Chapter Text
Breaking News: Klay Thompson exits game with undisclosed injury. He left the court in evident discomfort yet the source of the issue remains unknown. – ESPN
Breaking: After horrific loss to Atlanta, Golden State refuses to answer any questions regarding the condition of their star shooting guard. Several reporters asked Stephen Curry and head coach Steve Kerr, both of which remain elusively enigmatic on the subject. – Sports Illustrated
Breaking: Sources Reveal Klay Thompson suffered from acute outbreak of migraine. He has not previously been known to have suffered from the condition. Details remain undisclosed. – ESPN
The Full Story – While the Game Revealed Klay Thompson’s Terrible Suffering, It Showed Something Truly Inspiring As Well
'Ten minutes remaining in the fourth quarter. It was a play like so many had been that night. The Golden State Warriors were on the heels of the red-hot Hawks on a career night by Trae Young. While mostly being guarded by Klay Thompson, who is still on the road to recovery from his previous two devastating injuries, Young scored forty-seven point on 18-30 from the field. With nine minutes and forty-two seconds on the clock, he showed some of his magic by landing a three pointer over the outstretched arms of the taller Thompson, beating tough defense for a highlight-worthy, video-game type basket. Spectacular, but at the same time, nothing that has not been seen before.
What happened afterwards, however, was a complete shock to the sports world. Stephen Curry was just about to throw the inbound pass to Andre Iguodala. Yet he did not.'
Coach Kerr was screaming. Arms were flailing and Steph was treated to the standard wave of abuse reserved for inexplicable player moves of the home team. The fans were shouting various obscenities paired with the demand to get going.
Klay heard none of this. The last thing he remembered was anger. Throughout the entire game, the undercurrent of fury had been building up. Every basket scored by Trae Young felt like a personal insult. He was an elite defender, at least he used to be. It shouldn’t be as easy for the opposing team to score buckets over him, as if he were some unmoving pillar on a makeshift parking-lot court. He should be a step faster, a bit closer, more present. The coaches expressed their displeasure with his performance at halftime. But no one could be more irate than Klay himself. He was cursing himself inwardly, merciless anger pushing him further and faster, until the next bucket fell, and another wave rolled over him, drowning him in bitter hatred.
The next thing he knew was blinding, shocking pain. It started in his head and ran through his whole body like shockwaves. It was hard to describe. He saw nothing, felt nothing. Nothing but pain. His vision went black and he doubled over, the world seemingly turning upside down before vanishing entirely, giving way to nothing but agony.
It wasn’t remotely like a headache. The feeling was more akin to scraping both of your knees on asphalt ground until there is blood running down your shins, and then having acid poured over the wounds. It was like breaking your bones to have the offended limb twisted brutally in the opposite direction. It was like playing hopscotch on a third-degree ankle sprain. It was as if he were frozen in the moment of tearing his Achilles, the brief shock of overwhelming pain frozen in a permanent state.
There wasn’t anything he could do. There was no biting your teeth through the pain, mind over body. Because the pain was in his head, there was no escaping it. There was no place to escape to. His entire body was on fire, yet the rest of him ceased existing, because he couldn’t feel himself, his hands, legs, the ground beneath his feet, over the overwhelming pain. The only thing he registered was the rolling wave of nausea that came almost as a relief. It felt terrible, but anything was better than the pain in his head, and he was glad to feel anything else.
He should know how to react. After all, this wasn’t the first time. But he did not. Without any orientation or outward perception, he merely fell over, just like that, both of his hands gripping at his skull as if he were about to wrench it from his own neck.
'Migraine. There are varying degrees of severity to the condition, ranging from a mild headache exploited as an excuse to miss work to a pain to all-encompassing that the victim is rendered insensible. In that case, acute outbreaks are often accompanied by vomiting and sometimes even passing out into unconsciousness. While displaying none of these very telling symptoms, leaving reporters and fans alike scratching their heads and wondering what had befallen him, it is still obvious in retrospect that Klay Thompson seems to suffer from the worst of it.
This is as surprising as it is confounding, because never before in his ten-year career has Thompson ever shown any signs of suffering from migraine. One would have thought that during one of their pretty much year-round seasons ending in final runs he would have shown some symptoms. While scientists still are not clear on what causes patients to develop migraine, it is agreed that one source of a late appearance of the disease state is a traumatic injury to the head.
With that piece of information now in the light of examination, it has been found out what those involved have desperately tried to keep private. The sudden appearance of his headband. The sudden rarity of behind the scenes shots of the Warriors’ tenured shooting guard. Closer examination of the few images that could be obtained of Thompson in a less public setting revealed an interesting yet very telling network of scars originating at one center point right in the middle of Thompson’s forehead.'
He had been very fortunate. By all means, he should be dead.
