DRESDEN, Tenn. — The late morning, northwestern Tennessee sky is casting beautiful shadows on the old brick building as Lin Dunn pulls into the parking lot of a place she hasn't been inside for decades, her old high school gym, her sanctuary more than 60 years ago when the world she'd always known was turned upside down.
Dunn opens the door and what's inside is so poignant, such a throw back in time that the sounds of basketballs hitting the hardwood and referees' whistles screeching above the raucous cheers of a rowdy crowd can almost be heard, ever so faintly.
For a moment, it feels like the early 1960s again, and all around are the remnants of the glorious days of high school basketball that lit a fire in Dunn's soul.
"Wow. It's just wow," Dunn, 78, says as she opens the door and walks inside. "I had forgotten how unique, how beautiful."
The Dresden High School gym is unique, somehow dingy and magnificent all at the same time. The rafters are beams of dark wood lined up, then criss crossing at the ends. Hanging from the beams are bright, fluorescent bulbs that shine down, creating miniature spotlights across the timeworn court.
The same scoreboard that kept track of Dunn's offensive domination, more than 2,000 points in two seasons, is still there, smaller than most televisions these days. Below it is the red-and-white logo of one of the most popular products of the time: "Compliments of Coca-Cola."
As Dunn walks inside the gym, she stops and stands still for a moment, looking all around, waves of nostalgia hitting every emotion. Then, she turns to her right, and she spots the steps in the back corner.
Those steps led to the first time Dunn realized things weren't always fair in sports, especially for girls, even if they were getting to play. Down those steps was the "little closet" where the Dresden girls basketball team had to cram inside to dress for games, talk at halftime and hold pregame pep sessions.
"But the boys," Dunn says with a knowing look, "they had a locker room."
"Now, remember, this was before Title IX. We were thrilled that we had a girls basketball team at all."
Inside this tiny gym is where it all started for Dunn, who was a high school basketball star in the era of three-on-three, half court play when it was believed full-court basketball was only for the boys.
"They didn't think girls could go full court. We didn't have the stamina or the endurance," Dunn says. "You know, if we went full court, we might faint. We might die."
Yet, in Dresden, in her free time, Dunn would play full court, pickup basketball, five-on-five — dominating the boys. And it was wonderful.
"She came over here, and she was playing with all the boys and whipping up on them," said Dr. Dick Hutcherson, Dresden's local dentist who owns the old gym. "And when you're playing against all the boys out here on the streets and everything, you learn to fend for yourself."
That's something Dunn has been revered for throughout her legendary career — fending for herself.
From this tiny gym in Dresden to the modern era of women's sports, Dunn built one of the most impressive resumes in women's basketball, first as a college coach then as a major player in building the WNBA as a coach and general manager.
She is now a full-time consultant with the Indiana Fever, a team she led as coach to a WNBA title in 2012 and a team that has given her some emotional, full circle moments. When Caitlin Clark came onto the scene in 2024 and packed the seats at the Fever's home court, Dunn was in awe.
"I never thought in my lifetime I would sit at Gainbridge Fieldhouse and look up behind me in the rafters and it be packed and I mean packed for every game," Dunn says. "And still, I look up there just to make sure. Are they really up there? And they really are."
Basketball has been Dunn's constant, her savior, her first love, and the idea of a life without basketball seems almost unreal.
"But this is it. This is it," Dunn says. "I'm almost 80, you know. It's time."
This Fever gig will be her last run, Dunn says, and Dresden is where she will spend the rest of her life, in a town with a population of 2,900, a median household income of $50,998 and where one in every 10 people live at the poverty rate.
Dunn exists among the locals quietly, without fanfare, almost invisibly, and that is one of the many, many things she loves about this place where, for the past 60 years, she's found peace.
"In Dresden, it's, 'Oh, it's just Lin. We're not worried about her,'" said Bobby Goode, one of Dunn's best friends in town. "I mean, really, and that might be good for her."
IndyStar traveled to Dresden last month to visit Dunn, who was a tour guide in this place that tells her story, her truth and, in many ways, reveals what shaped her into the player, coach, general manager and mentor who became one of the biggest advocates of women's sports.
