WE GOT … NOW

Think women have no game? You don't know what you're missing.

When the wake-up calls rang at 7:30 on the morning of the 1999 Women's World Cup final, not one player in the Pasadena Doubletree had any idea of what was coming. How could they? How could they have foreseen the Good Morning America appearance, the Wheaties box, the standing O at Madison Square Garden, the ride on Air Force Two with Hil and Chelsea? This was a group that, when they found themselves stuck in gridlock on the way to a first-round game at Giants Stadium, wondered aloud, "Where is everyone going?" A group whose oldest player once had to sew U, S and A on her own jersey. A group that teasingly called one of its defenders Hollywood because her love of the dramatic was too melodramatic for women's soccer. Gathering for breakfast, the players muttered about Jennifer Lopez, whose pre-game performance would keep them from warming up on the Rose Bowl field.

A few hours later, they got loose by running in a poorly lit asphalt tunnel leading to the red-white-and-blue, chalk-outlined field of history. With 10 minutes to go before kickoff, they huddled in a musty locker room. Beyond the walls they could hear the roar of 90,000 people, but they couldn't know that in homes across the country, 41 million more looked on. Coach Tony DiCicco stood to speak: "Look around. Look at each other. Look at how far you've come." There was Mia Hamm, their leader; Tiffeny Milbrett, their best finisher; Michelle Akers, the gutsy midfielder (and former seamstress) who would nearly collapse from exhaustion at the end of regulation. And there was Hollywood Brandi Chastain. At that moment, as she slipped her sheen white jersey over a black sports bra, she had no idea that a new era in sports was riding on her left foot. Five years ago, we debuted this magazine, The Magazine, with a mission to anticipate moments like this. We all follow sports for the same reasons: to witness events of "Where were you?" historical significance, like the home runs now known as 62 and 73; to marvel at feats of physical prowess, like Mike Vicks overtime run against the Vikings; to lose ourselves in the frenzy of a sports-sick community like the Wingnuts in Hockeytown; and to behold the dominance of world-renowned icons like Ichiro, Kobe and Tiger.

We watch, in other words, to see athletes who transcend time, body, place even sports. But who would have guessed that so many of these moments over our first five years would be brought to us by women? (Hold on: Before you snort and turn the page, "Jeez, not another chick sports story," slow down a second and think about it.) Whether you watched live or not, the image of Chastain ripping off her shirt in Pasadena comes to mind as quickly and crisply as the image of MJ's freeze-frame follow-through in Utah or Adam Vinatieris leap in New Orleans. And while you might have a tough time naming the top two players in men's tennis, you know Serena and Venus like neighbors. Just like you know Sue Bird, Marion Jones and Annika Sorenstam. You know them because they're selling out stadiums, changing standards, rewriting history and creating buzz. Just like the best male athletes always have, these women are transcending time, body, place and sports. Whether you've noticed it or not, "Maybe I'll check it out," has become I can't miss this.

Wouldn't it be cool to hop a time trolley to the Bronx to catch the 27 Yankees? Combs, Ruth, Gehrig, Meusel, Lazzeri, Murderers, Rowall in one dugout. They changed everything, setting marks that lasted decades, gaining celebrity status normally reserved for actors and politicians, remaking a lazy pastime into an entertainment industry. Those Bombers were not only their sports greatest team, they remain one of the most famous in all of team sports. Someday, they'll say the same things about the U.S. women's soccer squad. With due respect to Landon Donovan and Cobi Jones, the women are the first team of American soccer. After grabbing a gold medal, a World Cup and lucrative marketing deals, they are national, not niche, idols. And as Team Ponytail heads to China to defend the Cup this summer, Tiffeny Milbrett will be leading the charge. "She's a genius on the field," DiCicco says. "She makes you look like you're in sand."

Only the great players do that. Mia put a face on women's soccer, but Tiff put a boot in U.S. soccer. Her footprints are everywhere. She scored the gold medal-winning goal in Atlanta. She led the U.S. in goals during the 99 Cup. She was the WUSA's first MVP. With her hair pulled back and her throttle slammed forward, Milbrett is so quick in mind and step that she's known as The Blur. Born on Pele's birthday in 1972, the year Title IX was passed, she's a breathless whirlwind from her first touch until her flying somersault goal roll. By next fall, that goal roll may have insinuated itself onto pitches all over the country. But before that, the fan excitement of 99 will have been replaced by the cool confidence of 03: What did you expect? They are the Yankees of soccer. Another win will be business as usual. That's because futbol's equivalent of Murderers Row Babe City to Letterman has changed everything. "I look back at what's happened in the past five years," Milbrett says, "and I think, Holy s!"

Which is exactly what you were thinking as you stared at Serena Williams when she took the court at Flushing Meadows last year in that jet-black, skin-tight, neck-to-thigh catsuit. (Don't deny it.) And while you've stolen a peek at Anna K, too, this is different. Much different. While Serena's got a body most women would die for, she has power every guy would kill for. At 5'10", 145 pounds, she is both the biggest hitter the game has ever seen (Martina Navratilova) and definitely good for the game (Serena herself). The youngest Williams sister shoots out 120 mph serves like a cyborg, then smiles for the camera like a temptress. Shaq and Tiger combined didn't have as good a 2002 as Serena. She went 565 and won three majors, completing the Serena Slam this past January. She won almost $4 million in prize money, most ever on the women's circuit and in the ballpark of what men's No.1 Lleyton Hewitt earned. Still just 21, Serena has already transcended the hard court, appearing in a rap video, on a sitcom and at Puma headquarters to negotiate a deal to design her own clothing line. Who cares if the rumors about her and LaVar Arrington weren't true? It was still fun to imagine them having kids who'd grow up to bench 700 pounds and run the 40 in three seconds flat.

