“If it was happening nowadays, it wouldn’t be good,” Weatherspoon said.

“It would be called hazing,” Hammon interjected with a laugh. “Back then it was just called, ‘Let’s see if you’re tough.’”

Two weeks of that treatment — call it hazing, call it rookie duties — earned Hammon a reputation she would carry throughout the rest of her career, first as a player, then as a coach.

“We wanted to see if this one owned a towel to throw in,” Weatherspoon said. “Because we don’t own towels to throw in. And she knows that. Never did she give in. Never did she stay down. Every time she hit the floor, she got up.”

It’s hard to imagine a version of Hammon that didn’t speak her mind. But 25 years ago, that was the version that showed up in New York after going undrafted out of Colorado State.

Hammon still was informed by her upbringing in Rapid City, S.D. Her environment back home was conservative and expectations were restrictive.

“Women, girls, if you didn’t like it, you just had to sit there and shut up and kind of choke it down,” Hammon said. “You didn’t really speak up.”

New York, the WNBA and teammates such as Weatherspoon represented a different version of being a woman — one that was loud and tough and strong before anything else.

“As a young player, in a generation that did want you to sit back and be quiet, her generation pushed,” Hammon said of Weatherspoon. “And they did not sit back and be quiet. And this is why this generation now has voices that they never had. It’s because of that.”

Watching one another from opposite benches Thursday, Weatherspoon said she still could see that younger version of Hammon, whom she nicknamed “Ham Hock” as a rookie — bangs hanging halfway down her forehead, voice a little softer, competitive fire burning the same.

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