The Last Splash Brother: Stephen Curry’s 2024–25 Season Review
From 25,000 points to 4,000 threes, silencing Houston’s uprising to falling in Minnesota’s cold, Steph’s season was a saga of triumph, pain, and defiance. All hail late stage Curryism!
So I’m settling back into a routine. A life routine that is. After a summer of grieving, healing, and slow lessons under the hot California sun, I’m back on the scene. I’ve gone back to work, reconnecting friends and family, and finally getting back up to date on what’s happening in the sports world.
Back at the front desk, I was getting into my rhythm of phone calls and emails, helping my teammates navigate their problems and supporting clients get the help they need. You know, adulting and whatnot in the big city. That’s when a tall lanky fellow I’ll refer to as “Poor Man’s Commish” strolled up, a face I hadn’t seen since the pandemic. He’s the erudite mind behind Lets Go Warriors, and the guy who helped the crew from Golden State of Mind survive the gap between being cut like dead weight by Vox Media and eventually creating Dub Nation HQ.
Apparently he had been looking for me at my job while I was out, and by good fortune we crossed paths. We dapped up and briefly caught up, reflecting on past memories and discussing new possibilities. He praised the DNHQ community and told me he was proud of how far I’d come in life from my old days as a Lyft driver to now being Director of the org. We basked in the warmth of two seasoned scribes reunited, talking life and hoops.
When he departed, I felt really glad to see that he was doing alright in this mad mad world. I turned back to my teammates, who stared at me quizzically. I realized they had no idea of the community that I’m a part of and the responsibility I hold to prick my fingertip and smear gold blood over a blank canvas…by blogging.
Their eyes sparkled with curiosity: “Wait Daniel, are you a reporter for the Warriors? Are you famous or something?!”.
I shook my head humbly. But my head kept shaking, rising in pace and violence, until when I opened my eyes I saw a blinding light, a light so bright I couldn’t see, an atmosphere so intense I couldn’t hear anything but a high pitched whine.
Suddenly the brightness gave way to a sprawling land forged in triumphant joy, a land filled with my brothers and sisters in Warriors Fandom. It’s our homeland, the legendary grounds that birthed Dub Nation HQ. The lush, misty region is bustling with activity. In the foreground I see happy children laughing in multiple languages—future generations of Dub Nation rising up. Off to the right is the former Wiggins Island, currently being renovated as a new isle for another maligned forwarded tenatively titled “Kuminga’s Kove”.
There in the fields, the genius Duby Dub Dubs is astride a mighty horse, overseeing the lush green crops of “Marijuana Meadows.” He salutes me with that familiar grin, his smile wide and his eyes low. In the distance rises a monastery with the legend Apricot quietly humming to himself on the scaffolding, painting an Explain 1 Play on the ceiling with the tears of our rival. His android twin Apribot dutifully swaps brushes and sings back his humming like a choir of one.
And then there’s all of you! Ah yes, I’m back home with my beloveds. Emerging from the mist floats a glowing scroll. I reach out and grab it, unfurling it to read “Stephen Curry 24-25 season review”. It went a little something like this:
The Splash Continues
For the first time in many moons, the ocean roared without its twin tide.
Klay Thompson was gone. Not rehabbing, not waiting in the tunnel, but truly departed from the Golden State. Even when injuries had silenced him before, his shadow remained. But this year, Steph stood alone at the edge of the arc, the last Splash Brother, carrying both the present and the memory of what had been.
Since the days when Dwyane Wade and Tim Duncan were battling for championships, Curry’s gravitational pull had a binary star. Without Klay Thompson cutting through screens beside him, every possession became a referendum on whether greatness could survive isolation. The league’s young wolves—Edwards, Tatum, Luka—circled like predators sensing wounded prey. They probably whispered in locker rooms: His time is over. This is our league now.
I have a feeling Curry heard every whisper. At 36, carrying a roster held together by hope and Jimmy Butler’s February arrival, he answered with the cold fury of a man who refuses to abdicate his throne. Night after night, teams threw their best defensive schemes at the last Splash Brother, daring him to prove he could still bend the arc of games with his will alone.
The beautiful cruelty of it all? He kept proving them wrong. And gosh didn’t we have some defiant moments from Curry this season?
At 36 going on 37, when most mortals drift into athletic decline, Curry’s numbers still blazed with near-prime brilliance:
24.5 points • 6.0 assists • 4.4 rebounds
44.8 FG% | 39.7 3P% | 93.3 FT%
57.2 eFG% • 21.5 PER
He became the highest-scoring guard at his age in NBA history, surpassing Jordan and Kobe. His 311 threes (4.4 per game) kept him on the throne he built, while his free throws at 93.3% were as inevitable as sunrise. He made the All-NBA Second team, and was the All-Star game MVP in San Francisco, dazzling the world from Dub Nation’s ground zero for the fesitivies.
Warriors fans, scattered across languages and time zones, chanted in unison:
“He is still himmmm.”
The Milestones of Immortality
25,000th career point — carved into stone.
4,000th career three — a summit no other climber could even glimpse.
60 points vs Atlanta — second-oldest ever to torch the league for that many.
