“You don’t see a lot of Klays with a K.” ― Klay Thompson
“But dragons, my boy, have a whole different kind of mind.” ― John Gardner, Grendel
There’s only one reason not to get excited about Klay Thompson breaking an NBA record by hitting 14 three-pointers in a single game this week, and that’s the likelihood that he’ll probably do something just as ridiculous in a few months. Klay’s very existence is a miracle. That he is a Golden State Warrior is both serendipity and sadism. The fourth (maybe, fifth now?) best player on your team should not be allowed to carry out such acts of public humiliation. There are supposed to be laws against such things, and if not laws, unwritten codes of conduct. But Klay’s exactly where he should be. The place where he can be, unfettered by expectation, free to both be anonymous but also given the green light to go apeshit on the opposition. Free to be the Klayest version of himself.
In 2014 he was slotted as the centerpiece in a hypothetical blockbuster trade with Minnesota for Kevin Love. Klay and Kevin Love go way back. They both used to be Lakers, that is to say, Lake Oswego Lakers, a Little League super-team. Love, at the time a gigantic sixth grader, pitched; Klay, less gigantic, played shortstop. Had this trade materialized, as Joe Lacob likely very much wanted it to, the course of history is changed. The Warriors never really become the Warriors but at least we’d get to see Klay Thompson unshackled. Klay the Number One Option, Klay the Go-To Guy, Klay the Nightly Executioner.
We can imagine what kind of snowy hellscape that might have spawned, but here, in reality, Klay stayed and he’s content. Mad content. Life in the shadows of giants isn’t so bad. It’s the ideal situation for a low-key dude who rolls with the punches and enjoys the simple things. A certain permission to exist on the periphery, as the socially awkward little brother who always comes through in the clutch. The bright lights don’t interest Klay the same way they interest others. He doesn’t crave that front-and-center life. Klay would rather just quietly dip out into the world and indulge in the finer things, maybe a jaunt to Dolores Park to steal someone’s trumpet, and then later, a heart-to-heart conversation with his dog Rocco about the best Shooter McGavin moments from Happy Gilmore.
Klay was considered one-dimensional once by casual fans and at least a few GMs who passed over him in the draft to pick talents such as Derrick Williams, Jan Veseley, and Jimmer Fredette. He was seen as a shooter, a paper tiger on defense. His early work around the rim was near comical. (During his rookie season his botched layups were known as “Klay-ups”.) His ball-handling needed a bit of a tune-up. He struggled to guard smaller quicker 2s. But every year he methodically attacked the weaknesses in his game. To borrow a few sports clichés, he’s a workhorse, an ironman, a perfectionist, who still found the time to spend both his days and nights weight training while in the midst of viral misadventures in China. Never being satisfied gives him great power and drive, and fuels the cutthroat fire that of course seeks to dominate all that crosses his path, even beer pong.
And now, the occasional worker of miracles. A stunning turnaround of fortune for a guy drafted to come off the bench to give Monta Ellis a breather.
Klay’s saved the Warriors dynasty single-handedly at least twice. He has nothing left to prove. All he has to do is chill and live his best life. He’s not the team’s Favorite Son (Steph), or its Heart and Soul (Draymond), or even it’s Get Out of Jail Free Card (Durant). He’s just Klay. Defend well, get open, shoot often, stay emotionless. That’s the Klay Thompson Experience. That he occasionally smashes onto the scene like a baked Galactus and eats a planet because he has the munchies only adds to the mystique of Klay.
All the little component pieces of Klay minutia swirl together to create something like a towering normalness. This is an American man in his 20s living life to the fullest: That dirtbag facial hair. Red-handed infidelity Instagram-model drama. Signing a magic toaster that led the Warriors to a 31-2 record to close out the season. Existentialist musings such as: “You have to embrace every day. This doesn’t last forever. It’s a sad day when the ball stops bouncing.” His devotion to his dog. His dad Mychal (great Twitter follow) cutting his allowance. A distrust for black and white films. That monotone politeness. Cool as a cucumber, with about as much range of expression. This is the dude who looked only slightly sheepish when President Barack Obama roasted him at the White House for once being unaware the Warriors played in Oakland.
