Even though Stephen Curry is the league’s most guarded player, his FG percentage is still unbelievable. Something goat-like
Stephen Curry’s legacy in the NBA transcends traditional metrics and redefines what greatness looks like in the modern era of basketball. Even more remarkable than his accolades, championship rings, or MVP trophies is the fact that he continues to perform at an elite level while being the most guarded player in the league. His field goal percentage, especially considering the difficulty of shots he takes and the relentless pressure he faces every night, is not just impressive—it’s borderline mythical. There’s something undeniably GOAT-like about it, something that defies the conventions of what a high-percentage shooter is supposed to look like, how he’s supposed to play, and under what conditions he’s supposed to thrive.
In an era when analytics and defensive schemes have become hyper-specialized, where entire coaching staffs are built around developing ways to stop a single opposing player, Curry stands as an unsolvable equation. Opposing teams spend sleepless nights drawing up traps, hedges, and blitzes designed specifically for him. Defenders chase him for miles around screens. Centers are dragged out to the perimeter in an attempt to switch onto him, only to be embarrassed by his lightning-quick release and handle. Every inch of space is contested. Every shot is a battle. And yet, night after night, season after season, he delivers with an efficiency that would be considered elite even for players who operate mostly within the paint. For someone who makes a living beyond the arc and off the dribble, Curry’s field goal percentage is not just solid—it’s historically elite.
There is a common misconception that volume shooters naturally experience a drop in efficiency. For most players, that’s true. The more shots you take, especially difficult ones, the lower your field goal percentage tends to be. But Curry has turned this logic on its head. Despite attempting more three-pointers than anyone in NBA history and doing so often under extreme defensive duress, he routinely hovers near or above the 50% shooting mark from the field. That’s not supposed to happen. Not for someone his size, not for someone with his shot profile, not for someone who is the absolute focal point of every opponent’s defensive game plan. And yet it does. Season after season.
What makes Curry’s efficiency even more staggering is the context in which it exists. Traditional metrics, like field goal percentage, were never designed to account for degree of difficulty. A layup and a fadeaway 30-footer both count the same in the stat sheet, but the reality is vastly different. Curry’s shot diet is among the toughest the game has ever seen. He takes pull-up threes in transition. He launches off-balance daggers from 30 feet with a defender glued to his jersey. He drives into the paint among trees and somehow finishes with touch and finesse. He shoots on the move, off the catch, off the dribble, off one foot, falling sideways, fading backwards. And still, the ball keeps going in.
Even the defenders know what’s coming. They study his tendencies, they anticipate his cuts, they memorize his step-backs. It doesn’t matter. Curry’s release is too quick, his footwork too precise, his handle too tight, his basketball IQ too advanced. He’s not just reacting to the defense—he’s manipulating it, thinking two or three steps ahead. He creates space where none exists, and when he doesn’t, he hits contested shots anyway. That’s what makes him virtually unguardable. That’s what makes his efficiency so unreal. He’s doing it under maximum difficulty settings.
The psychological toll Curry takes on defenses is another layer to his dominance. Even when he doesn’t have the ball, he warps the floor. Defenders are terrified of giving him even an inch, so they overplay, they hedge too high, they break down the structure of the defense. That opens lanes for teammates and leads to easy buckets, making Curry a threat even when he’s not the one taking the shot. But when he does take the shot, more often than not, it’s a dagger. It’s a demoralizing blow. It’s a 30-footer that sends the crowd into a frenzy and deflates the opposing bench. And those shots—those long-range, often ill-advised attempts by anyone else’s standards—are converted at a rate that no one else in the league can match. Not even close.
Advanced metrics help put Curry’s greatness in perspective. His true shooting percentage, which factors in free throws and three-pointers, consistently ranks among the best in the league—even compared to big men who take high-percentage shots near the rim. That’s not supposed to be possible for a guard, especially not one who takes the bulk of his shots from beyond the arc. And yet, Curry isn’t just keeping pace—he’s redefining the curve. His eFG% (effective field goal percentage) is often higher than many centers and forwards. That alone is astonishing. But again, it’s the how that makes it so special. It’s the fact that he’s doing this while being guarded like no one else in the game.
