The summer sun had just begun to settle over the Bay Area when the news broke, sending shockwaves through the NBA world. For just \$22.5 million—a figure modest by modern standards—the Golden State Warriors had pulled off a move that few saw coming. From the depths of a struggling Washington Wizards roster, a new weapon had arrived. Not a superstar in the traditional sense, but a specialist, a stone-cold shooter with the confidence of a sniper and the mechanics to match. Jordan Poole was long gone. Klay Thompson had departed for a new chapter. The Warriors were no longer the dynastic force of years past, and the days of Splash Brother dominance had become cherished memories. But now, with this acquisition, a new dynamic had been formed—a new duo that promised chaos for opposing defenses. The name on the transaction report was Corey Kispert.
He wasn’t the flashiest name on the market, nor the most coveted free agent. But those who truly understood the game—who valued precision, off-ball movement, and unshakable rhythm—knew exactly what the Warriors had done. Kispert, a product of Gonzaga’s polished offensive machine, had spent his early years with the Wizards quietly evolving into one of the league’s deadliest three-point threats. In Washington, surrounded by inconsistency and perpetual rebuilding, his talents were often buried beneath the noise. But in Golden State, under Steve Kerr’s motion-heavy system and alongside the gravitational force that is Stephen Curry, Kispert’s skills promised to blossom.
The transaction itself had been clean. The Wizards, embracing another full rebuild, were more than willing to part ways with veterans. Kispert, on a modest contract, had value—but not enough to command a major haul. The Warriors, shrewd and deliberate, offered a package worth \$22.5 million in salary absorption and future flexibility, betting that their system could elevate Kispert into something far more dangerous than he’d ever been in D.C. And from the first moment Kispert walked into Chase Center, it was clear something special was brewing.
Stephen Curry, now entering his late 30s, still possessed that glimmer in his eye—the same fire that had torched the league for over a decade. He knew what the addition of Kispert meant. No longer would he carry the full burden of perimeter creation. No longer would defenses smother him with box-and-one schemes or blitzes off every screen. Kispert wasn’t just a shooter—he was movement incarnate, a mirror image of Curry in many ways. He thrived off pin-downs, relocations, backdoor cuts, and transition leaks. What Curry did with the ball, Kispert echoed without it.
Training camp brought immediate chemistry. Kerr’s offense, predicated on pace, passing, and perpetual motion, was tailored for players like Kispert. Draymond Green, the cerebral heart of the Warriors’ defense and passing game, took to him instantly. “This kid doesn’t stop moving,” he muttered to reporters. “He’s like a ghost out there—just disappears and reappears wide open.” Curry, meanwhile, found new life. The two began developing an unspoken language—crossing paths on off-ball screens, curling around defenders in opposite directions, forcing opposing backcourts into nightmares.
The season opened with tempered expectations. Analysts had largely written off the Warriors as a team in decline. The Western Conference was stacked. Younger teams were rising. But as October gave way to November, and November to December, something unexpected was happening in San Francisco. The Warriors weren’t just winning—they were punishing teams from deep with a style eerily reminiscent of their peak years. The spacing was impeccable. The ball zipped from corner to wing to top of the arc and back again. Kispert, now averaging over six three-point attempts per game, was connecting at a scorching 44%. But it wasn’t just the percentage—it was the timing, the gravity he demanded.
Defenses were in hell. Box-and-ones on Curry? Leave Kispert open. Switch all screens? Get cooked by backdoor slips and off-ball flares. Drop coverage? Enjoy the rainstorm from beyond the arc. The Warriors were reinventing the splash—this time with a younger shooter carrying the torch. And Curry? Freed from constant double-teams, he was thriving like a man reborn, averaging 28 points and 7 assists, but with the efficiency of a surgeon.
There was a night in January that changed everything. A nationally televised game against the Lakers, packed house, playoff atmosphere. Curry had struggled through three quarters, harassed by length and traps. Kispert, quiet most of the night, waited for his moment. Midway through the fourth, with the game tied, the Warriors ran a familiar action: Curry initiated from the top, passed to Draymond at the elbow, and cut through. Kispert looped behind a double screen on the weak side and caught the ball in the corner. The Lakers, focused on Curry, reacted a half-second late. Kispert rose, feet set, wrists flicking in perfect symmetry. Splash. The next possession, same play. This time, Curry curled back to the top, received the pass, and drilled a deep bomb. The building exploded.
They outscored the Lakers 18–5 in the final three minutes, and Kispert had 11 of those points. Social media lit up. “Splash 2.0,” some called it. “The Assassin and the King.” Headlines ran wild. But for the Warriors, it was just the beginning. Kerr doubled down on the duo, staggering their minutes to ensure at least one sharpshooter was always on the floor. By March, the Warriors ranked first in three-point percentage and third in offensive rating. Kispert’s confidence soared. Once a quiet spot-up option, he now curled into pull-ups, attacked closeouts, and even ran secondary pick-and-rolls.
But it wasn’t just the offense that defined his impact. Kispert had matured defensively—never elite, but now positionally sound, smart in rotations, and unafraid of switches. With Andrew Wiggins and Draymond handling the heavy lifting, Kispert’s defensive floor was enough to keep him on the court in any situation. He was no longer just a shooter. He was a Warrior.
Come playoff time, the duo’s legend grew. The first round saw them dispatch the Phoenix Suns in five games. Kevin Durant, watching from the opposite bench, shook his head in amazement. “They just don’t stop,” he said postgame. “You take away one, the other burns you.” In the second round, they faced the Denver Nuggets—defending champs, hungry to repeat. Nikola Jokić, MVP once again, was surgical. But the Warriors, through movement and relentlessness, chipped away. Game 6, series tied, down two with 11 seconds left. Everyone expected Curry to take the shot. The ball found Kispert instead. A screen, a fake, a sidestep. Three-pointer. Net.
They lost to Boston in the Finals in six games, but it didn’t matter. The Warriors had reestablished themselves—not just as contenders, but as innovators once more. And Kispert, once a quiet piece on a struggling franchise, had become a household name.
Looking back, the trade was a masterstroke. For just \$22.5 million, the Warriors didn’t just buy a player—they reignited an era. In an age where the NBA is flush with athleticism and power, the Warriors reminded the world that movement, timing, and precision are still the deadliest weapons in the game. Stephen Curry, the eternal maestro, had found his new duet partner. And together, they composed a season of beauty, chaos, and brilliance—one three-pointer at a time.
