BREAKING: Caitlin Clark Calls Former Teammates “Cockroaches”—But It’s Not What You Think

When Caitlin Clark refers to her two closest friends from college as “cockroaches,” the internet pauses, blinks, and does a collective double take. In an era where headlines move faster than facts, those eight syllables—loaded, jarring, borderline explosive—set off a firestorm. But what lies behind Clark’s surprising choice of words isn’t scandal or shade. It’s love. Strange, irreverent, indestructible love—the kind that survives media storms, career pivots, and the relentless glare of public life.

For most of America, Caitlin Clark is the poster child of athletic excellence. With a jaw-dropping collegiate career, record-breaking three-point range, and an unapologetic fire on the court, she’s not just a star—she’s a phenomenon. But beneath the swagger and stat sheets, there’s a human being who clings tightly to the relationships that kept her sane when everything else around her spun into chaos. And two of those relationships are built on a nickname that raises eyebrows, breaks expectations, and might just be the purest expression of enduring friendship in sports today.

So, who are the so-called “cockroaches”? The answer: her former Iowa teammates, who she met as a wide-eyed freshman and who stuck with her through every high and low, every headline, every heartbreak. In private conversations, the trio jokingly called themselves cockroaches because, in their words, “we survive everything.” Injuries, coaching shake-ups, bitter losses, viral fame, the toxic swirl of online criticism—none of it ever broke them. And like the creatures their moniker references, they’ve outlasted storms that would have crushed weaker bonds.

It’s an inside joke, of course. But it’s more than that. In the hidden language of deep friendship, “cockroach” isn’t an insult—it’s armor. It’s a shield forged in shared experience, sarcasm, and late-night vent sessions in hotel rooms across the country. For Clark, it represents something unkillable. These are the people who were there before the ESPN features, before the sold-out arenas, before her name trended worldwide every time she stepped on the court. They were there when she was homesick. When she was angry. When she doubted herself. And in a world that increasingly commodifies female athletes, they were the ones who simply saw Caitlin—not the brand, not the stat sheet, not the narrative. Just her.

Still, the public reaction was predictable. Social media lit up. “Why would she say that?” “Is she throwing shade?” “Are they still friends?” The hot takes came fast, fueled by a culture addicted to outrage and allergic to nuance. But Clark, cool as ever, didn’t flinch. When asked about the nickname in a post-game presser, she laughed and said, “People don’t get it, and that’s okay. It’s not for them to get.”

That response—that elegant dodge cloaked in brutal honesty—says everything. Clark isn’t trying to sanitize her story. She’s not here to play the role of media darling or say the “right” thing. She’s loyal to her people, loyal to the language they built together, and unbothered by the public’s craving for sanitized, PR-approved soundbites. Her brand is authenticity, and this strange little anecdote only reinforces it.

But there’s more to this than one weird nickname. It speaks to something bigger—a quiet rebellion against the image machine that polishes female athletes into palatable, pastel versions of themselves. Clark isn’t interested in being anyone’s role model if it means diluting who she really is. She’ll drop 40 on your favorite team, ice the game with a logo three, and then turn around and call her best friends “cockroaches” without skipping a beat. That contradiction is what makes her electric. She’s sharp and sentimental, ruthless and loyal, confident and clownish. In other words, she’s real.

And the cockroaches? They’re still by her side, albeit off the court. One has gone into coaching, the other into sports medicine. They’ve moved into the next phases of their lives, but the bond hasn’t dimmed. They talk almost daily. They FaceTime before games. They send each other memes. During a particularly brutal stretch of travel, Clark reportedly got a care package from them that included Sour Patch Kids, a candle, and a note that simply said, “Still crawling.”

For her, those friendships are grounding. They are the constant in a life that otherwise refuses to slow down. And while Clark will likely go on to become one of the most iconic players in WNBA history—possibly even global sports history—there’s something comforting in knowing that she’ll always be that girl laughing in a dorm room with two other athletes, giggling over a nickname no one else understands.

So yes, Caitlin Clark called her best friends “cockroaches.” And no, it wasn’t an insult. It was a tribute. A bizarre, beautiful, defiant tribute to the kind of friendship that thrives in the unlikeliest places, the kind that refuses to die, even under pressure, scrutiny, or fame.

In a world full of polished personas and brand-safe messaging, that might just be the most controversial—and most refreshing—thing about her.