Think about the defensive coverage Curry sees on a nightly basis. Box-and-ones. Triangle-and-twos. Traps the moment he crosses half-court. Teams often double-team him without the ball just to prevent him from even touching it. What other player sees that kind of attention—consistently, for over a decade—and still posts efficient shooting numbers? The answer is none. It’s a testament to Curry’s skill, preparation, endurance, and basketball genius. He reads the floor like a chess master, constantly repositioning himself, hunting mismatches, exploiting every slip in coverage.
What separates Curry from the rest is not just his shooting skill—it’s his discipline, his conditioning, and his decision-making. He doesn’t take bad shots. He takes tough shots. There’s a difference. Bad shots are forced, taken out of rhythm, contested in a way that disrupts mechanics. Tough shots are often all that’s available when you’re as tightly guarded as Curry, but he has the ability to make them look easy. His mechanics remain flawless under pressure. His balance is exquisite. His shot selection is elite. And his fitness allows him to run miles each game, wearing defenders down and creating opportunities others wouldn’t have the energy to find.
There’s a sort of paradox at play: Curry plays with joy, with flair, with apparent spontaneity—but it’s all built on a foundation of discipline and preparation. Every wild-looking three is the product of thousands of reps in the gym. Every no-look shot is earned through muscle memory and tireless practice. His shooting percentages aren’t the result of luck or hot streaks; they’re the inevitable outcome of one of the most meticulous and hard-working approaches the game has ever seen. His showmanship masks his surgical precision.
The fact that Curry is the league’s most guarded player isn’t an exaggeration—it’s a reality backed up by tracking data and defensive schemes. He’s the sun around which every opposing defense revolves. And yet, he continues to shoot at a clip that would be considered great even if he were left wide open. That’s the goat-like aspect of it. That’s what elevates him beyond being merely a great shooter into a singular phenomenon. He is simultaneously the most hunted and the most lethal. The player everyone is watching, game-planning for, doubling, and triple-teaming—and still, he’s torching them.
Greatness in sports is often judged by how players perform under adversity. How do they respond when the odds are stacked against them? When the defense knows what’s coming? When the lights are brightest? Curry answers those questions emphatically every time he steps on the court. He’s not only effective under pressure—he thrives in it. He elevates his game when most players shrink. He bends defenses to his will. He makes the impossible look routine. And he does it all while maintaining a field goal percentage that would be impressive for a center dunking all night under the rim.
What makes Curry’s career even more remarkable is his longevity. He’s been playing this way for over a decade, and his efficiency hasn’t dropped. In fact, in some seasons, it has improved. He’s adapted his game as he’s aged, relying even more on timing, rhythm, and anticipation. He’s added wrinkles, refined movements, become even more efficient. That’s the mark of greatness—not just dominance, but sustained excellence. To be the most guarded player in the league year after year and still put up video-game numbers is not something that should be taken lightly.
There’s a reason Curry’s name keeps entering GOAT conversations, even among those who once dismissed him as “just a shooter.” That label, while superficially flattering, undersells what he really is: a transformative force. He’s revolutionized the sport. He’s redefined shot selection. He’s shifted the geometry of the game itself. And at the heart of all that change is a stat that looks simple on paper but tells a deeper story: his field goal percentage. Not just the number, but the context behind it. The shots he takes. The defenders he faces. The pressure he absorbs. The moments he seizes.
So yes, there’s something GOAT-like about Stephen Curry’s field goal percentage. It’s not just that it’s high—it’s that it’s high in spite of everything stacked against him. In spite of the traps, the triple-teams, the full-court face guards, the physicality, the fatigue, the expectations. He is guarded more than any player in the league, more intensely and more often, and yet he remains efficient, effective, and devastating. That level of excellence under constant fire is the hallmark of the greatest to ever play. It’s a level that doesn’t just earn respect—it redefines what’s possible. And in doing so, Stephen Curry continues to make the unbelievable look routine.