So some of us watch to see Serena work an opponent, and some of us watch to see her work it. Point is, so many of us are watching that we convinced the USTA's suits to move the U.S. Open women's final to prime time. And on a September night in 2001, Serena vs. Venus attracted more viewers than a football game between Nebraska and Notre Dame. "There's so much more diversity now in the tennis audience," says Pam Shriver. And Serena is a big reason for it. A worthy accomplishment, transforming the tennis audience. But depending on your zip code, it's not nearly as impressive as transforming a state. Last year, a man named Ken Bernacky re-hung a sign in a window of his East Hartford stereo store after the UConn Huskies capped their perfect season. "Geno is God," it read. Problem is, Bernackys store sits across from a church. Suddenly, lawmakers and newspaper columnists and civil liberties activists and Bible-thumping bingo players were bickering over his sign of the times. (Eventually, a judge ruled it could stay.) Such is life in and around Storrs, the nations first true women's sports town.

When Diana Taurasi, the latest and greatest campus diva was born in 1982, the Huskies had no locker room. When they won their first Big East title in 1988, they had one beat writer. Now, thanks to a girl-next-door lineage of stars that passed from Lobo to Sales to Abrosimova to Bird, the stands are packed, the media contingent needs its own bus and every game is on TV. (A February game at Duke was the third highest-rated hoops contest ever on ESPN2, behind only two Duke-UNC men's games.) Diana's the first one who transcends that girl-next-door appearance, says coach/deity Geno Auriemma, whose team won 70 in a row, a Division I women's record, before the Cats from Villanova scratched out their own spot on history's sofa. How big she is, the cockiness, where she shoots from that appeals to more than just your typical women's basketball fan. Like Ken Bernacky. Or Doug Collins. When the Huskies visited a Washington Wizards practice last year, MJ's coach sidled up to Taurasi and whispered in her ear: "You're the best women's player I've ever seen." But Husky Nation has swelled far beyond the ranks of *NSYNC lovers, Lilith Fair alums and the odd NBA coach. Those teenage boys roaming the malls in No.3 jerseys are giving it up for a chest-pounding, big-boned baller who bangs in the paint, fires from NBA range, sees the court like JKidd and struts like the smack-talking dudes down at the local Y. And we're not talking about Caron Butler. Too-cool-for-you cats shelling out dough for a woman's jersey? Women's basketball selling out the Georgia Dome? Highlights of a Huskies loss trumping T-Mac vs. MJ on Sports Center? Asks Auriemma, "How could you have imagined this?"

Until recently, until now you couldn't. And again, that's our point. Before Wayne Gretzky, could you have imagined 92 goals in one season? Before Yao, could you have predicted a Chinese giant would take over a quintessentially American sport? So go with us as we ask you to imagine an athlete with Jeter's smile, LeBron's precociousness, Tigers marketing muscle and Annika's balls. Imagine Michelle Wie. Michelle has braces. She was supposed to get them taken off this month, but something came up—the years first LPGA major in California. Wie wasn't counting on an invite because, well, she's 13. She was 4 when her dad, B.J., took her to a driving range near their home in Honolulu. Her first drive (so the story goes) rolled past the 100-yard marker. Nine years later, Wie has rolled it past the 300-yard marker. She's the youngest person ever to qualify for a USGA event (at age 10) and the youngest ever to qualify for an LPGA tournament (age 12). And her gallery is filling up. Vijay Singh: "Unbelievable." Tim Herron: "She's going to be a world-beater." Tom Lehman: "Her golf swing is perfect—it's perfect!" Paul Azinger once challenged Big Wiesy to a driving contest (he won, barely) and tour pro Jerry Kelly recently asked for her autograph.

She's already a celebrity in her multicultural home state. She's written up regularly in Japanese newspapers and is adored in her parent's native South Korea. If all you duffers are intrigued by the idea of Sorenstam teeing off with the boys at the Colonial in May, then wait till you get a load of the 5'11" girl who can outdrive the big boppers. Last month, Wie stepped to the elevated 17th tee during a practice round for the all-male Pearl Open on Oahu. She took out her driver, looked out at Pearl Harbor in the distance, waggled, wound up and fired. Her ball screamed through the trade winds and got a nice bounce past a fairway bunker. Michelle walked in silence next to B.J. (her daddy and caddy) until they reached the Titleist. B.J. aimed a rangefinder back at the tee box. The reading: 378 yards. Michelle just shrugged and gripped her 9 iron. Birdie. Though Wie isn't the only preternaturally talented teen inspired by Tiger, she is the most likely to take the Tiger boom one step further. And it's only the next step. Serena, for all her speed and power, has said that her taking the court against Agassi would look like Laila Ali stepping into the ring against Lennox Lewis. But someday, Wie's name could be on the leader board at Augusta.

Does the idea of a teenage girl playing the Masters sound any more outlandish than the notion of African-American sisters playing in four straight Grand Slam finals? Or a women's basketball team owning a state? Or 41 million people watching a women's soccer game? What seemed like the outer limits of our imagination five years ago is now just the starting line. How far will women's sports go in the next five years? The beauty of Now is that we have no idea.

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