Klay Thompson had to leave the Warriors, but the legend will live forever

A night in November 2012 revealed one of Klay Thompson’s most classic moments, and an early insight into the ingredients that would make him a Golden State Warriors legend. He stepped to the free-throw line at Oracle Arena in Oakland, with the Warriors up by 2 with 13 seconds left in overtime. He missed both. Golden State still had a chance to win, and all it needed was a stop. But Klay made a costly defensive error, setting Denver’s Danilo Gallinari free for a game-tying dunk. The Warriors lost in double overtime.

By the time the media was allowed into the locker room to ask about the meltdown, which then-coach Mark Jackson said was the worst he’d felt after a game, Klay was gone. His clothes were still hanging in the locker room. But he had already left Oracle — in full uniform.

Unorthodox behavior, that’s for sure. No shower after the game. No cooling down. He just bounced. He was so angry at himself, because he cared so much about himself. His competitive fire, but still controlled. He wasn’t afraid to lose himself completely in what he loved, no matter the price. He was cool, but never too cool to fully immerse himself in it.

A lesson from Klay.

That same spirit has led to the end of one of the NBA’s greatest trios. After 13 seasons, Klay Thompson is now a Dallas Maverick. And the Warriors’ championship triangle is now a chevron. Klay left the house he helped build, the only franchise he’s ever known. This time, he left his uniform behind.

Players leave teams all the time. But this is different. This is an icon throwing deuces and changing the DNA of a franchise.

It will be shocking to see the Warriors rock star in another band. Paired with Luka Dončić and not Steph Curry.

But as the old saying goes, to love is to let go. The most difficult and yet necessary act of love is liberation, the sacrifice required to accept absence in the name of freedom. Klay’s gift to the Bay Area, beyond his finest shooting form and the indelible moments he created, was his sovereignty.

He moved as a free spirit in an industry of invented personalities in an age of trends and conformity. His ability and willingness to forge his own path, to deviate from the confines of his profession, somehow gave his fans permission to do the same. To ride with Klay was to be yourself. Klay Thompson was his own man.

That’s why he had to go. Because for the last five years, Klay hadn’t been free. He with the liberated look had been imprisoned. His determination to reclaim his past, to reach the Hall of Fame bar he’d set for himself, seemed so overwhelming that he got caught up in it.

It’s a plot twist for Klay to become the one who’s too offended to stay. Five years ago, it would have been crazy to imagine Klay being so hurt by gestures, or lack thereof, and by the perception of appreciation. He’s always clearly valued his respect and legacy, judging by his play. But even when he had a gripe about being respected, it felt more like a joke than a hurt feeling, like when he was left off the NBA’s 75 list of the league’s best players and changed to No. 77 before practice. His public facade was one of indifference to typical social desires. He was too fixated on being Klay. You don’t show up as Jackie Moon because you care about perceptions.

Klay after scoring 52 points on Monday: “I looked like Jackie Moon.”

Klay tonight:

🎥 @NBCSAuthenticphoto.twitter.com/1pYz5OLImU

— SB Nation (@SBNation) November 1, 2018

But as a former player recently said, aging is brutal on an athlete. Greatness leaves the body faster than it leaves the mind. What Klay experienced only seems to add to the brutality. It wasn’t a gradual departure. It was taken away. Twice. In the middle of his prime. With serious injuries in consecutive years.

He’s not the first player to go through something like this. But his status and natural tendency toward authenticity gave us a glimpse into this athlete’s journey. He didn’t show it all, but enough to know that his happiness was fading. As Draymond Green said on his podcast, it’s better to keep your inventory filled with good memories than to create new bad ones. And he collected the bad ones. Not just his poor performances in elimination games the past two seasons. But also the times when his frustration and pain manifested in ways that didn’t suit him.

Klay deserves this fresh start. He deserves a makeover. As painful as it may be for him to go, he has been given the grace and understanding of a fan base that is so well-disposed toward him.

“I think last year was a really tough year for him,” Green said. “It was really tough for Klay. As a brother, it was tough to see someone go through that. … So it’s probably for the better. But it sucks.”