"They broke the mold, as we all say when we talk about Lin Dunn," said Kelly Krauskopf, president of the Fever. "Obviously, clearly, there will never be another Lin Dunn. Her impact is unmatched in terms of the sport of women's basketball."
'This was the safe house'
Evening is falling in Dresden and, inside a red brick house with white columns on South Cedar Street, Dunn sits on the couch, waiting to go to one of the only places in town that stays open for dinner.
It's the beloved diner, the Chopping Block Ranch, where the meats are smoked daily and the portions piled onto plates don't match the price of the meal ticket.
But first, Dunn has to tell the story of this red brick house.
It was the summer of 1963, the summer after Dunn's sophomore year of high school, when she came to Dresden for good after her parents split up, and her world turned upside down.
Her grandparents got a truck and drove three hours from Dresden to Florence, Ala., where the family had lived the past eight years. They loaded up the truck and brought their daughter and her four children, Dunn, a brother and two sisters, home.
When her mother decided to go back to her father not long after the move, Dunn put her foot down and stayed behind.
She moved in with her grandparents to the place she had always called the "safe house" growing up. The red brick house is where Dunn spent her summers, where she spent every holiday — Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Dresden is where she attended vacation Bible school every year.
No matter what was going on in her life, things felt normal, or at least OK, inside this house.
It's where her grandfather, Thomas Cayce Pentecost, a county judge and Baptist pastor known around town as Brother Cayce, performed marriages in the front sitting room, standing on the same rug that still covers Dunn's front sitting room.
Her grandfather would call Dunn down from her room upstairs to be a witness for those ceremonies. He didn't charge a penny for the weddings. Sometimes, if he felt like they could really use it, Brother Cayce would hand over a $10 bill to the newlyweds.
Dunn remembers going door-to-door campaigning for her grandfather for county judge. She was so proud to be his granddaughter. Everybody in town loved Brother Cayce.
Inside this house, she remembers how her grandmother, Carrie LaFon Pentecost, doted on her, and how she never shied away from teaching Dunn what was right and what was wrong in this world. But mostly, Dunn remembers how her grandparents made everything feel like it was always going to be OK.
"They were my saviors through tough times," Dunn says. "They saved our lives."
When her grandparents died, Dunn's mother inherited the home on South Cedar Street. When her mother died, Dunn inherited the home.
Today, she lives in the red brick house with her partner, Fran Robinson, a classically-trained ballerina and former dance teacher. Throughout her career, Dunn has been a fierce advocate for LGBTQ+ rights, but says she has always felt that her "personal life is private."
"Not that it's a secret, but I'm a private person off the court. Everybody thinks I'm this crazy extrovert because I'm in the media and all that kind of stuff," Dunn said. "But I like to sit and read, and I'm quiet. I don't mind being alone."
Dunn has had partners through the years but, for nearly two decades, that partner has been Robinson — a feisty, funny, animal-loving, gourmet-level cooking, dancing companion who completes her.
"She makes me a better person. She makes me smarter. She makes me tougher. She makes me kinder," Dunn says. "She has been the best of the best, and I'm grateful and thankful for her."
Dunn is especially thankful that Robinson loves Dresden as much as she does.
"This was always the sweet little town to come back to, five minutes from the courthouse, five minutes from the grocery store," Dunn says. "It's just ... this is where I'll spend the rest of my life."
Dunn has called many places home, from Miami to Portland to Seattle to Kentucky to Indianapolis to Georgia to Alabama to West Lafayette.
But there is no place on earth that ever felt more like home to Dunn than Dresden.
'Don't underestimate her southern charm'
Dunn's relentless grit in the fight for equality in women's sports was baked in the South, and the recipe included a heaping spoonful of an ingredient called charm. Dunn owns that. And she uses it.
"I have learned how to get what I want without making an enemy, and I think that's a Southern thing. Laughter is a tranquilizer with no side effects," Dunn says. "I think that's helped me get, sometimes, things that are needed or get my point across without coming across as a bitch.
"But, now, I can be a bitch if I have to. I understand the challenges of dealing with men that are very strong willed and are used to getting their way. It's not been easy."
