On a quiet Thursday afternoon in Atherton, California, the sun filtered softly through the curtains of the Curry family living room. Steph Curry sat alone on the sofa, his gaze fixed on the phone that refused to stop ringing. Each call brought more questions, more scrutiny, more reminders of the Warriors’ early playoff elimination. The weight of public disappointment pressed down on him like a heavy fog, seeping into every corner of his mind, making it hard to breathe even within the walls of his own home.
Steph had spent the last week wrestling not just with the loss on the court but with a deeper, more painful struggle. At 36 years old, a veteran of the game, a leader admired worldwide, he found himself questioning his relevance, his purpose, and even his happiness. The relentless expectations had transformed basketball from a source of joy into a burden, a mirror reflecting his insecurities and fears.
That morning, the tension in the Curry household was palpable. The familiar aroma of morning coffee mingled with the sweet scent of pancakes, but it couldn’t mask the heaviness that clung to Steph like a shadow. His wife, Ayesha, moved quietly around the kitchen, casting worried glances toward the living room where Steph sat lost in thought.
“Dad, you’re different,” Canon said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence with the blunt honesty only a six-year-old could muster. Steph looked up, startled by his son’s words. Canon’s small face was serious, his big eyes searching his father’s for answers.
Steph forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Canon’s observation cut deeper than any criticism Steph had read in the media. It was a truth laid bare by innocence, a mirror held up by pure love.
Sometimes, the deepest truths come from the purest hearts.
Steph watched Canon play in the backyard, his laughter ringing clear and bright, a stark contrast to the silence that had settled inside Steph’s soul. It was impossible not to feel the cruel irony—his greatest strength, his joy in the game, was now the thing slipping away.
Days earlier, Canon had appeared in the doorway of his parents’ bedroom late at night, his small frame silhouetted by the hallway light. “Dad, why do you keep looking at the ceiling at night? Are you sad because of basketball?”
The question hit Steph like a punch to the gut. Not because it was inappropriate, but because it was perfectly appropriate. Canon saw through all the defenses Steph had built, straight to the heart of the matter.
Steph had spent two decades building a reputation for tireless positivity, yet here he was, struggling to keep that light alive for himself and his family.
On that Thursday afternoon, while Steph was lost in his dark thoughts, Canon entered the room quietly, clutching his favorite teddy bear. His expression was too serious for a child so young.
“Dad,” Canon said softly but with determination, “I need to tell you something important.”
Steph looked down, trying to summon a smile he didn’t feel. “What is it, my champion?”
Canon climbed onto the sofa beside him and looked directly into his father’s eyes with an intensity that made Steph forget he was talking to a six-year-old.
“God told me a secret about you,” Canon said, his voice filled with a seriousness that stopped Steph from pretending he was okay.
How often do we underestimate children’s ability to perceive truths that adults lose amid the complications they create for themselves?
Canon was about to reveal something that would change Steph’s perspective on life, purpose, and the true meaning of success.
Steph’s heart quickened—not because he believed in a literal divine revelation, but because he realized Canon had been watching him, worrying about him in ways Steph hadn’t noticed.
“What did you ask God for, Canon?” Steph asked gently, pulling his son closer.
“I said, ‘God, my father forgot how to be happy. He keeps looking at the phone with a sad face and doesn’t play with me like before. Can you teach me how to help him?’” Canon’s big eyes locked onto Steph’s face.
“And then I felt a voice in here,” Canon said, touching his chest, “telling me that you just needed to remember some important things.”
Steph felt tears prick at his eyes—not of sadness, but of recognition. His son had diagnosed with surgical precision the core of his struggle.
“What important things, my love?” Steph asked.
Canon stood up on the sofa, placing his small hands on Steph’s bearded face.
“First, God told me that you forgot why you started playing basketball. Before, you played because it made you happy, not because people on television talked about you.”
Steph blinked, the truth hitting him like a flash of sunlight on a cloudy day. Somewhere along the way, the pure pleasure of the game had been buried under expectations, pressures, and the need to prove his worth.
Canon continued, his voice gaining confidence. “He told me that you get sad because you think disappointing people is worse than disappointing yourself. But God said that’s wrong.”
Steph’s throat tightened. How profound, how simple, and how true.
“How did you know that, Canon?” Steph asked.
“Because I watch you, Dad. You get happy when you play with me in the backyard, but you get sad when you look at the phone and see people talking about basketball. Before, you sang in the car. Now, you stay quiet. Before, you laughed at my silly jokes. Now, you only smile with your mouth, not with your eyes.”
Steph swallowed hard. It was humbling and comforting to realize a child knew him better than he knew himself.
“And there’s more,” Canon said, sitting back on his father’s lap. “God told me that you think you’re not a good father because you worry about adult things. But I want to tell you a secret, too. You’re the best father in the whole world, even when you’re sad.”
Tears rolled freely down Steph’s cheeks now.
“Why do you think that, my son?”
“Because you always hug me when I need it. You always listen to me when I talk. You play with me even when you’re tired. And when I have nightmares, you stay with me until I’m not afraid anymore. Bad fathers don’t do those things.”
Steph hugged Canon tightly, overwhelmed by the unconditional love in those words.
“But what did God say you need to remember?” Steph asked.
Canon smiled, the first radiant smile since their conversation began.
“You need to remember that playing basketball is like playing with me in the backyard. You do it because you love it, not because other people are watching.”
“How can I remember that?” Steph asked, genuinely seeking life advice from his six-year-old son.
