Leave it to a dispatch from away to take the luster off a perfect Maine summer. There we were, basking in the glow of Our Girl Cindy’s best day in a WNBA uniform (she may have scored her 19 points in a game that was out of hand after 15 minutes, and she may have been firing up more shots than they did in an average hour at that controversial machine-gun-shoot-’em-up a couple weeks back, but by golly, 19 points is 19 points, chummy!).

It proved some things. Right? She can score! She belongs! She’s one break away from being a star!

And then, one simple Sports Illustrated story goes and flushes our dreams for Our Girl Cindy down the drain.

Didja see it? The story was actually about Jackie Stiles, the rookie star who also leaped to the WNBA from a second-tier hoop school after scoring tons of points against teams that nobody’s heard of.

Good story. And then, in the fourth paragraph, writer Kelli Anderson turned on her grill and transformed Our Girl Cindy into a burnt little Blodgett-kebab.

“All concerns that the 5-8, 144-pounder from Claflin, Kan. … would turn out to be another Cindy Blodgett, the two-time NCAA scoring leader from Maine who has averaged 2.3 points since being picked sixth in the 1998 draft, have vanished.”

Ouch!

Another Cindy Blodgett … another Cindy Blodgett … another Cindy Blodgett.

In these parts, three words connote basketball greatness. But in the WNBA, they apparently mean something else entirely.

A bust. A wasted pick. A mistake.

Now before you start firing off venomous letters to SI, take a deep breath … think about it … and admit that Anderson may be right.

We should have seen it coming, really. We told ourselves that her rookie season was OK. She was “learning,” after all. But when she was traded … for a center her team promptly cut … and she landed in guard-rich Sacramento, we should have realized something.

Teams expect more out of their first-round draft picks. It’s that simple.

And Blodgett (whether she’s “not getting a chance,” as some still claim, or she can’t crack the starting lineup due to weaknesses that weren’t apparent during her time in Orono), hasn’t produced.

So we’re left with this: Watching her career unfold is a bit like watching the Jumbotron at Fenway Park, wondering if you’re gonna see anyone you know.

Our views of her in a WNBA uniform have been few, far between, and coincidental to the action taking place on the court.

We have spent hours watching WNBA games, waiting for a glimpse of her, and have largely been reduced to trying to spot her on the bench.

Tell me she didn’t throw you for a loop last summer, when she went to the Pig-Tail Cindy look, and you were still looking for the old-school Cindy you grew up watching.

And we’ve been reduced to dialogues like this:

Mr. Bear-Lover: “Hey, hun! Did you see Cindy! She must be thirsty. I think she was drinking Gatorade. Wait until the teams run by the bench again and you’ll see her!”

Mrs. Bear-Lover: “You’re right! There she is! Good for her!”

Think that’s cynical and mean? Tell me you’re a Blodgett fan and you haven’t had a similar conversation while huddled in front of a WNBA telecast, waiting for Our Girl to enter the game.

The fact that we’re still watching says something about her impact on us all. But the fact that our nation’s pre-eminent sports publication used Blodgett as a synonym for “bust” tells us something else.

Whether we want to hear it or not.

John Holyoke is a NEWS sportswriter. His e-mail address is jholyoke@bangordailynews.net