Catch and shoot, catch and shoot….
This is a work of art.
Catch and shoot, catch and shoot….
This is silk on satin.
Catch and shoot, catch and shoot….
Feel the syncopation, feel the beat.
Catch and shoot, catch and shoot….
The ball rises in a majestic parabola and sweet as honey kisses the netting…sniiick….
This is the most graceful, the most elegant, the most hypnotic movement in all of sports these days—Stephen Curry unfurling a jump shot.
From way back. Way, way back. No, not there. Way, way, way back.
You watch him and it is mesmerizing. And contagious. You want to rummage through the hall closet in search of the long lost ball, dribble to the driveway and launch your version of Stephen Curry. And yes, there it is, all these years later, just as you remember….
Air ball.
He looks like a kid and plays like one, which is to say with an engaging, appealing mixture of freedom and joy, who cannot wait for tomorrow to get here because it is sure to bring something new and wonderful…and ain’t life a hoot? It is if you are the point guard for the Golden State Warriors of the National Basketball Association, having resurrected that woebegone franchise from the Sea of Despair and, as an MVP is supposed to, brought it all the way to the championship. With another on the way? Why not?
After all, just look at the bloodline: His father, Dell, had a stellar 16-year NBA career and retired as the all-time leading scorer of the Charlotte Hornets.
Steph is 28 years old, 6-foot-3, 185 pounds, wiry, acrobatic, able to slip and slither through dark and dangerous places where the big men wait in ambush in the paint to swat him as they would a pesky fly, but he is too slick for them and, oh yes, he has a killer first step that leaves them in tangled-foot disarray, embarrassed and fuming, and there he goes, raining down yet another 35-footer and grinning that little kid grin and you want to ring the doorbell and ask: “Can Steph come out and play?”
So that’s his secret; that’s how he manages to seem impervious to any pressure: he opens the door and lets the little kid out to play, and oops, there goes another three…
…wheee.
The legs are the key. Yes, the elbow has to be cocked just so, the grip sure and snug, the wrist ready to release with that dainty flip….Yes, they are all factored in, but it’s the legs that are the foundation. If your legs give in to the slightest twinge of fatigue it can throw all the other moving parts out of kilter. The whole movement is like the delicate innards of a Swiss watch, and, again, it starts with the legs.
And that is how Stephen Curry spends his summer vacations—working on his legs, his endurance, running and running and—pause for the dry heaves—running some more and don’t forget the iron, pump ‘til you puke, and yes, it’s insane, but when the game is tight and has come down to one last shot and your legs are still under you and you can elevate into firing position, then you say a silent prayer of thanks for all those hellish summer works.
He could play for the Harlem Globe Trotters, he’s that slick, making the balls dance, two at a time, behind the back, between the legs, over the woods to Grandma’s house and it’s all a blur, like a three-card monte dealer daring you to find under which card hides the pea.
And then when he’s got you hypnotized and has lulled you to sleep—BAM! That killer crossover, and he’s gone, up, up and away, rising in pluperfect form, body squared, and, oh my, you know it’s good even as the ball is just reaching its apogee.
He knows it, too. He knows it because he knows what goes into the making of it, the untold hours of—remember?—catch and shoot, catch and shoot.
They lay down 10 spots around the three-point arc, 10 shots at each spot, and he commences: Catch and shoot, catch and shoot…100 in all, and they swear that he averages in the 80’s, and is pissed when he’s below that.
And, they also swear, his best is 70 in a row.
Seventy.
Indulge an old man his daydreams: In another time in another sport, the sweetest strokes I ever saw belonged to Ted Williams, the last man to hit .400, and Slamming Sammy Snead hitting a tee ball. So now, move over for this kid.
He’s more than a one-trick pony, more than a selfish gunner. He averages 6.4 assists. His passing has improved each year, and sometimes, he admits, he gets carried away and makes a play more dangerous than need be. All things considered though, the Warriors can live with those occasional flights of fancy.
Turnovers are tolerated, mostly, irritants. (In his one and only appearance in Philadelphia he committed eight and berated himself loudly.)
A suspicion persists that some of his misdemeanors are due to—ssshhh—Steph becoming bored. He makes it look too easy, too effortless. No one should have this much fun…just ask the little kid.
I was a teenager, circa 1950’s, when the jump shot was invented and rendered us land-locked practitioners of the two-handed push shot obsolete. A generation or so later, along came the leapers and their pyrotechnic dunks, proof that man really could fly…well, for at least a little while.
Now it has come full circle. Stephen Curry and the three-point shot have been embraced by the NBA. Oh, there will still be a firestorm of rim-ringing throw downs, still be the tried and true pick and roll. But more and more the talk is about spacing, widening the floor for the snipers and the sharpshooters. Love the three ball. And leading the parade is the little kid.
He shoots 51 percent from conventional range and 46 percent from Three Land. He set the record for threes last year with 286 and has obliterated that this year with 403.
But, again, he’s more than a one-trick pony, leading the NBA last year in steals and free throw percentage.
When Stephen Curry was in high school, the jersey they gave him looked like a hand-me-down nightgown that slipped to his waist. But what it couldn’t hide, they said, was his heart.
