In 2005, the Sacramento Monarchs did something no other professional team from this city has managed before or since: they won a national championship and went to the White House. The achievement was so culturally significant that General Mills put them on a Wheaties box — the first and only time the cereal brand had ever featured an entire women’s professional team. It’s the kind of milestone that should have cemented the Monarchs as Sacramento icons. Instead, most people in the capital city have no idea it ever happened.
The Monarchs entered the WNBA in 1997 as one of the league’s founding eight franchises and spent their 13 seasons as genuine contenders, making the postseason nine times and developing stars like Yolanda Griffith, Ruthie Bolton, and Ticha Penicheiro — all of whom would later be inducted into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame. At ARCO Arena, they built a devoted fanbase that packed the stands with supporters from across Northern California. Then, in 2009, it all vanished. The Maloof family, who had taken control of both the Monarchs and the Sacramento Kings in 1998, quietly decided to divest from the women’s team and focus their resources on the men’s franchise. There was no farewell tour, no celebration, no goodbye. Just silence.
That sudden erasure has haunted Sacramento ever since. For longtime fans like Terra Lopez, a 41-year-old musician who started as a Monarchs ball girl at 15, the loss represents something far deeper than just losing a sports team. As a queer person, she saw the Monarchs as a space where she could witness queer elders experiencing joy openly — representation she had never seen before. The team wasn’t just successful on the court; it was woven into the cultural fabric of Sacramento, reaching out to younger players, hosting community events, and showing a generation what pride and excellence looked like. When it was gone, something vital left with it.
The irony is brutal: Sacramento is currently experiencing a surge of WNBA interest with the Golden State Valkyries playing in nearby San Francisco, drawing enthusiastic crowds for games at Chase Center. Daniel Tutupoly, a 35-year-old barista and lifelong Sacramento resident, has noticed fans driving out regularly to support the Valkyries — the same passion they once poured into the Monarchs, except now they’re spending it elsewhere.“The owners just treated it like a business, rather than considering any of the cultural value,”Tutupoly says. Frustrated by this erasure, he created“Long Live The Monarchs,”a DIY zine featuring player statistics, crossword puzzles, digital collages, and stickers — a handmade act of resistance against forgetting.
What the Monarchs represented, according to those who were there, was a Sacramento that could have been different. A city that recognized opportunity and seized it, that built something worth fighting for beyond the scoreboard. Ticha Penicheiro reflected on the sudden dissolution years later, saying“the team folded in 2009 and it was kind of out of nowhere, nobody expected it. We never really had a chance to say goodbye to our fans. To thank them.”That gratitude was never given, and that wound has never quite healed.
The banners still hang in Golden 1 Center, remnants of a championship that the city itself seems determined to forget — even as every piece of evidence suggests it should have been unforgettable.
About the Author
Andrew Johnson
Andrew Johnson is a contributor to LocalBeat, covering local news and community stories.