He could hardly piece together a coherent image from the tidbits he remembered and the things the police officers told him afterwards. The only thing he remembered clearly was entering his car after practice. He was third-to-last to leave the building. Only Steph, whom he’d been practicing three pointers against up to that point, and coach Kerr remained. It was already well past dark. Thanks to the second amendment and the huge gap in prosperity, this wasn’t a time to be out on the street. But in the close confinement of his car, Klay had felt safe. If he kept his windows up and kept moving, he’d be fine. After all, he’d travel mostly along the well-lit much used streets of San Francisco, only branching out to smaller roads close to his home, which was naturally in one of the better parts of the bay area.
Everything from that point on was a blur. Perhaps it was the way his brain coped with the incident. Or maybe that part of his memory has been physically obliterated. He would never know. It wasn’t as if he particularly wanted to remember.
A car crashed into the back of his Mercedes. Klay knew the drill. His parents made sure to teach him as soon as he could drive. Keep your windows up. Don’t leave the car. He did none of those things. Instead, he patiently waited for the light to turn green so he could just leave, even if it meant he had to pay the damage out of his own pocket.
He was suddenly blinded by headlamps of opposing traffic. Traffic that was moving even though the lights were red. It all happened to fast for him to understand what was going on. There was the roar of the engine, the flash of headlamps, a grim, determined face. A loud bang.
'Close contacts to Thompson remain entirely silent on the matter. His family and friends refuse to answer questions, as does Thompson himself. From the bits and pieces that could be obtained from those more loosely involved, a rather disturbing picture was assembled.
The reasons remain unknown, as the identity of the perpetrator or whether police even know who it was. All we know is that Klay Thompson appears to have been shot in the head.'
The sturdy windscreen was what kept him alive. As well as the thick bone of his forehead, courtesy of fortunate genetics. And one-and a half weeks of coma and seven emergency surgeries. His skull was a semblance of his windscreen, just a mess of small shards. He had been retrieved from his car with his brain open for viewing, its wet surface reflecting the fiery light of the street lamps.
Thankfully, he did not have to witness any of this. He woke up to nothing in particular, but it seemed like he never had been out. The bang, then blackness and the smell of antiseptic. For a moment, he thought he was still blinded by the sudden flare of headlamps. His memory was excited, yet his body was not. An odd feeling. His breath was even, his muscles relaxed. He felt mostly numb, and distant.
He must have flitted in and out of consciousness for quite a while longer. He could remember hearing voices, but they never formed a coherent conversation. He couldn’t even say who it was. The first clear thing he could make out was a warm hand, holding his. And more voices.
“He’s been awake a couple of times apparently”, a distinctly female voice said, heavy with skepticism. His mother’s.
“How would they be able to tell?” Mychel.
“They can read it off the monitor somehow. Brain waves and so forth”. Her tone revealed exactly how convinced she herself was by this piece of information.
“It’s just electric currents. It could mean anything”, Mychel protested. There was a frantic edge to his tone, as if it were on the right side of forcefully composed, but just on the verge of giving way to complete hysteria. “For all we know, he could never…”
“Don’t say it Mychel”, his mother cut off harshly. The shortness was just a mask, a knife flashing as an apparent threat, yet the threat was only to her own defense. To mask the fear that his words could be true. “There is still hope”.
Klay was horrified. It seemed like only a heartbeat ago he’d been in practice. At that point, he knew nothing. He didn’t know what had happened, why he was here. He didn’t know why he wasn’t seeing anything, what his family was afraid of. However, he did realize that they were talking about him. And he remembered the bang. It was enough to make him panic.
“His heart rate is spiking”, a foreign voice through in as tonelessly as a mechanic on Star Trek.
“What does that mean?”, his mother demanded, again all harshness.
“He must be awake”, what Klay assumed to be a nurse replied in the same dull, quipped tone.
“But what does that mean?”, his mother kept insisting, desperate.
“We don’t know that yet. Maybe he’d processing what happened. We will have to determine that from his responses to his environment”.
“How can he react when he can’t even see?”, Mychel demanded.
“The bandage is necessary”.
“I’m not questioning that”, Mychel clarified immediately, and edge of panic in his voice, as if he feared what lay beneath the cover of Klay’s eyes. Klay was confused. Now that he regained some surer footing in the real world, he realized something soft yet scratchy that felt suspiciously like bandages was tied tight around his forehead, effectively holding his eyes shut. It felt like a barrier between him and the real world. Why would Mychel be afraid of seeing him?
“He might be able to hear you”.
“You’ve been saying this for a while now. He’s never reacted”, his mother shot at her, as if it were all her fault. Like Klay was some sort of machine they hadn’t properly repaired.
Klay wanted to react but couldn’t. He was paralyzed by unnamed fear, dreading reality and whatever horror it had in store for him. He could be blind. He could be paralyzed.