8-for-8 from deep with 10 assists vs Philadelphia — perfection sealed in fire.
Each moment was a monument, a new statue erected in the hall of his legend.
And yet the team wasn’t doing really great. Thankfully in February the team traded for Jimmy Butler to get Steph the help he desperately needed. Check these regular splits:
Before Butler: 25–26, a team adrift.
After Butler: 23–7, one of the strongest squads in the league.
When Butler arrived via that February blockbuster, it felt less like reinforcement and more like a lifeline thrown to a drowning dynasty. Here was Curry, treading water with a supporting cast of question marks: Andrew Wiggins searching for his All-Star form, Jonathan Kuminga still learning to harness his athleticism, Draymond Green’s beard turning the same gray as Uncle Phil’s from the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Adding the aging supertalent Jimmy Buckets injected hope into the franchise.
And watch how seamlessly the old master of Splash adapted. Curry didn’t pout about touches or demand the spotlight. Instead, he continued being dangerous in his unique way: a point guard who could pick his spots, unleash nuclear strikes when needed, then fade into the flow while Butler provided the defensive intensity Golden State desperately craved.
The integration wasn’t just basketball folks, it was artistry. Two alphas found harmony because they had the wisdom to understand legacy isn’t built on individual dominance alone, but on the ability to make everyone around you better when it matters most.
Steph remained the compass. His 26.7 points on 48/41/95 shooting splits post-All-Star burned like a lighthouse guiding the Warriors home. He averaged 29 PPG in April as the Warriors clawed their way into the play-in tournament.
And in the playoffs he proved that despite being a grizzled veteran, opposing teams still game-planned around stopping Stephen Curry first. We can’t talk about this season without breaking down how amazing Curry was in the first round upset against the #2 seeded Rockets who were very eager to get vengeance on the man who had eliminated them from the postseason five times over the last decade.
The Houston Conquest: When Legends Refuse to Fade
Here was the basketball gods’ cruel joke: the 7th-seeded Warriors, battle-tested but aging, drawn against Houston, a franchise reborn through youth and hunger. Alperen Şengün anchoring the paint, Jalen Green slashing with the reckless abandon of someone who doesn’t remember Curry’s prime, Fred VanVleet orchestrating schemes designed specifically to make the 36-year-old point god feel every one of his years.
This wasn’t just a playoff matchup. This was generational warfare, with Curry cast as the graying general defending his kingdom against an army that believed his time had passed.
Game 1: The Opening Statement
Landing in Toyota Center, Curry felt the weight of history on his shoulders. No Klay beside him for the first playoff run in over a decade. Butler still finding his rhythm in a Warriors uniform. The building buzzing with that dangerous energy that comes when a young team believes they’re about to announce their arrival by slaying a legend.
The Rockets came exactly as advertised: pressing, switching, sending waves of defenders at every screen. Their game plan was beautiful in its simplicity: make Curry work for everything, dare his aging legs to keep up with their youth movement.
What they discovered was the same truth that had haunted opposing coaches for over a decade: Stephen Curry doesn’t just play basketball; he warps its very fabric.
31 points. 5 threes. Home court stolen.
But the numbers only tell part of the story. This was Curry operating in pure spite mode, each shot a personal response to every analyst who’d written his obituary, every young guard who thought the throne was vacant. The Toyota Center crowd came expecting a coronation; instead they witnessed a masterclass in why legends earn their mythology.
Game 3: The Torch Burns Alone
By Game 3, Butler’s absence forced Curry to activate the 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea Splash Protocol. The Rockets sensed blood, swarming him with double teams, daring the supporting cast to beat them.
Chase Center held its breath. This was the test Dub Nation had been dreading: could their aging superstar still summon miracles when completely isolated?
36 points, 7 rebounds, 9 assists
The stat sheet reads like video game numbers, but watching it unfold felt more like witnessing an artist’s masterpiece. Every three-pointer landed with the precision of someone who’d spent a lifetime perfecting his craft. Every assist came with the wisdom that only comes from understanding basketball’s deeper rhythms.
This wasn’t just a dominant performance bahahah it was Curry’s declaration that reports of his decline had been greatly exaggerated.
Game 7: The Architect’s Blueprint
Seven games in, Houston’s young legs should have been the advantage. SHOULDA BEEN. Instead, they found themselves staring across the court at a 37-year-old who looked more comfortable in the chaos than their entire roster combined.
Curry didn’t need to explode for 40 points. He didn’t need to hit 10 threes or break the internet with some impossible shot. What he did instead was more terrifying for Houston’s young core: he played 46 minutes of complete basketball, orchestrating the Warriors’ offense with the patience of someone who’d seen every defensive scheme the league could throw at him.
22 points, 10 rebounds, 7 assists. Buddy Hield unleashing 9 threes under Curry’s gravitational pull.
The rebounds tell the real story. Curry, all 180 pounds of him, battling in the trenches because winning Game 7 meant more than protecting his body. The assists reveal the chess master at work, finding Hield and others in rhythm because he’s a team player
When the final buzzer sounded, a 7-seed had conquered a 2-seed on foreign soil. But more than that, basketball’s old guard had sent a message to the new generation: your time may be coming, but it’s not here yet.
