Caitlin Clark Discovers Her High School Janitor Still Working at 80, His Next Move Stuns Everyone

The Janitor Who Believed: Caitlin Clark’s Greatest Assist

When Caitlin Clark pulled into the parking lot of Dowling Catholic High School in West Des Moines, Iowa, she thought it would be a simple trip down memory lane. A quick walk through the gym that had seen her early struggles and triumphs. Maybe a nod to the display case holding her old jersey. Nothing more.

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But fate had other plans.

The afternoon sun painted long shadows across the newly paved lot. The school had changed—sleek touchscreen directories replaced the old paper-stuffed bulletin boards—but something familiar still clung to the air. Caitlin pulled up her hoodie, hoping to slip in unnoticed. She wasn’t there to be Caitlin Clark, basketball star. She just wanted to be Kate again—the girl who missed JV her freshman year but never stopped shooting.

As she stepped into the gym, she was struck by the upgrades: a mural of her mid-shot in an Iowa Hawkeyes uniform, new LED scoreboards, cushioned bleachers. She stood still, breathing in the old scent of polish and rubber, when she spotted him.

Near the baseline, a janitor swept slowly across the court with a faded navy jumpsuit and thinning gray hair. Something about his movements tugged at her memory.

“Mr. Thompson?” she called out gently.

The man paused, adjusted his glasses, and squinted at her. “Do I know you, young lady?”

“It’s Caitlin,” she said with a smile. “Caitlin Clark.”

His eyes widened with disbelief. “Caitlin Clark? Well, I’ll be…”

She rushed in for a hug, feeling how much frailer he was now. He was 70, still working full-time. Still sweeping floors. Still serving a place that had moved on.

Caitlin was stunned. In a world that cheered for her buzzer-beaters and signed multimillion-dollar endorsement deals, the man who’d quietly opened the gym for her every morning before school was still here, uncelebrated and overlooked.

That night, over burgers and fries at an old diner they both used to love, Caitlin learned the details. Mr. Thompson and his wife, Ellen, lived modestly in a small home on the edge of town. Ellen had taken a bad fall years earlier and now used a walker. Their home wasn’t suited for her mobility—narrow halls, high counters, chipped steps—but renovations were out of reach. They lived off Tom’s janitor wages and a meager pension. Retirement was a dream too expensive to consider.

And yet, he was content. “Someone’s gotta keep the place clean,” he shrugged. “Besides, the kids still need someone looking out for them.”

That’s when Caitlin made her decision.

Not the kind of decision you make on impulse, but the kind that grips you in the chest and won’t let go. The kind that whispers, Do this. Now.

She canceled her podcast appearance. Pushed her schedule. Rallied a team of friends, designers, and contractors. She moved fast—stealth mode. She booked the Thompsons a week-long stay at an accessible Airbnb. Set up a secret renovation plan for their home. Called in favors. Cashed in endorsements. Took the reins with the same fire she had on the court.

Within 24 hours, Operation Homecoming was in motion.

She coordinated with Dowling’s principal to give Mr. Thompson a week of paid leave. “Tell him it’s for a facilities inspection,” she said. “Make sure he doesn’t suspect a thing.”

Then came the crew—Jake Miller and his best contractors. Healthcare experts. Financial planners. Even her WNBA teammates Aaliyah Boston, Kelsey Mitchell, and Lexie Hull flew in to lend a hand. It wasn’t just about fixing a house anymore. It was about rewriting a legacy.

While Mr. and Mrs. Thompson enjoyed spa days, reunion dinners, and quiet mornings by a pond, their home was transformed. Walls were widened. A new roof installed. A therapy-equipped bathroom built. A wheelchair ramp added. The den-turned-bedroom was replaced with an adjustable king-sized bed. Hardwood floors replaced the old carpeting. The kitchen was restructured for Ellen’s reach.

Caitlin stood back every day, clipboard in hand, inspecting each detail. “No half-fixes,” she told Jake. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

By day four, word had spread. Volunteers poured in. Neighbors shared stories: how Tom once shoveled their driveway during a snowstorm, paid for a student’s cleats, fixed a teacher’s flat tire. The mayor fast-tracked permits. Local shops donated supplies. A scholarship fund in Tom’s name began to form.

“He’s not just a janitor,” Caitlin told her crew. “He’s the quiet foundation behind so many of us.”

The night before the big reveal, everything was perfect. A lit walkway. A flower-filled garden. A glass case in the living room for Mr. Thompson’s scrapbook. A framed photo of Caitlin and him on the gym floor.

And then, it was Friday.

The crowd gathered in hushed excitement. Neighbors. Former students. Volunteers. Kids waving signs. The Thompsons’ SUV turned the corner.

Tom’s brow furrowed at the sight of the ribbon, the smiling faces, the cheers.

“What’s all this?” he asked, stepping out.

“Welcome home,” Caitlin said.

She guided him up the ramp and handed him the scissors.

His hands trembled as he cut the ribbon. When the door opened, Ellen gasped, tears spilling.

The house glowed.

“Oh my,” she whispered.

From room to room, they were speechless. Ellen rolled easily from kitchen to bathroom to bedroom. “I can cook again,” she said softly.

Caitlin handed them a folder. “Mortgage? Paid. Income and healthcare? Covered. Mr. Thompson—you’re retired.”

He sank into a chair, overwhelmed. “This is too much.”

“No,” Caitlin said. “This is overdue.”

Guests streamed in with hugs and stories. A student he’d helped pass math. A girl he’d walked home in tears. A family whose child he’d driven to a doctor’s appointment.

That night, under a soft Iowa sunset, Caitlin sat beside him on the porch.

“You gave so much, Mr. Thompson. I just gave it back.”

He smiled. “All I did was open a gym door.”

“Sometimes,” Caitlin said, “that’s everything.”

As they talked, she revealed one last surprise. The spare room had become an office. Above the desk hung a framed certificate: The Tom Thompson Foundation.

“For school staff everywhere,” Caitlin explained. “Janitors, cafeteria workers, drivers—anyone who lifts kids up without recognition. You’ll lead it, if you’re willing. I’ll fund it.”

Tom’s eyes brimmed. “You’re serious?”

Caitlin nodded. “Two million to start. More pledged. Just say yes.”

He looked to Ellen, who whispered, “Say yes, Tom.”

He did.

In the weeks that followed, the story spread—not because Caitlin told it, but because the community did. Because people needed to believe in goodness again. In quiet heroes. In lives changed not just by buzzer-beaters but by open doors.

And for Caitlin Clark, it wasn’t her stats or fame that mattered most.

It was this.

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Helping the man who once tossed her a gym key and told her to keep shooting.

Because everyone needs someone who believes in them.

And she never forgot the janitor who believed in her first.