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Klay was still brooding outside the visitors’ locker room in Phoenix in October 2022, after being ejected for a fight with Devin Booker. It can be hard to tell when Klay doesn’t want to talk. Sometimes it seems like a bad time to interview him, and he ends up at his most talkative, dropping memorable gems and honest insights. So I took a chance and asked him about his shooting after making 1 of 8 field goals. He missed all five 3-pointers, made 2 of his last 12, and totaled 10 points in two games. My question was whether his problem was technique or shot selection.

He stopped, looked at me annoyed and answered.

“Why should I stop believing now, Marcus?”

That wasn’t my question, but his answer was insight into what he was thinking and how he was processing it. At times, Klay seemed to hear questions about his shooting, especially after nights off, as accusations. As if the simple question were a request to stop shooting. Because in his mind, and for good reason, virtually every shot he takes is inherently justified by his excellence at the job. Questioning the outcome is akin to questioning the decision to let it fly.

And why would he EVER stop shooting? Why would he EVER stop doing the thing he was born to do? Why would he EVER give up the confidence that his work and talent have contrived to brew?

A lesson from Klay.

His peace in life is on the court, where he practices his craft. Yes, it’s also on the boat, and in the water, and lounging with his dog, Rocco. But nothing seems to fill him as much as basketball. Throwing a ball 29.5 inches in circumference into a hoop that is 56.55 inches in circumference. It’s a simple pleasure that he has mastered. And his mastery has brought so much pleasure.

Klay still believes he can play at the level of his heart, and more importantly, that he is worthy of the space and opportunity to do so.

“The whole Bay Area has changed,” Curry wrote on Instagram. “The way the game is played has changed. Killa Klay is front and center. Thank you for everything. Go play basketball and do what you do.”

Klay hasn’t stopped believing. And it’s clear that he’s saying the Warriors have stopped believing in him — not giving him a monster extension, putting his contract on the back burner, seeing him as a rotational player, sitting him out at the end of games despite all the magic he’s created.

So his journey to peace was clearly harder in the Bay. The home where he can’t escape the reminders of his former glory and where the reverence, and in some cases the decline, is evidence of what he lost. The ultimate competitor in him gave it a valiant try, and still does. He helped secure a fourth championship in 2022. He fought. Against the limitations of his body. Against the reality that was forced upon him.

Therefore, to love Klay, right now, means to let him go. It is not a word for leaving, but for staying behind. It means that Klay’s loss should not overshadow the gains he has made. It means that you value what Klay has given above what he takes. It means that you feel this with him.

Like when he scored 37 points in a quarter against Sacramento in a 2015 game. Like when he stunned Oklahoma City in Game 6 of the 2016 Western Conference Finals and Joe Lacob bent over him. Like when he scored 60 points in 29 minutes in 2016. Like when he tore his ACL in the 2019 NBA Finals. Like when he cried on the Warriors’ bench after a game in 2021. Like when he dunked in his first game in two years. Like when he stood atop the last of the championship floats in 2022, his sailor cap on, as the streets filled with fans followed.

Klay gave it his all. He was genuine enough to relate to the fans. To let people in. To bare his soul. Because of that, the Bay was strong with him. An adopted son. If that was ever true, it should remain so, even now that he’s gone.

A lesson from Klay.

Choosing to leave the Warriors is one of the most Klay-like things he’s ever done. Captain of his own boat. Commander of his own bike. Engineer and pilot of his own paper airplanes. If Klay wants to leave, Klay will leave. And he left.

But there’s another part to this famous saying. The first part — if you love something, let it go — is followed by a hopeful conclusion: if it comes back, it’s yours. Forever, in some versions.

Klay comes back, assuming that time heals all wounds. Not as an opponent, but as family. Not as a Maverick, but as a Warrior. Not as the one who left, but as the legend you love.

When he comes back, he’ll be your Klay. Forever.

(Top photo of Klay Thompson celebrating a decisive victory over the Memphis Grizzlies in the 2022 playoffs: Ezra Shaw/Getty Images)