Key Takeaways
- Steve Kerr entered the 2025‑26 season secretly planning to retire after 12 years as Warriors head coach, citing a 95 % certainty that the “feeling” that defined the team was gone.
- His coaching identity was forged early: the 1984 assassination of his father, Malcolm Kerr, thrust him into a lifelong search for purpose, which he found in basketball’s collective spirit and the “cocoon” of a team.
- Over his tenure Kerr won five championships as a player and four as a coach, but chronic back pain and migraine‑like pressure—later understood as tension‑myositis syndrome rooted in unresolved trauma—persisted for more than a decade, prompting experimental therapies and deep emotional work.
- The 2025‑26 season was marked by aging stars, injuries (Curry, Butler, Green), a turbulent roster (including the Jonathan Kuminga trade), and Kerr’s internal struggle between walking away and staying for the love of the game, his family, and the Warriors’ culture.
- After a late‑season win over the Clippers that rekindled the team’s joy, Kerr reversed his retirement decision, committing to another season (or two) to honor his bond with Steph Curry, Draymond Green, and the broader “competition family” while continuing his personal healing journey.
Steve Kerr walked into the Beverly Wilshire lobby on a Tuesday in mid‑April 2026 with a quiet resolve: win or lose, he would retire as head coach of the Golden State Warriors after the postseason play‑in game in Los Angeles. He told a hostess his room number—“Johnny Bench Joe Montana”—and, over a California Breakfast, confessed that he felt the team’s defining “feeling” had vanished, putting his odds of stepping down at 95 %. The melancholy mood stemmed from a disappointing season, physical exhaustion, and the fraying of the deep connections that, in his view, sustain a great basketball team more than any playbook.
The roots of Kerr’s attachment to basketball trace back to a traumatic childhood. In January 1984, his father, Malcolm Kerr—president of the American University of Beirut—was assassinated by an Iranian‑sponsored Hezbollah gunman. Steve, then a freshman at the University of Arizona, learned of the shooting in a 3 a.m. phone call from a family friend. The news left him alone and hysterical; he spent that night pacing the curb on Speedway Boulevard, a moment he says marked the beginning of a lifelong drive to keep moving. Basketball became his refuge: a 1985 game against Arizona State, where he hit three straight shots after being inserted into the lineup, gave him a standing ovation and the sensation that the arena formed a “cocoon” around his grief. That experience taught him the power of collective belief—a lesson that would shape his coaching philosophy.
After a modest playing career (including a famous championship‑sealing shot with Michael Jordan in 1997) and a stint as a broadcaster, Kerr took over the Warriors in 2014. His first three seasons yielded three titles (2015, 2017, 2018) and a historic 73‑win regular season in 2015‑16. Yet, beneath the success lurked a debilitating chronic back pain that first flared during Game 5 of the 2015 Finals. Despite numerous surgeries, stem‑cell trips abroad, and consultations with experts from Mayo Clinic to Duke, the pain persisted, often accompanied by migraine‑like pressure behind his eyes. Kerr kept the suffering private, viewing it as a safeguard for his humanity amid an increasingly public life.
The turning point came in the offseason before the 2025‑26 season when Kerr listened to a podcast with psychotherapist Nicole Sachs, whose work with NBA star Michael Porter Jr. echoed the teachings of Dr. John Sarno on tension‑myositis syndrome (TMS). Recognizing his own perfectionist, sensitive personality as a TMS profile, Kerr began a daily regimen: 20 minutes of journaling about trauma, anger, and shame; deleting the entry; 10 minutes of meditation; then coaching. The practice eased his pain and opened a space for emotional honesty, allowing him to confront the lingering rage and grief tied to his father’s death.
On the court, the season was a roller coaster. The Warriors opened with a brutal stretch—13 road games in the first 17—and lost early games, prompting Kerr to cut Jonathan Kuminga’s minutes after the forward struggled to fit the high‑tempo, ball‑movement offense built around Steph Curry. Injuries piled up: Butler’s ACL tear, Curry’s knee issues, and Green’s persistent frustration. Yet, between mid‑December and mid‑January, the Warriors rattled off a high‑winning‑percentage stretch, fueled by Kerr’s renewed mindfulness and the team’s rediscovered joy. A late‑season victory over the Los Angeles Clippers—highlighted by a clutch performance from Al Horford and a late three‑point barrage from Curry—rekindled the belief that the squad could still produce “meaningful basketball.”
Amid those swings, Kerr wrestled privately with retirement. He loved the structure, purpose, and camaraderie coaching gave him, and feared losing the daily engagement that helped him manage his chronic pain. At the same time, he worried about overstaying his welcome and becoming a version of the Patriots or Popovich‑era Spurs, where grudges lingered. Conversations with his wife Margot, his children, and close friends revealed a tension: Margot wanted him to stay for the sake of their grandchildren; his own instinct pulled him toward departure. A candid meeting with Warriors owners Joe Lacob and Mike Dunleavy—where they invoked Jürgen Klopp’s orderly exit from Liverpool—left Kerr still undecided.
Ultimately, a late‑season win over the Clippers shifted the balance. The victory felt like a fleeting reclamation of the team’s former selves, reminding Kerr of the joy that still existed in the struggle. He told his staff he was “not leaving” after the game, and a text from Margot confirmed the reversal. Kerr resolved to give the Warriors another season (or two), motivated by his bond with Steph Curry, his desire to protect the “competition family,” and the continued work on his inner life through journaling and meditation. In his view, coaching had unlocked the best version of himself—a version he was not ready to relinquish, even as he acknowledged that the dynasty’s era had faded and the honor now lay in fighting until the last breath.