Klay Thompson’s ‘special run' and Warriors’ remarkable era appear to be over

That cracking noise you hear isn’t just the sound of hearts breaking around the Bay Area. It is the shearing off of an era, the splintering of a precious work of art. 

Klay Thompson is likely leaving the Warriors. And, whatever happens going forward, it will never be the same. There will always be a piece missing.

On Sunday afternoon, as the free agency period officially began, the Chronicle confirmed that Thompson intends to leave the only NBA team he has ever played for, the team whose fortunes he helped dramatically change over the past dozen years. He is reported to be in negotiations with several teams, including the Lakers and the Dallas Mavericks. 

So, we wait to see where Thompson lands.  We will watch the fallout and hear the recriminations. And we will try to imagine the Warriors being a better, more interesting team without him. 

That’s impossible. 

Thompson will forever be one of the most popular players in Bay Area sports history. He will never be booed when he returns to Chase Center. He will be beloved, forever. Someday there will be — there better be — a bronze statue of him outside the arena.

If there are bad feelings now — a bruised ego because he wasn’t a top priority for the team, dejection over not getting the respect he had earned, insulted that the team was pursuing creaky Paul George — those will ebb with time. What will last forever is Thompson’s connection to the Bay Area and the memories he created.

Thompson was one of three pieces — all very different, all very talented — that clicked together and created something so much bigger than their individual selves. A tapestry of shooting, ball movement, pace, space. It was art. It was beautiful. 

“When you’re not out there,” Thompson told Green last spring, referencing Green’s suspensions, “it’s like a piece of us is gone.”

Now a piece of them is gone. The trio is splintered. The connective tissue ripped.

Does this move help the Warriors in any way? Make them more competitive? That all remains to be seen.  But, at 3 p.m. on the last day of June, it was hard to see exactly how it could.

On the court, Thompson crafted spectacular, stunning moments. Pouring in 37 points in the third quarter. The 41-point, 11 3-pointer night to save the Warriors in Oklahoma City. Scoring 60 points in 29 minutes, with just 11 dribbles. Hobbling back onto the court in the Warriors’ final game at Oracle Arena to shoot his free throws with a torn ACL.  

Those images and memories, what Thompson called “pretty historic stuff,” are going to be what lasts. Not his wretched scoreless final game as a Warrior in Sacramento last April — one that, thankfully for Thompson, doesn’t even exist in the record books but that the social media trolls feasted on.

Off the court, he is one of those special, quirky, uniquely himself athletes who doesn’t do anything for the sake of posturing or image. He endeared himself to Warriors fans with his love for his dog, his commutes on his boat — complete with captain’s hat — his willingness to autograph a fan’s toaster, his pre-playoff game dips into the “undefeated” Pacific Ocean. He didn’t love talking, always a reluctant interview. But what he said was honest and real and funny, often accompanied by the construction and launch of a paper airplane. 

In three decades of sportswriting, I’ve never seen a player struggle so publicly with Father Time, wear his emotions so openly, be so blunt about how hard it is to, as he put it, grapple with “your own mortality as an athlete.”  He suffered back-to-back devastating injuries, robbing him of two years of his prime and it was clear he felt cheated. His career was cleaved in two, and even the fourth championship ring he won in 2022 couldn’t ease the pain of those lost seasons and of all the what-ifs.  

It has been hard for him to always be compared to his younger self who will live forever in a Warriors uniform. That reflection might become blurred with a change of location and uniform.

The Lakers make sense. He moved to Los Angeles when he was 12 and his father Mychal became a color commentator for the team for which he had played from 1987-91. Thompson went to Staples Center as a teenager, dreaming of playing on that floor. His family is there. The Pacific is there. And the team has enough other issues and dysfunction to make it a soft landing place.

The Mavericks? Thompson has spoken openly of wanting “one for the thumb” and Dallas may be his best shot at another championship. Luka Doncic and Kyrie Irving are said to be courting him. 

The Clippers or the 76ers? The others seem like better fits.

In what we now know was likely his final game as a Warrior, in Sacramento, Thompson stood on the court at the end of the game. He noticed a fan up in the “nosebleeds wearing a No. 11 jersey” and said that it made him grateful.

“Whatever happens,” Thompson said after that game, “it’s all gravy. It’s been such a freaking special run.”

My God, it certainly was. 

And now it’s over. That beautiful artwork splintered.  A piece of them is gone.