It was then he felt it again, what had anchored him in this moment. The hand. Fingers, closing around his palm. He didn’t know whose they were, probably Mychel’s, judging the size. It wasn’t the slim, dainty hand of a woman. He curled his fingers around it reflexively, giving it a good squeeze. He needed it. He needed to feel connected to a moment he felt was out of his reach, as if he weren’t quite part of it.
He heard a faint gasp. Then absolute silence. It felt as if he’d lost consciousness, yet the persistence of the nothingness proved that he had not.
“Klay?”
His voice was wavering, barely more than an exhale. It wasn’t the Thompson tone of one of his brothers. It wasn’t the Bahamian flair of his father, and definitely not female. It was slightly rough and slightly hoarse. Familiar, yet impossible.
“Steph?”
“Oh my god”, his mother gasped. Her voice was choked off with a sob. “Oh my god”, she hiccupped between sobs. “Oh my god”.
“Can you hear me, Klay?”, again that voice, yet more firm. It was alive with hope, manifesting itself more and more into what Klay had known for so long.
“Yeah”, Klay brought up weakly. “Are you…”
He couldn’t really ask it, could he. He trailed off, confused. Even in this state aware that assuming he might be here would be assuming too much.
“I’m here, my guy. I got you”. His voice was shaking with emotion. He could hear the tears. Again, that wave of panic, the fear of what he might find once the barrier was removed. It felt like mere seconds ago when he was walking, now he didn’t know what would happen next.
He tightened his grip on what he hardly dared believe was Steph, not asking himself why he was here, how this could have happened, how long it had been. He kept himself in the moment by holding on to his focal point, as if he were a compass and Steph the north.
'The exact scale of the damage he received has not been disclosed. Obviously, he has been cleared to play. It cannot have been so bad. Yet it is hard to believe that a direct hit in the center of his head would have so little effect. It raises many questions and doubts which part of the highly fragmented story is true.
Let us accept for a fact that Klay Thompson has indeed suffered a traumatic brain injury. There is enough evidence. The scars merely back up what his newly acquired fierce migraine already strongly suggests. Whatever version of the story you choose to believe, it is truly horrific. After all, who does not love the silent yet quirky shooting guard with his boat videos and his lifetime bond with his bulldog Rocco? He is one of the most uncontroversial faces of the NBA, a rare point of agreement in often strongly polarized fan groups. We would not wish this kind of suffering on anyone, especially not such an easily likeable figure.
Yet there is light in the face of this tragic discovery. The scene that unfolded on the court in Atlanta was not just one of agony. It was also a moving display of the power of friendship.'
Klay was pulled out of his head quite literally. Through the searing pain, he could feel fingers at the back of his head, knotted into his hair. He was already on his knees, falling forwards, but his fall was both halted and cushioned as his forehead met with skin, slick with sweat. Like sinking into a bed, Klay felt himself sink into an embrace as he seemed to be entirely engulfed by arms and hands, one remaining at the back of his head while the other traveled between his shoulder blades, hauling him in.
“I got you, big fella”, Steph said into his ear quietly. Only as he made out those words did he take note of the roaring noise around him. That, too, had been reduced to nothing but a stimulus of more pain.
“It’s okay. I got you”.
He tried to focus on his breathing. Instead, he found himself sharply attuned on Steph. With his head hidden in the safety net of Steph, every breath he took filled his nose with the tangy smell of his fresh sweat, earthy and musky. He could feel the rise and fall of Steph’s breathing through his forehead, unconsciously matching the rhythm. His warmth through the fabric of his jersey. The firm planes of muscle beneath his hands as he clutched on to him desperately. He tried to say something, to straighten his head and face the stadium, but even the threat of stimulus sent another splash of acid over the wound. All that escaped him was a pitiful whimper.
“Shh, Klay. It’s alright. Take your time. I got you”.
He could feel Steph’s breath against his ear and his nose press into his temple. It wasn’t pain. He held onto that feeling that wasn’t pain, that warm embrace, the healing comfort. He melted into the touch, practically falling onto Steph.
'Once again, Stephen Curry provided a spark on inspiration to us all. In a moment of general confusion, he sprang into action immediately. The basketball was cast aside, forgotten, his attention instead turned to his suffering teammate. He reached him quick enough to prevent him from completely falling to the ground and potentially hurting himself in the process, holding him upright and providing words of encouragement to the counterpart of what Mark Jackson has famously declared to be the best backcourt in the history of the game. While they have accumulated enough accolades to support that claim, Stephen Curry has used that moment to demonstrate that he is one of the best teammates in the history of the game.'
Real life did not end like the article. Wholesome, complete. Reality has no moments. It is continuous, and it never stops. Steph could only watch helplessly as Klay was wrenched from his grasp, dragged out of the arena by the medical crew, leaving the smaller figure to stand on the court abandoned.
What had threatened to happen all night came to its glorious conclusion. Steph’s head was not in the game. And Klay was no longer in it. They lost by twenty points. It was over.