In pregame Sunday, in the locker room, Klay Thompson was informed that everyone was watching how he walked.



He muttered, “I don’t give a shit,” while simultaneously grunting. He was in uniform, ready to go, despite a high ankle sprain suffered when J.R. Smith tumbled under him in Game 1.



Such is Klay, a man of few words and fewer concerns. He once accidentally caught a shark when fishing in the East Bay. When asked about this, he shrugs. His is a productive myopia that somehow morphed into charisma, a persona enjoyed by an outside world Klay’s largely oblivious to. That apathy about the outside is what comes through and resonates. Fans care about Klay because Klay doesn’t care. But they also love that he cares about the game. He’s transparently blasé about a lifestyle many dream of, while also so deeply loving what it revolves around.



And so basketball takes an inordinate precedence, living in parts of the mind where...