In her career, Dunn has had to fight for things that in her estimation she shouldn't have had to fight for — vans to travel to games, uniforms, charter flights, training tables, equal pay and, in the early years, she fought to have Black and lesbian players on her teams. Each time, Dunn had a method to getting what she wanted.
"She's charming and funny and if you want to underestimate her Southern charm, it will be to your detriment," said Mel Raines, president and CEO of Pacers Sports & Entertainment. "There's that saying, 'Don't confuse being nice with being weak,' and I think sometimes people underestimate Lin because of the Southern accent, and they are mistaken."
Dunn is known for telling it like it is with a twangy, smooth drawl, a quip and a smile. It's genuine, and it's cordial, but she means what she says.
Krauskopf has watched Dunn throw veteran WNBA players out of practice because "she didn't like the way they were acting."
"Our players always knew where they stood. And she was hard on players," Krauskopf said. "But it sent a message that there was a way we do things. She had a lot of fun, there was a lot of laughter, but we were serious about winning."
Dunn was always serious about winning, even as a tiny girl.
At first, she didn't realize anyone would ever try to stop girls from playing sports. Her parents never acted like it was odd or unladylike that Dunn wanted to play all the sports her brother did.
Whit LaRue Pentecost, Dunn's mother, played high school basketball in the 1930s, the old way, when a player could only dribble twice, and the court was divided in thirds. Her father, Harry Dunn, ran track at Vanderbilt University.
"Let me tell you something about our family. Highly competitive. I grew up in a family where we competed everything. Spades, Trivial Pursuit, Mexican dominoes," Dunn says. "I mean, we were like the mini Olympics, and I loved it from the get go."
Dunn was born in 1947 at Vanderbilt University hospital in Nashville, 144 miles from Dresden. Her early years were spent in Hendersonville, Tenn., where her father's parents were from.
By the time she was four, the family was moving around for Harry Dunn's job as a traveling salesman with Culligan water company. They moved from Hendersonville to Carrollton, Ga., then to Decatur, Ala., and finally to Florence, where her dad worked for Ralston Purina.
No matter where they lived, Dunn's father was always encouraging his children in all the sports — football, basketball, softball, baseball. He built a high jump pit with a spot to pole vault in the backyard.
But as a little girl, Dunn could only play her favorite sports in the backyard. She couldn't play any of them officially.
A ban was placed on girls’ interscholastic sports by the Alabama High School Athletic Association in 1923, based on beliefs at the time that intense competition was "unhealthy and inappropriate for girls." That ban lasted until the 1970s, after Title IX passed.
"And I was always disappointed that I couldn't play football, that I couldn't play baseball," Dunn said. "I had to sit up in the stands and cheer. And maybe that's when I kind of got it.
"We've got to fight for rights for girls."
'I almost got fired over that'
When Dunn came to Dresden and found out her high school had a girls basketball team, she was ecstatic, and she was all in. She would come to the gym early and leave late, running wind sprints and shooting until she couldn't shoot anymore.
Dunn was Dresden's star, racking up more than 2,000 points in two seasons. There was the game she scored 54 points and Dresden won 58-54. There were a lot of games like that. Her coach Buddy Viniard would tell Dunn to shoot, so that's what she did. Dunn showed this town that girls could really play basketball.
"This little gym would be packed. People would be hanging from the rafters," Dunn said. "The girls game was first and, a lot of times, the girls game was packed even more than the boys game, because girls basketball in Tennessee was really big."
In 1965, when it was time to leave Dresden for college, Dunn didn't go far. She went to the University of Tennessee at Martin where there was no basketball to play.
"They started the women's basketball team the year after I graduated," Dunn says. "It really pissed me off."
But, Martin was just 20 miles from her grandparents' house, and being close to them was the only thing that mattered more to Dunn than playing basketball.
While in college, playing tennis and volleyball, Dunn started thinking about all the sports she had missed out on in her life, just because she was a woman. She switched her major from French — with a nudge from a professor who told Dunn she was destroying the beautiful language with her accent — to what she had always wanted to do in the first place.
