Injury derailed Moses Moody's Warriors season. Life prepared him for what's next

Atlantic76ersCelticsKnicksNetsRaptorsCentralBucksBullsCavaliersPacersPistonsSoutheastHawksHeatHornetsMagicWizardsSouthwestGrizzliesMavericksPelicansRocketsSpursNorthwestJazzNuggetsThunderTimberwolvesTrail BlazersPacificClippersKingsLakersSunsWarriorsScores & ScheduleStandingsThe Bounce NewsletterNBA DraftPodcastsFantasyNBA OddsNBA PicksWhat To Know About The First RoundLatest Power RankingsThe Bucks' Season From HellPlayer Poll: Who Will Win Title?Injury derailed Moses Moody’s Warriors season. Life prepared him for what’s nextAs the Warriors try to get through the Play-In Tournament, they'll be without Moses Moody, whose lifetime of absorbing wisdom will be crucial as he recovers from a torn patellar tendon. Christian Petersen / Getty Images Share full articleThe Warriors’ flight from Dallas dragged endlessly. Not because of the 1,700 miles traveled, but the heartbreaking loss despite Golden State’s overtime victory. Moses Moody ruptured the patellar tendon in his left knee attempting a breakaway dunk. And just like that, the Warriors lost a starting wing. More than that, they watched as one of the locker room’s most beloved players suffered a trauma threatening his career.​ So by the time Rick Celebrini arrived at his East Bay home, the clock crept past 4:30 a.m., and the Warriors’ VP of player health and performance looked forward to the conclusion of an exhausting day. That’s when the phone call came. It was Moody. At this hour? Something must’ve happened to his injured knee. Instantly concerned, Celebrini answered. Moody had flown home with the team after that late March game. But nothing had changed. Moody, facing the most severe injury of his life and a daunting recovery, needed to get something off his chest. So he called Celebrini. “I’ve noticed in my life that every time something goes bad for me,” Moody said, “something good comes of it.” He didn’t call for reassurance. This wasn’t a search for answers. Moody instead offered a conclusion and, in the process, made Celebrini aware of the mindset he’d be working with moving forward. At an hour when most would still be reeling, Moody had already begun reframing his injury, finding perspective amid pain and uncertainty. This approach is too deep to be mere optimism, too grounded to be dismissed as denial. Here, wisdom calmed inner turmoil.​ That’s what separates Moody from the typical 23-year-old. He can articulate such a thought, and believe it, in real time. Not years later, after distance softened the blow. But in the immediate aftermath of trauma. Hours after seeing his knee cap out of place, on a quiet drive home, Moody made his way to himself. His positive, thoughtful and observant self. This is a man trained to search for meaning rather than panic, to sit with discomfort rather than be derailed. And in that moment, before dawn broke over the Bay Area, he found it. His worst moment is a window into his old soul. He sees the world with clarity that belies his age. It’s perhaps the best reason, along with medical advances, that Warriors fans can expect him to recover from this and return to the form that made him a regular starter this season for a team that will now try to get through the Play-In Tournament without him. Because the grueling rehabilitation, which is expected to take at least nine months, and the anguish of injury exile, figure to be no match for Moody’s old-school will.​ “Anything can go bad again,” he said, months before his injury. “Anything can go good again.” It’s a belief forged through witness. Through crazy stories from growing up in Little Rock. Through the isolation of being thousands of miles from home at 15. Through injuries he endured without excuse. Through nights when the reasons to fold entered his periphery.​ This terrain is familiar to Moody. Each difficulty sharpens his resolve and perspective. Adversity isn’t interruption, but growth. If his past is any indication, this won’t be a story of what he lost, but of what he gained. He’s 6-foot-5, 211 pounds, athletic, and sharp. Still, his defining trait is his mindset. That’s how he’s grown from quiet rookie to respected veteran in four years, and why he remains the sole survivor of the Warriors’ last three lottery picks.​ “He is the standard of what I would consider a great young player,” Steph Curry said. “His approach. His work ethic. His ability to take blows — whether they were deserved or not — and still get better. … It only happens because of whatever he had to tell himself to get through the ups and downs in that early part of his career. It’s crazy to think about. But that’s part of being around a lot of wisdom growing up.” The dinner table in the Moody household doubled as an educational forum.​ Kareem and Rona, along with their two boys, Miles and Moses, choreographed conversations with meals. Not with lectures. Not with rules. But with voices. They answered questions. They listened. They told stories. Pops is an endless well of tales. Nothing was off limits. If the boys learned something at school or heard something from their friends that needed more explanation, it became fodder for dialogue. “Just sit and talk,” Rona said. “Talk about everything. It came natural to us.” Kareem: “Dealing with peers, girls, sex, life, a lot of that type of stuff.” Moody came out of the womb paying attention. One thing he could always do: listen. Not all the conversations were meant to teach, but somehow Moody learned anyway. He realized early the reason he has two eyes, two ears, and one mouth. There was nobody he loved listening to more than Ruby, his great-grandmother. She raised 17 kids in an old Black community in Keo, Arkansas. Moody, as a kid, would climb into her bed and snuggle beneath her embrace and her voice. Ruby could talk. Words poured out of her like a gentle stream.​ “You can get up, go get something to eat, come back,” he said, “and she’s still gonna be talking to you like you never left. I just love to listen to people, like, just pay attention to what’s going on.” Ruby died in 2019 at 99. She’s one of the reasons Moody feels so comfortable around older people now. On road trips, with the family or AAU, or during Thanksgiving dinner, Moody didn’t stay in the lane of his age group. He found himself at the table with the old heads. Soaking up game. Absorbing wisdom. Moody watches how people move, how they handle when life presses. He takes mental notes on what worked, what didn’t. It’s not a search for answers as much as a stockpiling of knowledge.