“It’s easy, Dad,” Canon said, jumping off the sofa and running to the window overlooking the backyard. “Come play basketball with me now. Not to train, not to get better, just to have fun like we used to.”
Sometimes, the deepest truths come from the purest hearts.
Steph looked at Canon standing by the window, pointing to the basketball hoop with the excitement of someone who had just discovered the solution to a complex problem. But before getting up, Steph felt he needed to hear the rest.
“Canon, wait a minute,” Steph said gently. “You said God told you a secret about me. Is there anything else?”
Canon came running back, climbing up next to his father again with that adorable seriousness.
“Yes, Dad. There’s the most important part of the secret.”
Steph waited, feeling he was about to hear something that would fundamentally change his perspective on life.
“God told me that you forgot the most important thing about why you play basketball.”
“And what’s that most important thing?”
“You don’t play for the people on television, Dad. You don’t play to win trophies or for people to say you’re the best. You play because it makes you happy and because it makes other people happy too. That’s all.”
The impact of those words hit Steph like a genuine revelation. Canon had distilled decades of sports philosophy into a single crystalline truth.
Steph had started playing basketball out of pure love, but that love had been buried beneath layers of pressure and the constant need to justify his worth.
“How do you know that, Canon?” Steph asked, admiring his son’s wisdom.
“Because I see you smile for real when we play in the backyard,” Canon replied. “It’s the same smile you had in old photos when you were a child. Mom showed me pictures of when you were little, like me, and you had the same happy face playing basketball that I have when I play with my favorite toys.”
Canon had connected past and present in ways that Steph had lost sight of.
“But there’s more to the secret,” Canon continued, now standing on the sofa to be taller than his father, as if that gave his words more authority.
“The part that God said is the most important of all.”
Steph waited, feeling he was about to hear something that would change everything.
“God told me that playing with me is more important than any basketball game,” Canon said firmly.
“Because games end, but I’m your son forever. And when you’re old and can’t play anymore, I’ll still be here wanting to play with you.”
Steph felt the ground disappear beneath his feet—not frightening, but liberating. Tears flowed freely, not of sadness but of emotional clarity he hadn’t felt in months.
“Canon, you’re right. You’re completely right.”
“I know I am,” Canon said with the absolute confidence of childhood. “That’s why God chose me to tell you. Sometimes daddies forget important things and need their children to remind them.”
Steph realized that the wisdom he sought in coaches, books, and mentors had been living under the same roof all along.
“And you know what else God told me?” Canon asked, smiling with the contagious joy only children can radiate.
“What else?”
“That when you remember these things, you’ll go back to playing like you played before. Not because you have to, but because you want to. And then everyone will remember why they like watching you.”
Steph was momentarily speechless. Canon had diagnosed not only his personal struggle but the solution to his professional performance: authenticity and joy are the secret ingredients that make athletes truly special.
“Canon,” Steph said, taking his son into his arms, “thank you for reminding me who I really am.”
“You’re welcome, Dad,” Canon replied, hugging him back with all the strength his small arms could muster. “Now, can we go play basketball the fun way, not the serious way?”
Sometimes, the simplest lessons come from the purest hearts.
Steph rose from the sofa with a lightness he hadn’t felt in months. That afternoon, he played basketball with Canon for 45 minutes—not to train, not to improve, but just to have fun. They invented silly games, laughed when they missed shots, and celebrated impossible baskets as miracles.
“Look, Dad!” Canon shouted, making a three-point shot at a height appropriate for his age. “I’m just like you!”
“No,” Steph replied with a smile that made Ayesha pause in the kitchen to watch through the window. “You’re better than me. You still remember how to have fun.”
That night, after Canon was asleep, Steph called Coach Steve Kerr.
“Coach, I need to tell you something,” Steph said, his voice carrying an energy Steve hadn’t heard in weeks.
“What is it?” Steve asked, curious.
“I remembered why I started playing basketball.”
“And why was that?”
“Because it made me happy. I want to go back to playing that way—not with less seriousness, but with more joy.”
Steve recognized immediately that something fundamental had shifted in Steph.
Three weeks later, Steph returned to the court for the new season. From warm-ups, it was clear he was different—lighter, freer, genuinely having fun. He scored 42 points that night, but more importantly, he played with a contagious joy that reminded everyone why they had fallen in love with watching him.
During the post-game press conference, a reporter asked, “Steph, you seem to have found something during the off-season. What changed?”
Steph smiled, thinking of Canon at home. “I had a very special conversation with my son. He reminded me that playing basketball should be fun. When you have fun doing something you love, everything else—excellence, success, connection with fans—flows naturally.”
Steph had learned that authenticity is not the enemy of competence but its most powerful source.
Months later, while putting Canon to bed, Steph said, “Thank you for teaching me that conversation with God, my son.”
Canon, sleepily, replied, “Do you want to know a secret?”
“Of course.”
“God didn’t tell me anything. I just said those things because you were sad, and I wanted to help you. But everything I said was true because I know you better than anyone.”
Steph laughed, hugging his son with a mixture of admiration and unconditional love.
“Then you’re even wiser than I thought,” Canon murmured, almost asleep. “When you’re happy, everyone gets happy together.”
Sometimes, when we lose our way amid the complications of adult life, we just need the simple wisdom of a child to remind us that joy is not a luxury—it’s the foundation on which we build our best selves.
Canon Curry had taught his father that being extraordinary doesn’t mean sacrificing happiness, but finding a way to be happy that is itself extraordinary.