"I thought, 'Just quit fighting it. You want to be in sports. You want to teach P.E. Just get over there and do it,'" Dunn says. "And so I did."
After graduating with a physical education degree, Dunn earned a master's degree in P.E. at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. She landed her first job at Austin Peay State University as a physical education teacher, where she taught eight classes.
Dunn also coached volleyball, basketball and tennis. "I wanted the women there to have an opportunity to compete," she says. "But there was no budget, and there were really no resources."
The athletic director told Dunn she could have a team, but the gym was only available for practices at 9 p.m. or 6 a.m. She could have a van or a station wagon to travel to away games as long as no one else at the university needed them.
"So, I crossed my fingers. If we didn't have the station wagon or the van, then fewer players got to go. It was hard," Dunn says. "We'd stop at McDonald's, and they'd get their own food. And I'd drive my big, old, red '68 Impala there and drive them back. We didn't have any money. We didn't spend the night. And we'd sing going. We'd sing coming back."
When Dunn decided she was over the mesh vests players had to pin numbers on, she ordered a set of uniforms and billed them to the university.
"Yeah, I almost got fired over that," she says, laughing. "But we had one set of red uniforms that we wore home and away for everything. I mean, we were so proud of those uniforms."
At Austin Peay, Dunn was the coach, the assistant, the trainer and the manager. She would pull out the bleachers. She'd mop the floors. She would slip into the men's locker room and take their leftovers — warmups, tape, training kits, that type of stuff.
"I wouldn't steal it. I would borrow it," Dunn says with that knowing look. "And you know, I look back on that time. I know how to handle adversity. I know how to coach and work with limited resources, because that's how I grew up coaching, always fighting for more."
Dunn wasn't paid to coach any of those teams at Austin Peay. That was volunteer work. She made $7,000 a year teaching physical education classes and $500 as the cheerleader sponsor, driving the squad to and from football and men's basketball games. She did all of that for six years at Austin Peay.
"And finally, the last year," Dunn says, "I just said, 'I'm not doing this anymore.'"
No matter how tiring or mentally draining that time at Austin Peay was, Dunn says she doesn't regret a moment of it. Dunn learned something from those women she has carried with her all these years.
"You know what? Those women, they didn't have scholarships. They didn't have anything. But they loved to play, and they loved to compete," Dunn says. "And so I look back on them, and I love the fact that it was all about an opportunity to play and how much they appreciated that."
'I probably wore my welcome out'
While Dunn had enjoyed teaching classes at Austin Peay, coaching full time was what she really wanted to do in life. And Ole Miss came calling.
They needed a volleyball and tennis coach and someone to assist with the women's basketball team. In her second year, Dunn was the head basketball coach.
At Ole Miss, Dunn gave the first full scholarship in tennis and basketball, and she was proud of that.
"But, I wasn't a good fit at Ole Miss, you know what I'm saying? It was still very conservative," Dunn says. "I was limited to only two African American players, no lesbians, so I just didn't, it wasn't a good fit."
Those rules weren't officially written, but they were known in the early 1970s, Dunn says. She remembers the day the athletic director at Ole Miss came to tell her that one of the basketball players was a lesbian.
"And, of course, I went, 'What? Wow, you're kidding.' Of course, I knew," Dunn says. "But then, the AD wanted me to cut her, get rid of her. And I said, 'OK, I'll take care of her.' But, I didn't. And so then I knew, I would probably be ...."
Dunn left Ole Miss for the University of Miami, where she spent nine years. She gave the first full scholarship in women's basketball and was an assistant volleyball coach. Then came what Dunn calls "a real turning point in my career."
Purdue, a Big Ten school looking to build their women's basketball program, wanted Dunn. "And I remember the first game we ever played, I think there were 500 people there in Mackey Arena," Dunn says. "And then the last game I coached, there were 10,000."
In her nine years at Purdue, Dunn compiled a 206-68 record, led the team to three Big Ten titles (1989, 1991, 1994), seven NCAA tournament appearances and the program's first Final Four in 1994. After the 1995-96 season, Dunn was abruptly fired.
