This story is part of Peak, The Athletic’s desk covering the mental side of sports. Sign up for Peak’s newsletter here.
Harvey Mason Jr. played at the University of Arizona from 1986 to 1990, including two years with Steve Kerr, the current coach of the Golden State Warriors. Mason is now the CEO of the Recording Academy, the organization that awards the Grammys.
In 1986, I arrived at the University of Arizona campus convinced I was destined to be the best player the school had ever had. Coming out of high school in California, I’d been recruited by almost every school in the country, and I fully expected to take over the guard position.
I was feeling myself.
The freshmen and sophomores on the team had to work with tutors at the study table from 7 p.m. until 9 p.m. inside the McKale Center, our arena. One of my first evenings on campus, I was walking down the ramp toward the arena floor when I glanced up and saw Steve Kerr.
He was a senior. He’d injured his knee that summer and was redshirting the season. He was alone on the court. Steve wasn’t launching dramatic shots or working on anything fancy. He was shooting from well inside the three-point line, methodically moving from spot to spot. I stopped and watched. For 15 minutes, he didn’t miss a shot.
Two hours later, when the study table ended, I left to walk back up the ramp. I stopped when I noticed Steve was still there. Now he had stepped back behind the three-point line. I leaned against the railing and watched again. Ten more minutes. Again, he didn’t miss.
In that quiet, empty arena, something fundamental shifted for me. Here was a star player coming off an All-Pac-10 season, sidelined by injury, with no immediate reward waiting for him. Yet he was in the gym, alone, doing the work. That very moment helped me start to understand dedication and sacrifice. I thought I had worked hard my whole life — I thought I was ready — but Steve made me realize there was another level to greatness.
When Steve recovered from his injury and we began competing against each other, I just knew I had the advantage. I was quicker, more athletic, more explosive. None of it mattered. He kicked my butt every … single … day. Not because he was stronger or faster, but because he was better. Smarter. A true basketball player who had done the work and mastered his craft. As athletic and high-flying and quick as I was, Steve had another gear, an elevated approach to everything he did.
I learned a lesson that would stay with me long after basketball: It doesn’t matter how talented you are. It matters how hard you work to maximize your talent.
I began paying attention to more than just how Steve played. I watched how he led, how he carried himself. I watched how he interacted with people. How he spoke — and how often he chose not to. I watched how he treated fans, reporters, the managers, the busboys at restaurants, and I realized his humility, his grace. He treated everyone with kindness and respect.
During the season, as we’d drive to away games, the players would all sit in the very back of the bus. On one occasion, I remember a couple of teammates and I leaned back and fell asleep. When we arrived at the arena before the game, Steve asked coach Lute Olson if he could speak to the team.
“I don’t know what kind of season you guys want to have, but I want to win,” he said. “And we’re not going to win if you guys are sleeping on the way to the games and you guys aren’t thinking about the game and the scouting report and the opponent.”
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t about him. But it landed. I immediately thought to myself, I’ve GOT to be better.
Steve only spoke up when he needed to, and it never felt performative. He wasn’t trying to lead; he was leading.
Steve was always so focused, so locked in. Everything he did, he did at a high level. No detail was too small, no effort was too great. He wasn’t just influencing that season; he was shaping a culture that would define Arizona basketball … and me.
Steve also taught me the power of listening and of collaboration. He always asked questions and constantly sought input. What do you think? How would you handle that? It didn’t matter who you were; he loved to work with people, even if they were the last guy on the bench. He understood leadership wasn’t about having all the answers; it was about creating space for the best ones to emerge.
I’ll never forget one high-pressure game. Coach Olson called a timeout. We sat on the sideline as Coach gathered his thoughts. Steve grabbed the clipboard and the marker and said, “Coach, what if we do this?” He drew up a play. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t even for him — it was for our teammate, Sean Elliott. Once again, it wasn’t about Steve. It was about the team.
A couple of months ago, I watched Steve’s apology after his heated sideline interaction with Draymond Green. It caught me off guard how emotional it made me because it took me straight back to the Final Four in 1988. Going into that game, we were 35-2, a No. 1 seed. We were supposed to win it all. After we lost to Oklahoma, Steve stood in the locker room and apologized.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I let you guys down.”
He tried to assume the blame; accountability was always his instinct. We hugged him in the locker room and told him it wasn’t his fault. Somehow, that moment made us respect him even more.
Again, leadership, pure and simple.
By the time my college career ended, basketball had given me far more than wins and losses. It had reshaped who I was. Lessons in discipline and sacrifice, humility and kindness, leadership and collaboration, accountability and responsibility have carried me into every single part of my life — my relationships, my leadership style, the way I communicate, the way I’ve tried to raise my children.
Had I not played with Steve, I may have had a different basketball career because he wouldn’t have been in front of me on the depth chart. But I know for sure that my life would not be what it is today.
Some people change the course of a game. Others change the course of a life.
Steve did both.
— As told to Jayson Jenks.
