In July 2016, a WNBA game in Minneapolis turned into a national flashpoint when four off-duty police officers, hired as security for the Minnesota Lynx, abruptly walked away from their posts. What triggered the walkout wasn’t a confrontation, a threat, or a disturbance — it was a set of black pre-game T-shirts worn by the players, shirts meant to honor the dead and spark a conversation the team believed couldn’t wait any longer.
Before tip-off, Lynx players stepped onto the court wearing shirts printed with the names of two Black men killed by police, including Philando Castile, who had been shot and killed during a traffic stop in Minnesota just days earlier. The back of the shirt featured a Dallas police badge, honoring the five officers murdered in the Dallas ambush attack that same week. Beneath that badge were the words “Black Lives Matter,” a statement that, at the time, carried heavy political and emotional weight.
The players held a press conference explaining exactly why they chose those shirts. This wasn’t a stunt or a trend — they were grieving, angry, and determined to use their platform for something bigger than basketball. Rebekkah Brunson spoke about her own childhood, recalling moments when officers drew guns on her family. She said plainly, “What is happening today is not new,” and followed it with a call for accountability. “We have decided it is important to take a stand and raise our voices. Racial profiling is a problem. Senseless violence is a problem.”
To the Lynx, the message wasn’t anti-police. It was a plea for change, justice, and awareness — a call to honor all lives lost to violence, whether civilians or officers.
But for the four off-duty police officers assigned to work security that day, the shirts crossed a line. They demanded the team remove them. When the Lynx declined, the officers walked off the job.
The Minneapolis Police Federation quickly backed the officers’ decision. Federation president Lt. Bob Kroll criticized the team, calling the shirts part of a “false narrative” that misrepresented law enforcement. He dismissed the protest as inappropriate and insisted the players were stepping into an issue they had no business commenting on. “They’re wading into waters they shouldn’t be in,” he said. “They are professional athletes. Stick with playing ball.”
But not everyone in law enforcement agreed.
Minneapolis Police Chief Janee’ Harteau didn’t mince words. She acknowledged the frustration some officers felt, but made it clear the walkout was unacceptable. “When wearing a Minneapolis Police uniform, I expect officers to adhere to our core values and honor their oath of office,” she said. “Walking off the job does not conform to the expectations held by the public for the uniform they wear.”
Her message was blunt: personal disagreement doesn’t excuse abandoning duty.
The city’s mayor at the time, Betsy Hodges, went even further. After Kroll defended the walkout and condemned the Lynx, Hodges openly rebuked him on Facebook, calling his statements “jackass remarks” and reminding the public that union leadership did not speak on behalf of city leadership.
Meanwhile, the Lynx players remained firm. To them, the shirts were an honest reflection of the tragedies unfolding in the country — a reflection of pain felt by both Black communities and police families. The front honored Castile and the broader crisis of police shootings. The back honored the Dallas officers murdered while doing their jobs. The point wasn’t division — it was unity, a recognition that the system was breaking on all sides.
The walkout didn’t stop the game. It didn’t silence the players. If anything, it made their message louder. It pushed the story into national headlines, forcing conversations that many preferred to avoid. It exposed the growing tension between law enforcement and athletes who refused to separate sports from the world they lived in.
In the years that followed, countless teams and athletes across leagues — NBA, NFL, MLB, college sports — would take public stands on social issues. But in 2016, the Lynx were ahead of the curve, stepping boldly into a space that many athletes feared entering.
Their message wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t universally loved. But it was powerful, sincere, and rooted in real grief.
And even though four officers chose to walk away, the moment stuck. It became part of a bigger cultural shift, one that would reshape the relationship between athletes, politics, law enforcement, and public protest for years to come.
Looking back, the walkout wasn’t the story’s defining moment — the courage of the players was. They weren’t just dribbling a ball or running a play. They were holding a mirror to the world and refusing to pretend nothing was wrong.
The shirts were simple. The conversation they started was not.