"I probably wore my welcome out, you know, fighting for charter flights, fighting for a training table, fighting for everything that we didn't have," Dunn says. "Just because Title IX had passed didn't mean we were fully enforcing it. You still had to really be a pain in the ass to get what you needed."
At the time, Dunn was disappointed to leave Purdue. But looking back, she says, it was the best thing that ever happened to her.
"Because then I got into professional basketball, and that's what I really loved," she says. "I loved working and coaching the best, the elite, the ones that are all in."
Dribbling through the streets of Seattle
Dunn's first pro job was in the American Basketball League coaching the Portland Power. But after winning ABL coach of the year in 1998, the league folded. Dunn made the move to Seattle to be coach and general manager of a yet-to-be-named WNBA expansion team.
The team wasn't a sure thing when Dunn was hired in 1999. The franchise needed to sell 5,500 tickets to clinch a spot in the WNBA, and it was 1,500 tickets short. Someone came to Dunn with an idea.
"If you would dribble through the city of Seattle, we could probably sell those other 1,500 tickets," Dunn was told. "And of course, me, I'm up for anything."
With TV stations and local reporters all around, Dunn started on a five and a half mile trek around the city, dribbling up and down the hills of Seattle's streets. Dunn, admittedly, was not in shape to do that.
"And we were near the end, and I looked up the hill and I thought, 'Boy, you're going to have to get your fat ass up that hill,'" Dunn said. "'And if you think this is hard, what do you think about what you have to do to build this team?'"
Dunn finished her five and a half mile dribble, arms sore, dirt on her face, a photo that appeared in the Seattle Times. The 1,500 tickets were sold and the Seattle Storm was born. Dunn coached there for three years, leading the Storm to the playoffs in her final season.
Then, she came back home to Dresden to care for her mother, who was having health issues. While on that break, Dunn had knee replacement and was doing rehab in 2003 when Krauskopf called. She wanted Dunn to come to Indianapolis to be a scout for the Fever.
Dunn rose from scout to assistant coach to head coach and, in 2012, she led the Fever to their first and only WNBA title. People talk about Caitlin Clark a lot, and for good reason, Dunn says. But Tamika Catchings, the star of that 2012 Fever team, was a force to be reckoned with.
"Don't ever underestimate the value of Tamika Catchings. She's one of the all-time greats, because she played on both ends of the floor," Dunn says. "She's what I call a true, two-way player. She defends, she rebounds, she runs, she scores and she's a great person."
In 2014, Dunn stepped down as Fever coach to become a consultant for the team. A year later, she left the Fever to start her own consulting company, working with top college coaches, which led to a 2-year stint as an assistant on the bench with Kentucky coach Matthew Mitchell.
Then, Pacers CEO Rick Fuson reached out to Dunn. The Fever needed her back as a consultant, which turned into being the GM and the senior advisor, which led to Clark and this wonderful explosion in the WNBA.
Dunn had a feeling the Fever were going to get Clark, just some gut feeling. She had scouted Clark. She saw her quick mind and brilliant passes and her relentless grit.
"I watched Caitlin Clark and I thought, 'Oh boy, here she comes,'" Dunn says. "I knew Clark was going to be great. And I was just, 'Gosh, we've got to get her. How am I going to get her and not break the rules? We're going to have to figure out a way to get her.'"
Then came the No. 1 pick in the 2024 WNBA draft. That was the Fever's pick: Caitlin Clark.
"And I'm thinking, 'OK, now we're going to have (Kelsey) Mitchell and (Aliyah) Boston and Caitlin Clark," Dunn says. "And then, there we go."
The seats of Gainbridge Fieldhouse filled up to the rafters and Dunn was in awe. People who had never watched women's professional basketball before turned, and they looked, and they saw what a great sport this was.
For the Fever and the WNBA, things were going splendidly. But for Dunn, she was fighting her own battle off the court — to get healthy.
'I was in bad shape'
Robinson pulls into the parking lot of the diner known by Dresden locals as CBR, the Chopping Block Ranch, a restaurant that boasts farm to table where Dunn and Robinson are regulars.
"Let me tell you about Steve. He's a good ole boy," Dunn says. "He doesn't charge enough for his food. He'll make us a gigantic meal. It's not even the cost of the meat."
