Her shows are never advertised, for fear of drawing unwanted attention from old enemies- or worse, old friends changed into enemies. Word of mouth is the only advertising she allows, but her talent and her position have made her legend on the club scene, and her shows always sell out. She never stays in one place long enough to do two sets; there's always another gig, another town, another game she has to counter. She was a space cadet and a flake when she wore black and seafoam green, an afterthought in blue and in blood-red, but her second career, rooted in her first, has centered her and given her focus she lacked for so many years.

This night in New York is no different from the other nights in New York, which is to say that her stomach is full of butterflies, her heart is hammering, and she has to take long deep breaths to keep from letting rage fill her at the thought of all that could have been and all that's come to pass. Not that she doesn't let herself remember all that ever was; the memories lend her voice the emotion and passion that drive her message home and make her so unique as a performer.

Her time is now. The MC is an old fan, and he calls out her name as she once heard it blasting out at Madison Square Garden, and if the roar of this crowd is muted by its size, she doesn't notice it. She comes onto the stage and almost hears the intake of breath from the people in the front row at her slinky little black dress, iced and sequined so she shimmers under the lights. She is a beautiful woman and she's always taken pains to make it known. Black is a bad color for a woman as dark-skinned as she is, but she'll never wear blue again.

"Good evening, New York!" she calls out, and New York answers her. "I wish I could say it's good to be back, but if it were good to be back, I wouldn't be on this stage right now." She pauses and takes a deep breath. "I'm here tonight, not for myself, and not for you, but for the songs that no one else is left to sing, and for the silent voices that used to sing them. This is for the memory of the dead who still walk among us. This is to remember everything we lost and everything we never got a chance to know. So if this isn't the show you were expecting from me… you might want to leave now. But if you want to stay, then you're welcome to come along on a road trip through the past."

No one leaves, but then, no one ever leaves. Word of mouth has its advantages. So she begins to sing- but not in her usual voice, not in her usual style, and not from her usual repertoire. She forces her voice as high as it will stay for an extended period of time, and sings sweet gospel to invoke the ghost of Armintie, young and shy and scared and utterly obliterated in the Windy City. She drops it lower for some old-time rock and roll to invoke the ghost of Mistie, callously used and discarded down in Houston. She drops in some unexpected freestyle to invoke the ghost of Lindsay, aloof and paradoxical before she sold her soul. Interspersed with these are songs of rebellion, songs of freedom, songs of individuality and pride, songs for the fighting soul, songs that will keep her listeners away from the seductive promises of the glamorous arenas. She bridges into the second part of her show with an elegy left on a piano in Piscataway, Essence's song to say goodbye; to this day, no one knows for certain whose hand set the notes to paper, and no one wants to think about the implications of the title- "Dark Blue".

There's a short break, and she girds herself for the most difficult part of the show: the longest portion, the most personal portion, and the one most subject to change dependent on location. These songs she knows the best, though; these were the first, and these will probably be the last. When she begins again, in deft lyrics and complex music, she summons up old teammates, old friends, lost to greed and desperation. She invokes Vickie's quiet dignity, steady leadership, gentle smile, devotion to family and teammates, intensity, desire, sly sense of humor, and understated but never absent pride. She invokes Crystal's crazy pranks and bad jokes, her strong sense of responsibility, her determination to learn to do whatever needed to be done, the perfectionist streak that drove her into basketball in the first place, her love for her family, her connection to her Oklahoma home, the loyalty to her team that would prove to be her undoing. She invokes Tamika's skewed definition of reality, the chivalrous side that no one outside her immediate circle ever saw, her fiery temper, her absolute self-confidence, her country roughness, her competitive nature, her ride-or-die loyalty. She invokes K.B's awe at playing on the Garden floor, her fascination with the larger world, the sense of justice that had her planning for her post-basketball career, her breathtaking speed, the ease with which she fit into any team she was on, her unselfish play and her unselfish behavior. She invokes Shameka's sweetness, her love of her femininity, her brilliant smile that could light up the darkest of rooms, her ditziness and the way she played it off for laughs, the world of potential she had if she'd only had time to properly tap it, the adaptability that caused her to so easily blend in with New York's quick pace.

Emboldened by the response she receives from the crowd, she extends the set with secondhand memories of players she never knew. She sings Spoon's recognition of her worthy heir and her pride in Loree; she sings Sue's admiration of Janel's light heart and hard work; she sings the connection between Rebecca and Jessica, the two centers who wore #50 with the expectations of the world on their shoulders; she sings Kym's easy camaraderie with Barb's oncourt leadership and offcourt flair. She sings Ashley's quick wit and hard defense; she sings Cathrine's football-born grit and her quiet stubbornness; she sings Shay's euphoria at calling her hometown her home court and the fierce pride she once had in her heritage; she even sings for the rookies who never had the chance to show who they were to a city that prides itself on its uniqueness.

For a few minutes, the Liberty live again, her powerful voice and well-chosen words conjuring them up so that they almost appear with her on the narrow stage, ghostly images that shimmer and fade with each new number. Her grief, her horror, her fury, her regret, weave their way into her music and bring home all that has been lost- not only what she's lost, but what they've all lost. New York is always the hardest; there are too many memories fighting for space and time, too many dead to count.

There's one teammate she always saves for last, though, and one song that never receives applause. "If you want to cheer me, do it now," she always says. "I know you won't after this one." If she's lucky, a stony silence falls over the room; if the crowd is especially bitter, they boo her off the stage for a few minutes. She doesn't care. She still sings of the second-year guard she once knew, the one who could walk through a crowd of fans with a bag over her shoulder and not be noticed, who watched Spoon, VJ, and Crystal with adoring and admiring eyes, who waited her turn on the bench and recognized her role as the firestarter, who followed Sue and Rebecca around like a little sister, who carried herself with a confidence that was just turning into cockiness and hadn't yet become arrogance, who never lied about herself, who was a part of the chemistry that would bring New York to the Finals that year.

She sings Becky back to life, because that Becky has been dead for close to fifteen years, as dead as Vickie and Crystal and the blondes who wear blue and seafoam green and the torch over their hearts, the first sacrifice to pave the way on this path to hell.