The hubbub concerning Caitlan Clark and her not-so-friendly welcome by fellow WNBA players reminds me of a favorite line from the funniest sitcom in all of history that did not involve Larry David, “The Big Bang Theory.”

Howard, once again, is trying to break the code on how to win the fancy of a lady who is clearly out of his league when he wonders aloud, “I don’t know what my next move is.”

Leonard then shares, “Well, Howard, I don’t know much about women.”

Howard, expecting elaboration, says, “Yea?”

Leonard, “No, that’s it, I don’t know much about women.”

It is a sentiment shared universally by all those with a Y chromosome, although in my case I would replace “much” with “anything.” I have an unassailable track record, which will be even more robust by the end of this column.

I and the rest of the world have been scratching our collective heads wondering why WNBA players have been icy in their reception of Clark, offering snide comments questioning her worthiness as well as the occasional blindside assault. Talk about petty.

Clark has done single-handedly what no WNBA player before or current has been able to achieve, and that has been to get eyeballs on the WNBA product, which is far inferior to the NBA or college men’s game. Clark plays for a bad team, the Indy Fever, but their games typically outdraw other WNBA games by as many as 10,000 people.

Before you start hurling insults in my direction, calling me sexist or worse, understand that I enjoy watching the girls compete in plenty of sports, golf, tennis, field hockey, softball, gymnastics, track, beach volleyball and more. Not soccer, but I cannot watch men play that sport.

Women’s basketball looks like what I envision men would look like playing basketball underwater, sluggish. Women simply cannot replicate the speed and skill that men unleash on a basketball court.

Contrary to what we are being force-fed, there are differences between men and women beyond Mars and Venus and genitalia. And that is OK, not an indictment.

Before I dig my hole too deep, back to Clark. I like her, and I enjoy watching her play. Not because she is white, not because she likes men, not because she grew up a fan of the North Carolina Tar Heels and not because she resembles my favorite character from the “Wizard of Oz,” the Wicked Witch of the West.

I like her because she can play.

She is Pete Maravich reincarnated in a skirt.

If you are like most of the 8 billion folks on Earth, but not me, you never saw Pistol Pete play live. If not, go now to youtube.com and type in “Pete Maravich” and “highlights,” and prepare to be entertained.

Clark, like Pete, can shoot it from anywhere inside halfcourt, she has the ball on a string, and if you are a teammate, you better be paying attention or you will have a bloody nose.

Plus, she looks like she could have grown up in my neighborhood, Tanglewood, the younger and annoying sister of a buddy. Again, I am not referencing her whiteness, but her lack of physical prowess. She is scrawny, making unfair the fights fellow WNBA players keep picking.

She is worth the price of a ticket, and more people than ever are buying tickets or otherwise watching. Folks are actually talking about the WNBA, at the roundtables on ESPN as well as the water cooler at work and the pro shop.

In the world of the WNBA, trickle-down economics surely works. Clark is floating everyone’s boats, bringing new revenue to a league that has demonstrated that it cannot survive financially on its own, which is why it is subsidized by the big boys in the NBA.

Yet Clark is being bullied, not unlike the mousy little girl with horn-rimmed glasses in the middle school cafeteria back in the day. It is shameful, juvenile but also self-defeating.

There is part of me that wishes Clark would take her ball and go home and let those childish WNBA players pay the bills on a teacher’s salaries.

But if she did that, I would not get to watch her magic tricks.