Dunn and Robinson worry about CBR's owner Steve Pecktol, who reopened the diner after the devastation of the December 2021 tornado that tore through Dresden, demolishing the courthouse and wreaking havoc on longtime businesses and residents.
But when they tell Pecktol, repeatedly, that he's not charging enough, he tells them he is here to serve his community, and he'd feel awful raising prices. So when holidays or celebrations or gatherings come up, Robinson calls Pecktol with a big catering order of smoked brisket, ribs and the fixings — barbecue magic.
"Here we go, Fran. It looks like it's a big night," Dunn says. The CBR parking lot is full, and Robinson has to find a spot across the street.
On the board are the usual specials — pork chops, smothered chicken, smash burgers. There is the $9.99 deal: Lasagna, side salad and toast. There are pork ribeye sandwiches, mushroom Swiss burgers, wings, shrimp po' boy, a stocked salad bar, a dessert case and all the sides.
Corn nuggets, onion rings, coleslaw, beans, fried pickles and mushrooms, chili fries and potato salad.
Dunn used to go for all of the above, depending on the day, but she has changed what she orders at CBR. This night, like most others, she orders the salad bar with a side of smoked pork to put on top.
Not so long ago, Dunn was battling heart and other health issues. Her cardiologist put it bluntly. "You need to lose weight. That will take care of everything."
"I mean, I was in bad shape. I was in bad shape," Dunn says. "I was not well."
And so she began her journey to health. Dunn started slowly, walking three minutes every night at home, doing circles in the house. Then, she upped that to four minutes a night.
"And I was so proud when I got to five minutes," Dunn says. "And then 10, 15, 30, you know, next thing you know, I'm... "
She was feeling great and wanted more. Dunn and Robinson had done Pilates through the years but, in Dresden, there aren't any studios or instructors. So, every Tuesday and Thursday, they make a 50-mile drive for their Pilates workout.
Inside their home, a corner is piled with free weights and exercise bands. Dunn calls it her "fitness center." She has a stationary bike that she rides as she streams Netflix or Prime Video. Some nights, Dunn and Robinson pull up the rug and dance.
Dunn is down 75 pounds, and she is transparent about her weight loss. Her doctor put her on "the shot," as she calls it, one of the weight loss injections to curb appetite and increase fullness.
When Dunn wants a late night snack, she will grab an apple instead of a bag of potato chips or two, which she used to do on the regular. She eats a lot of salads and popcorn and soup.
"The mistake is a lot of people think (the shot is) just magic and you don't have to do anything else," Robinson says. "We have to think about what we eat. And we're keeping track of how much we work out. It's been a total lifestyle change."
Dunn is healthier than she's been in a long time. She feels better than she has in a long time. And, at 78, with more years behind her than in front of her, that is a big win.
A cemetery of mixed emotions
Sunset Memorial Gardens, Dresden's cemetery, is where Dunn goes to visit her mother, the woman who may not have always done everything right in life, but the woman who loved her unconditionally.
Whit LaRue Pentecost was always there for Dunn in the best and only way she knew how.
"If you were to ask me, 'Do you have any regrets?' I think I regret that I didn't spend more time with my mom," Dunn says, as she stands next to her mother's grave. "Down the stretch, early on, it was about win, win, compete, do my job. I think I could have been more balanced. I think I could have spent more time with her. And I regret that I didn't do that."
When Dunn led the Fever to the WNBA title in 2012, she came home to her mother in Dresden, who was absolutely thrilled.
"And she said, 'Well, did you beat Bill Laimbeer?' And I said, 'Mother, we beat Bill Laimbeer, and we won the championship,"' Dunn says. "And he wasn't even coaching then, but she hated Bill Laimbeer, and she loved that we beat him."
Her mother died three months later.
"Now, I would venture to say that our family is estranged," Dunn says, though she doesn't want to talk about the details.
Dunn was the firstborn of LaRue and Harry Dunn's four children. Her father died after having a stroke when Dunn was a freshman in college. Her brother, Harry, Jr., died in 2020 after spending most of his life in and out of mental institutions. She doesn't talk to her two sisters.
