
By Angel Osandu
There’s something undeniably magnetic about a Black love story. Something that pulls you in—the attractive cast, the familiar faces, or maybe the shared experiences that make you feel seen and understood. But most importantly, the drama. It’s the kind of story that’ll have you love and hate a couple at the same time. One that throws you onto an emotional rollercoaster but still makes you wish that love conquers all.
Gina Prince-Bythewood’s 2000 film “Love & Basketball” is not one of those films. It makes one wonder, “what’s the point?” Do the characters lose more than they gain in their pursuit of happiness?
I grew up watching movies like these. The classics. The ones that aired every weekend on BET. The ones that shaped how we imagine Black love to look and feel. These films were essential in the Black community and taught us that love required struggle, and that pain and turmoil were nonnegotiable. “Love & Basketball” was no exception. The romance was tightly wrapped in sacrifice and unbalanced devotion, leaving us to wonder if we were truly rooting for love or dysfunction. The characters may be fictional, but the plot isn’t. So many women disrespect themselves for the sake of love and endure so much pain for the “greater good.” But at what cost, if not your sense of self?
This movie doesn’t make the stigma any better. It perpetuates the harmful notion that love is an uphill battle, especially in the Black community. It serves as a pungent and troubling example of how Black love is perceived in the media—dysfunctional, toxic and pitiful. Better would be a portrayal of a mutually beneficial love, where partners grow together, and where the narrative challenges the idea that pain is an inevitable part of a love story.
“Love and Basketball” begins in 1981 with the Wrights moving into an upper-middle-class neighborhood in Los Angeles. Nathan Wright (Harry Lennix), a banker, and Camille Wright (Alfree Woodard), a stay-at-home mom, have two daughters: Lena (Regina Hall) and Monica (Sanaa Lathan). Their younger daughter, Monica, quickly meets next door neighbor Quincy McCall (Omar Epps) in a game of pickup basketball. The tomboy approaches McCall and his friends wearing a Lakers cap, baggy clothes and Converse shoes. To his surprise, Wright is a girl, and he no longer wants her to play with them. “Girls can’t play ball,” he exclaims. But with much disfavor, he reluctantly continues the game. We quickly see that Monica can really play. She scores several three pointers, has steady ball handling and can play good defense. A frustrated McCall refuses to lose to a girl and shoves her into the grass as she drives for a layup—causing her not only to miss but to have a permanent scar on her right cheek.
Prince-Bythewood presents themes that are very familiar, but even more frustrating, because they reinforce the belief that Black love is always a struggle. The idea that Monica has to constantly prove that she’s good enough—for the game, for McCall and for love itself—suggests that her worth is tied to external validation and meeting unfair and dehumanizing expectations. As the movie progresses, we see a budding connection between the two in high school. Wright brings an older date to the senior prom and McCall becomes flushed with jealousy, despite being there with Shawnee Easton, one of the popular girls. The childhood rivals are slow dancing with their dates while “I Wanna be your Man” by Zapp & Roger plays in the background. But they can’t help but lock eyes in a passionate gaze that speaks volumes—one that surpasses their shallow relationships. The emotional intensity reveals an unhealthy attachment between the two characters. “Love and Basketball” positions love as something that thrives on competition and jealousy. It teaches viewers that these dynamics are necessary to experience true love and reinforces a dangerous stereotype in Black relationships.
After ending their night with an intimate encounter, McCall and Wright attend USC together as a couple. The new territory presents challenges for Wright, as she’s forced to prove herself to the team upon learning she was a last-option recruit. Meanwhile, McCall has become the big man on campus: featured on SportsCenter and the starting guard for the Trojans. But his perfect world crumbles after his mother reveals his father’s infidelity. Unable to cope with the betrayal, McCall acts out, with little regard for Wright or her endeavors.
After a magnificent game, and an injured teammate, Wright secures the starting point guard position for the Lady Trojans. McCall is seemingly uninterested and less than supportive. He arrives at the after-party drunk and deliberately ignores her achievement. He spends the night flirting with other women and doesn’t once congratulate Wright for her success. Instead of celebrating with her teammates, Wright finds herself checking on McCall frequently and apologizing for upsetting him. He makes a point of making the night about him and displays a clear imbalance in the relationship—his needs and his baggage comes first.
The relationship ultimately ends and the two go their separate ways: Wright in Spain and McCall playing for the Los Angeles Lakers. Five years pass, and Wright remains unfulfilled, having lost her passion for basketball because of her ex. She decides to quit and return home. She arrives to an engaged McCall, with a torn acl. Two weeks before the wedding, she professes her feelings for him and proposes a pick-up game—for his heart.
The scene is almost too brutal to watch. It represents a power dynamic that’s seen in many relationships. Wright, who had fought tirelessly for her place in this world, allows her dreams to be overshadowed by McCall’s immaturity. She places herself in a vulnerable and shameful position to “win” McCall’s affection, something that shouldn’t have to be earned. This is the moment Prince-Bythewood prepares us for the entire film—that love means sacrifice, even when it’s crippling. He spends the game shoving her, taunting her and after his winning dunk, says “all is fair in love and basketball.”
As the scene plays out, the soulful voice of Meshell Ndegéocello plays in the background. The lyrics “I feel so dumb, what kind of fool am I that you so easily set me aside” fill the court as McCall demolishes her with back-to-back scoring. Watching Wright sacrifice so much of herself for McCall is heartbreaking.
There are very few movies in this genre that don’t involve an unhealthy relationship or one where a woman denies herself for love. “Love and Basketball” was essentially the blueprint for many Black love stories in the past decade, and it’s still relevant today. Movies share repeated themes of self-neglect and emotional turmoil, often framing these as essential to a successful relationship. They position love as something to be fought for and reinforce misconceptions about the Black community. Recent films have portrayed female characters exactly the same—full of so much potential but willing to throw it all away to keep a man. It fails to offer a reality where empowered women prioritize their happiness, with no desire to lose themselves and sacrifice their well-being for a relationship.
As the genre moves forward, it’s important to shift away from these outdated portrayals and offer something more substantial, a new perception of love: one that is patient and one that is kind.