The Houston series became Curry’s manifesto against Father Time. It was proof that basketball genius transcends physical decline, that court vision and shooting touch can outlast youth and athleticism. Each game was a chess match between Houston’s energy and Golden State’s experience, with Curry serving as both the grandmaster.
What made the battle egendary wasn’t just the individual performances, but what they represented: a 15-year veteran refusing to let his era end quietly, a superstar proving that greatness isn’t defined by age but by the ability to rise when everything is on the line.
The young Rockets learned what Curry’s opponents have discovered for over a decade: you can gameplan for his shots, but you can’t prepare for his will. This proved that young legs and desperate energy couldn’t solve the Curry equation. Alperen Şengün, Jalen Green, and Fred VanVleet threw everything at him—box-and-one defenses, full-court pressure, physical intimidation—and still watched him unleash Kryptonian levels of devastation.
(Also…did all that strain eventually destroy FVV’s knee?!?).
END OF THE (HAM)STRING
But therein lies the cruel irony: the same supernatural shot-making that built his legend has painted an eternal target on Unanimous’ back. Every screen means contact. Every drive invites punishment. Every game becomes a physical toll collection, with opposing teams hoping to break down what time hasn’t managed to erode.
The hammy injury against Minnesota wasn’t just bad luck, it was inevitability finally catching up to greatness. For years, Dub Nation had whispered the same prayer: “Please let his ankles hold up.” The glass ankles of his early career had given way to remarkable durability, but Father Time is undefeated, and his latest weapon was Curry’s hamstring.
Thirteen minutes and 13 points into Game 1 against the Timberwolves, that small frame that had defied physics for over a decade finally waved the white flag. The Warriors’ 27-8 record with both Curry and Butler healthy became a haunting “what if” as Minnesota exploited the absence of their primary creator. Without Curry’s gravity warping defensive schemes, Golden State’s offensive ecosystem collapsed. And the Warriors never won a game again, eliminated in 5 games by the hungry Wolves.
Stephen Curry’s 2024-25 season stands as both triumph and cautionary tale. He proved that basketball genius transcends physical decline, that a player can remain elite through intelligence and adaptation. His historic milestones—4,000 career threes, 25,000 career points, that magnificent 60-point explosion—cemented his immortality.
Yet the Minnesota exit confirmed what Dub Nation feared most: even legends are mortal. The hamstring injury serves as a reminder that Curry’s championship windows are measured not in years, but in the fragile durability of a 36-year-old body that has absorbed more punishment than any 180-pound frame should endure.
As the scroll dissolves back into the mist of Dub Nation HQ, one truth emerges crystal clear: Stephen Curry remains basketball’s most dangerous magician, but magic requires healthy hamstrings to cast spells. The question isn’t whether he can still perform miracles…it’s how many more miracles his body can withstand. Are you ready for his reign to end? NO? SHAKE YOUR HEAD! SAY NO NO NO!
The Return
The scroll fades. The golden ink bleeds into mist. The monastery bells of Apricot’s fresco fall silent, and Duby Dub Dubs’ horse gallops back into the ethereal fields of Dub Nation HQ. The misty homeland contracts, pulling inward like a dying star until…
I’m back in the office, still shaking my head vigorously. My colleagues are looking at me with a mix of concern and amusement. The buzzing fluorescent office lights feel harsh after the warm glow of basketball immortality. My coworkers stare with the same quizzical expressions they wore before, their eyes still sparkling with that innocent curiosity that comes from people who’ve never felt the weight of a franchise’s legacy pressing down on their chest. They’re probably expecting some casual response about press conferences and game recaps.
But how do you tell someone that you didn’t just watch Curry average 24 points at age 36—you felt every defensive scheme designed to break him, celebrated every impossible three that proved Father Time could still be outdueled for a night, and mourned every minute he spent on the sideline with that hamstring injury knowing his championship window was measured in heartbeats?
I glance down at my hands. There, barely visible in the office lighting, is the faint shimmer of gold dust on my fingertips lies evidence of a journey to lands where basketball transcends sport and becomes mythology. I lean back in my chair, that knowing smile creeping across my face, the same expression Duby Dub Dubs gave me from atop his mighty steed in the Marijuana Meadows.
I’m a keeper of stories, a guardian of legacy, a chronicler of the last Splash Brother’s defiant dance with destiny. The gold dust catches the light, and for just a moment, my teammates see it too: that shimmer of something greater than themselves, something worth bleeding gold blood for. Because that’s what we do at Dub Nation HQ. We don’t just cover basketball. We preserve magic.
“Wait, so...” one of them leans forward, genuinely intrigued. “What’s it really like? Writing about the Warriors? Following Steph Curry all these years?”
I pause, feeling the phantom warmth of that glowing scroll still tingling in my fingertips. How do you explain to someone what it means to witness greatness in real time? How do you describe the privilege of documenting a player who spent 2024-25 rewriting the rules of athletic aging while carrying the hopes of an entire fanbase?
“It went a little something like this...”