Perhaps most impressive of all is how he’s been inoculated from the sort of visceral hatred his team inspires among fans. Steph Curry? Overrated, soft, should be in the Hague for crimes against mouthguards. Draymond Green? A literal murderer. Kevin Durant? A cowardly snake and tryhard reply guy. Klay Thompson though? Klay is cool. Klay is someone you could kick it with, even though he’d probably make you binge Family Guy with him. Honestly, Klay is so cool that even pictures of him chilling with a war criminal like Condoleezza Rice don’t immeasurably hack away at his dopeness.
And Klay on the court is even more chill. Off the ball he skims and slips rhombuses around defenders, dipping behind double screens and gliding around swarms of dudes who are very much aware that this guy, this Splash Bastard, is not to be given any daylight to go nova. He’s the first vulture to the kill. And when Klay Thompson quietly goes Super Saiyan, he’s the most lights-out, unconscious, deadly shooter on the planet. (This includes Steph Curry.) Thompson scores his points with cerebral lust. It’s not romantic, but neither is it boorish or aggressive. It’s natural, organic, exceedingly logical. Klay’s sporadic outbursts of scoring determinism unravel your synapses. His almost bored onslaught make you shake your head and conclude that damn, Klay is on one again. As the youths would say: Klay is a big mood.
Superstars are attracted to the Big Moment, and Klay has plenty of those: the 37-point quarter, Game 6 against Oklahoma City (the game that broke Durant), the fourteen 3s.Superstars dream of sparking the unlikely comeback, the noble last stand. Kobe begged for big moments. Klay’s dominance is not about will so much as timing and coordinates. Defenders are to be disposed of, made a mockery of. A missed shot is not a matter of regret for Klay. Taking no shot at all, that’s cause for regret. That’s hopelessness.
Great players have always taken over games. Michael and Kobe through psychotic levels of belligerence, LeBron as fate’s own wrecking ball. Steph Curry is touched by God or Satan and before our own eyes and becomes a little whimsical Angel of Death. But you don’t exactly get the feeling that Klay is out there wanting it more, to borrow an annoying phrase. He’s unflappable in victory and defeat, blowouts in either direction. For Klay, it’s just happenstance. Just the thing to do, the thing he would have done anyway. And when he starts to feel it there is an awareness of impending ruin, like when animals freak out because they can smell an earthquake. The play-by-play guys know it, the players on the bench know it, and all there is to do is revel in it or take your whooping with dignity, and let this sweaty, blank-faced automaton do his thing. He leaves behind scorched and lifeless earth and then, after all that, he gives terse, matter-of-fact, but not at all unfriendly sideline interviews. As Klay himself said about his propensity for stepping up at crucial times: "I don't know if I was born for it, but I definitely worked my butt off to get to this point. I mean, I guess you could say I was born for it.”
There’s a primal ease in the way that Klay carries himself. He genuinely seems to be who he is. No artifice. This is a guy who gets it. He’s not one of us, but he’s close. Basketball is his job, but chilling and enjoying being alive is his passion. He just exudes normal dude vibes, like your slightly hapless homie who clocks in, clocks out, and then loads up on Mountain Dew, Taco Bell, and plays Call of Duty until the sun starts peeking through the blinds, but still pays his rent on time and remembers your birthday.
This summer Klay gets to decide whether to re-up with the comfort of the historically good or opt to take his post-game quips and cyborg shooting stroke elsewhere. He’ll get paid an enormous amount of money either way and good for him because he’s earned that money and he needs it because Doritos aren’t free. There’s a sense around the Warriors that this is the last big push, the quest for the three-peat, and the band breaking up is just financial reality. That may have some effect on his decision to stay or go or it may not. Klay’s going to do the Klay thing, that is to say, the thing that will make him happiest.
One day the ball will indeed stop bouncing for us all but that shouldn’t trouble Klay too much. He hardly bounces the ball anyway. Too busy shooting his everlasting shot.
