Harvey Mason Jr. played at the University of Arizona from 1986 to 1990, including two years with Steve Kerr, 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 on the campus of the University of Arizona, convinced that I was destined to become the best player the school had ever had. Coming out of high school in California, I had been recruited by almost every school in the country and I fully expected to take over the guard position.
I felt myself.
The freshmen and sophomores on the team had to work with teachers at the study table in the McKale Center, our arena, from 7:00 PM to 9:00 PM. On one of my first nights on campus, I was walking down the ramp to the arena floor when I looked up and saw Steve Kerr.
He was a senior. He had injured his knee that summer and was turning around the season. He was alone on the field. Steve didn’t shoot anything dramatic or work on anything special. He shot from well inside the three-point line and moved methodically from spot to spot. I stopped and looked. He didn’t miss a single shot for fifteen minutes.
Two hours later, as study ended, I left to walk back up the driveway. I stopped when I noticed Steve was still there. Now he had stepped behind the three-point line again. I leaned against the railing and looked again. Ten more minutes. Again he didn’t miss.
In that silent, empty arena, something fundamental changed 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 alone in the gym doing the work. It was then that I began to understand dedication and sacrifice. I thought I had worked hard all my 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 started competing against each other, I just knew I had the advantage. I was faster, more athletic and more explosive. None of it mattered. He kicked my ass every… every… 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, high-flying and fast as I was, Steve had a different gear, a heightened approach to everything he did.
I learned a lesson that will stay with me long after basketball is over: it doesn’t matter how talented you are. It matters how hard you work to maximize your talent.
I started paying attention to more than just how Steve played. I watched how he led, how he behaved. I saw how he interacted with people. How he spoke – and how often he chose not to. I saw how he treated fans, reporters, the managers, the busboys in restaurants, and I realized his humility, his grace. He treated everyone with kindness and respect.
During the season, when we drove to away games, the players all sat at the very back of the bus. One time I remember some teammates and I sat 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 want, but I want to win,” he said. “And we’re not going to win if you sleep on the way to the games and don’t think about the game, 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 MUST be better.
Steve only said something when necessary, and it never felt performative. He wasn’t try 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 didn’t just influence that season; he was shaping a culture that would define Arizona basketball… and me.
Steve also taught me the power of listening and collaboration. He always asked questions and constantly sought input. What do you think? How would you approach that? It didn’t matter who you were; he loved working with people, even if they were the last man on the bench. He understood that leadership is not about having all the answers; it was about creating space for the best to emerge.
I will never forget one match under high pressure. Coach Olson called a timeout. We sat on the sidelines as Coach gathered his thoughts. Steve grabbed the clipboard and marker and said, “Coach, what if we do this?” He made a play. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t even for him; it was for our teammate, Sean Elliott. Again, it wasn’t about Steve. It was about the team.
A few months ago I saw Steve’s apology after his heated sideline interaction with Draymond Green. I was surprised at how emotional it made me because it took me right back to the Final Four in 1988. Going into that game, we were 35-2, a No. 1 seed. We were supposed to win everything. After we lost to Oklahoma, Steve stood in the locker room and apologized.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I failed you.”
He tried to take the blame; responsibility 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 much more than just wins and losses. It had reshaped who I was. Lessons in discipline and sacrifice, humility and kindness, leadership and cooperation, responsibility and accountability have carried me into every part of my life: my relationships, my leadership style, the way I communicate, the way I have tried to raise my children.
If I hadn’t played with Steve, I might have had a different basketball career because he wouldn’t have been on the depth chart for me. But I’m sure my life wouldn’t be what it is now.
Some people change the course of a game. Others change the course of a life.
Steve did both.
– As told to Jayson Jenks.
#played #Steve #Kerr #college #changed #life