​ It’s why teammates trust him. Why coaches lean on him. Why his words carry weight even when they’re few. It’s why his injury hit the Warriors locker room in a soft spot. He’s grown so dear to them.​ “He’s such a great young guy,” head coach Steve Kerr said. “A great player. Great teammate.” One particular memory stands out for Moody’s father. It encapsulates his NBA son. Kareem had three young men he needed to pick up. Two of them were his boys, and another young man with whom he worked. Kareem is renowned for serving his community. Since the 1990s, back when Little Rock was known for its gang presence, he worked to save at-risk youth. He’s spent decades reaching the unreachable, steering young people from the streets to school. One of them needed him that day.​ So Kareem swooped him up, then went to get Miles and Moses from school. “He had just picked that dude up from the penitentiary,” Moody said.​ The young man spent the ride venting. His anger, his hurt, filled the car — along with his animated and profane speech. Kareem listened with divided attention. His two boys in the back siphoned some of his concern. He kept his eyes on the rearview, seeing how they handled the contact with street volatility. And as he watched his boys, he noticed his youngest son’s eyes. They didn’t reveal shock, but curiosity. Moody wasn’t scared, but interested. Not overwhelmed. Inquisitive.​ Kareem didn’t see a child in the rearview mirror shrinking from exposure. He saw one drawn in by a man unraveling, by the sound of raw emotion. Memories like these don’t leave Moody. They store up in his psychology. Deposits into a mentality.​ Later, the same guy from the car called and left a voice message at the Moody house. He thanked Kareem for his support and apologized for the display in front of the children. Kareem let his sons hear the message, contextualizing the person behind the dramatic scene. That was the lesson. The humanity that followed the chaos. Moody saw the full arc. That matters.​ Because over time, those moments were layered. Different people. Different ages. Different circumstances. Some he came across while thriving, some just surviving. In living rooms and locker rooms. In carpools and community centers. Around people who had figured out life and others taking a beating from it. He learned early there isn’t one way to be. “I see it for what it is,” he said. “Not what I want it to be. Not what I think it should be. … So I’m looking at other guys’ situations, how they work out. And it’s like, ‘I’m not going to do that’ or ‘I am going to do that.’ Nobody I trust 100 percent. … I pay attention to everything, or I’m like a prodigy child. But really, I’m just present.” Montverde Academy in Florida didn’t feel like the dinner table. It didn’t feel like Little Rock. It didn’t feel like anywhere Moody had been before. The rhythm of his days slowed. The vibe of the people felt unfamiliar. The comfort — gone. He left home to compete at a higher level. Moody had gotten all he could out of the Little Rock prep basketball scene. Montverde Academy is a powerhouse. Cade Cunningham, now an All-Star for the Detroit Pistons, was the star.​ His parents drove 15 hours to drop him off. Rona cried the entire 15 hours back. At night, Moody’s room filled with the hum of a place that didn’t know him. No Miles. No parents. No visual reminders of home. In Little Rock, Moody always had people looking out. Someone checking on him. Places to go for instant support. Familiar smiles. Staple obstacles. But the isolation crept in slowly. In the voids that filled his days. In the emptiness once filled by conversations with people around the way. When the phone stopped buzzing and the quiet reminded him of the voices he no longer heard because they were so far away. It hit him in the bed one night. “I just had a thought,” he recalled. “Like, ‘Man, nobody here really care about me like that. Everybody that I deal with is at work.'” It wasn’t an indictment. He wasn’t pining for their attention. But that’s when it hit home that he was alone. It was all riding on his thoroughness, his diligence, his commitment. His success was on him. Solutions were on him. This lesson came from experience. Wisdom that comes into play now. Because once Moody understood it was all on him, he knew to activate all he’d learned and absorbed. He built his own modus operandi. In his habits. In his discipline. In how he kept free from drama, avoided the traps he saw ensnare others. In the way he approached each day with intention, even when no one was watching. Especially when no one was watching. That’s the version of Moody the Warriors are leaning on now. He won’t flinch at the challenge of his devastating injury. He’s as ready as they come. He won’t need constant reassurance. He’s already had the hardest conversation — with himself. His days are slower. Deliberate. Measured. Rehab isn’t chaos. It’s routine. Bend the knee a little more. Strengthen the quad. Activate what’s been lost. Repeat. “It’s a unique time in my life,” Moody said. “Being able to slow down … have a routine, get better at some stuff.” He said his knees had been bothering him since high school. And it was always related to his patellar tendon. So he’s glad he can get it fixed. He can train for more efficient movement patterns and strategic strength training — stuff he’s wanted to do for some time but wasn’t afforded the chance to slow down. He can now really work on his body, find a new peak before his prime. “Then coming back,” Moody said, “I think I will be able to be in a better place than I was when I left because of it.” Spot the pattern. Connect the terms Find the hidden link between sports terms Marcus Thompson II is a lead columnist at The Athletic. He is a prominent voice in the Bay Area sports scene after 18 years with Bay Area News Group, including 10 seasons covering the Warriors and four as a columnist. Marcus is also the author of the best-selling biography "GOLDEN: The Miraculous Rise of Steph Curry." Follow Marcus on Twitter @thompsonscribe