But Dunn has Robinson, nieces and nephews and cousins and so many friends and former players and coaches in basketball and life, it's almost impossible to count.
"I have a wonderful, wonderful life," Dunn says. "I mean, sometimes I think, 'Wow, what a great life.'"
As Dunn drives away from Sunset Memorial Gardens, she says she plans to be cremated. She's not sure where her ashes will be spread, maybe around the dogwood tree in her backyard where some of her mother's ashes were spread.
As she heads through town, Dresden isn't the bustling hub Dunn called home in 1963. There used to be all those little shops, the drugstore with the soda fountain and an endless array of candy.
"Now, you can see we don't have much. That post office has been there forever. We don't have many restaurants," Dunn says. "Now, there's a little place over here that's open for breakfast and lunch in the mornings, and it pretty much caters to whoever might be coming to the courthouse."
There's the library, the old high school gym, the hardware store. And among the many homes dotting the town, there is that red brick house with white columns on South Cedar Street.
'You've got to keep fighting'
Walking inside Dunn's house, it smells exactly like what Dresden should smell like. Cornbread with crispy edges baking in a cast iron skillet. A pot of vegetable and beef soup with homemade tomato sauce on the stove.
This is the work of Robinson, who Dunn quickly brags on for her exceptional culinary skills. Robinson took 40 pounds of tomatoes and boiled them down into 12 jars of sauce. "It's a lot of work," she says. "I mean, it's hard work."
As Dunn sits at the kitchen table, crumbling cornbread into her soup, she talks about turning 80 next year, how life flew by really fast yet, sometimes, it felt so slow. It's tough not to ponder the realities of life.
"If I stay healthy," Dunn says, "my grandmother lived to be 95."
Dunn remembers the day her grandmother, her second mom, her savior, died in 1990. She was in the bedroom of this house and doctors didn't give her much time. Dunn was in Malaysia, winning a gold medal as an assistant coach with Team USA in the World Championships in Kuala Lumpur.
"And she waited until I got back. She held my hand and she said, 'Always do the right thing.' That was the last thing she said to me," Dunn says. "The next day, she died. I had no doubt she waited."
Sitting in the red brick house next to a window that looks out onto the backyard where the dogwood tree is, where her mother's ashes are spread, Dunn talks about her legacy.
"One of the things I'm proud of is every place I've worked, every program, every team, they were always better when I left them. I always felt like I was a builder," she says. "Win or lose, we got better. And we played hard, we played smart, and we had a lot of fun."
Dunn is proud of her former players who have gone on to do great things in coaching and beyond. She is proud that she stood up for things when it wasn't comfortable to stand up for those things.
"You know, I think back, maybe I wish I'd worked even harder for opportunities. It was hard. You're the pain in the ass, or you're rocking the boat," Dunn says. "But how do we get more opportunities? That's the only way we do it. You've got to keep pushing. You've got to keep fighting. What's good for Johnny is good for Janie. That's just the way it is."
As Dunn finishes her legendary career, it's fitting that she finishes it with the Fever.
In some ways, the Fever franchise is like Dresden to Dunn. It's home. She was there when they opened to a city and the seats didn't fill up. She was there leading the team to its first and only WNBA title in 2012. And she was there when the stands were sold out as Clark ignited a league explosion.
"I'm thankful I had the opportunity in the twilight of my career, because this is the twilight of my career, this is the last round, trust me, to work with the best of the best with the Fever," Dunn said. "Because I worked with some crazy people early on in crazy situations, but they made me better. And I'm forever grateful."
Dunn is grateful for all of those highs and all of those lows. She is grateful for the superstars and the benchwarmers who fought like hell. She is grateful for family and friends and "her people" all over the country.
And she is especially thankful for the old high school gym and the red brick house on South Cedar Street in Dresden, in this town Dunn can always come back to that feels like home.
Follow IndyStar sports reporter Dana Benbow on X: @DanaBenbow. Reach her via email: dbenbow@indystar.com.
This article originally appeared on Indianapolis Star: Why Lin Dunn fought for women, Blacks, LGBTQ+ rights in sports
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