SportsCenter that “the real risk isn’t the surgery; it’s re-injury before full healing, which can elongate recovery by months.”
WNBA schedulers face a dilemma: whether to preserve marquee late-season matchups that rely on Griner’s star power or slot the Mercury into lighter national windows until her status clarifies.
Griner will fly to Houston tomorrow morning for a consult with her longtime specialist, accompanied by a Mercury athletic trainer and a mental-health counselor—evidence the organization recognizes the psychological toll of another health scare on a player barely a year removed from international detainment.
In the interim she’s been ruled out indefinitely, placed under a daily evaluation protocol that balances jaw stability, concussion testing, and cardiovascular readiness should surgery be deferred. Team officials declined to project a return date but emphasized that “BG’s long-term well-being supersedes any competitive timetable.”
The immediate future now divides into parallel tracks. For Phoenix, the basketball question is whether they can stay afloat in a brutal Western Conference gauntlet without their interior anchor.
For Griner, the personal question is far more intimate: Can she trust her body again after it blindsided her with a silent condition? And for Caitlin Clark—who once shattered viewership records and now finds her every movement scrutinized—the incident becomes a checkpoint in her rookie learning curve, proof that speed and fearlessness carry unavoidable risk when human anatomy collides at full sprint.
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Late into the Phoenix night a lone custodial worker sweeping confetti near the baseline summarized the mood better than any official statement could. “You could feel everyone’s heart drop,” he said, nodding toward the spot where Griner hit the floor.
“Basketball’s fun, but life’s bigger.” The worker paused, leaned on his broom, then added, “Hope they both play again soon—game’s better that way.”
