STEPHEN CURRY RECEIVES A REQUEST FROM A TERMINALLY ILL FAN — AND WHAT HE DOES IS UNFORGETTABLE

Room 305 at the UCSF Benioff Children’s Medical Center in Oakland was unlike any other. Its walls, usually sterile and institutional, were adorned with blue and yellow Golden State Warriors posters. In the center, like a meticulously organized collage, were dozens of images of Steph Curry in various moments of his career. This was the personal sanctuary of Jason Martinez, a 15-year-old whose eyes still sparkled when talking about basketball, despite the deep shadows that fatigue drew under them.

“Thirty points last night! Did you see that shot in the last quarter?” Jason excitedly asked Nurse Emma Chen as she checked the catheter installed in his arm for that morning’s chemotherapy. The enthusiasm in his voice contrasted sharply with the paleness of his face and the fragility of his body, consumed by an aggressive osteosarcoma that advanced relentlessly despite months of treatment.

“I saw the highlights during my break,” Emma replied with a smile, adjusting the flow of medication. “That three-point shot was unbelievable.”

For Emma, these conversations about basketball were more than simple distractions. In six months of caring for Jason, she had witnessed how the teenager found strength in Curry’s games. Watching the Warriors was the only time he seemed to forget the constant pain that consumed him.

In the hospital corridors, Elena and Robert Martinez spoke quietly with Dr. Patel, the oncologist responsible for Jason’s case. Elena’s tense expressions and red eyes revealed sleepless nights. Working double shifts as an administrative assistant, she struggled to balance the accumulating medical bills, while Robert, a mechanic at a local shop, accepted all possible extra shifts.

“The latest images show that the tumor is growing faster than we would like,” Dr. Patel explained gravely. “We can try a new chemotherapy protocol, but we need to be realistic about expectations.”

That same night, after her shift, Emma sat in front of her computer in her small Oakland apartment. The image of Jason religiously watching Warriors games on his tablet wouldn’t leave her head. With determination, she opened Instagram and began typing: “My name is Emma Chen. I’m a nurse at UCSF Benioff. I have a patient named Jason, 15 years old, fighting terminal osteosarcoma. His biggest dream is to meet Steph Curry. Please share with the hashtag #JasonMeetCurry.”

Meanwhile, 32 miles away in the elegant neighborhood of Atherton, Steph Curry entered his home after an exhausting practice at Chase Center. He greeted his wife, Ayesha, with a kiss, picked up little Riley, who ran to hug him, and for a few moments, he was just an ordinary family man—not the superstar who carried the hopes of millions of fans, including a teenager fighting for his life in a hospital room.

A week later, in the back seat of an SUV taking him to an away game, Curry carefully observed the phone screen that Natalie Brooks, his public relations adviser, handed him. “This has been going viral since yesterday,” explained Natalie. “The boy’s name is Jason Martinez from Oakland. Terminal osteosarcoma.”

In the video, a thin, shaved-head teenager wearing a Warriors t-shirt spoke with a weak but determined voice. “Steph Curry taught me that I can do all things. When the pain is too strong, I close my eyes and visualize his shots, one by one. It’s as if each basket gives me one more day.”

When the video ended, the car fell silent. Curry’s eyes, normally vibrant and full of confidence, were teary. After a long moment, he looked at Natalie and said with a firm voice, “We need to do more than just send a message. Much more.”

“Mr. Curry, we’ve made contact with the Martinez family. They’re extremely emotional but agreed to keep everything in absolute secrecy,” Natalie informed, organizing notes on her tablet during a video conference. Curry, sitting in his home office in Atherton, nodded as he carefully listened to the logistical details being worked out. Three days had passed since he watched Jason’s video. The tight NBA schedule didn’t allow many breaks, but a window of opportunity had emerged between a home game and a trip to the East Coast.

“It would be a Thursday, two weeks from now.”

“Are the doctors sure he’ll be well enough for the visit?” asked Curry, concern evident in his voice.

On the other side of the screen, Natalie’s face hesitated for a moment. “They can’t guarantee, Steph.”

Actually, the same uncertainty hung in the air of Dr. Sarah Williams’s office at UCSF Benioff. Elena and Robert Martinez sat rigidly in chairs in front of the oncologist’s desk, hands intertwined with such force that their knuckles were white.

“The latest tests show that the tumor is growing faster than we predicted,” explained Dr. Williams, pointing to images on the monitor. “We’re adjusting the medication, but we need to be realistic about the time we have.”

Elena suppressed a sob. “What about Mr. Curry’s visit? Jason hasn’t stopped talking about it since he found out.”

“We’ll do our best to ensure he’s strong enough,” replied the doctor, unable to promise more than that.

That night, in the master bedroom of the Curry residence, the laptop light illuminated the basketball star’s concentrated face. Ayesha entered silently, bringing two cups of tea. “Still researching the boy’s disease?” she gently asked, sitting beside her husband.

“Osteosarcoma. It’s an aggressive type of bone cancer,” Curry murmured, running his hand over his tired face. “I’m reading survivor accounts, statistics, treatments, but it seems his case is advanced.”

“You’re nervous about the meeting,” observed Ayesha. Not a question, but a statement.

Curry closed the laptop and sighed deeply. “I don’t want to disappoint this kid, Ayesha. I need to do this right. He sees me as some kind of hero, but in this situation, how can I live up to that?”

The next morning, during a break in practice, Curry made an important call. “Craig, thank you for returning my call,” he said when answering. “I know you went through this with your father. I need advice on how to behave with a terminally ill teenager.”

Craig Sager Jr., son of the legendary sports reporter who had died from leukemia years before, shared his experience for almost half an hour. When hanging up, one phrase stayed with Curry: “Simply be authentic and be present. It’s all that really matters in the end.”

The week progressed, and while Curry set aside special items to gift Jason—exclusive sneakers, autographed uniforms, a playoff game ball—an emergency was happening at the hospital. The monitors in room 305 triggered alarms at 2:17 in the morning. Jason, with a fever of 104°F and excruciating pain, was quickly transferred to the ICU. Dr. Anderson, the hospital director, watched the team work tirelessly to stabilize the teenager.

In the corridor, Emma, the nurse, tried to console Elena, who sobbed uncontrollably. Three days later, already back in the regular room but visibly weaker, Jason managed a small smile when Emma entered for her shift. “I’ll get better in time,” he whispered determinedly. “I won’t miss the chance to meet Steph Curry.”

At that same moment, Curry sat alone in the locker room after an exhausting practice. Looking at Jason’s photo on his phone, he sent a message to his logistics team: “No matter what happens, I’ll be there on Thursday. Reorganize my schedule.”

Thursday’s early dawn still covered Oakland when three hospital employees walked silently through the corridors of the fifth floor of UCSF Benioff. Under Emma’s supervision, they discreetly transformed a small activity room near Jason’s room. Blue and yellow Warriors pennants were strategically positioned, and a small portable basketball hoop was installed on the wall opposite the door.

“Are you sure it’s not too much?” asked one of the assistants, adjusting the height of the hoop.

“Trust me,” replied Emma, checking the clock. “For Jason, this means everything.”

At 9:15, a black SUV parked at the service entrance of the hospital, away from curious eyes and cameras. Steph Curry got out of the vehicle, accompanied only by Natalie, his adviser, and Brian, his personal security guard. Wearing jeans, a gray t-shirt, and a discrete cap, the basketball star seemed nervous—a rarity for someone accustomed to performing under intense pressure in front of thousands of people.

“Are we ready?” asked Dr. Anderson, receiving them at the entrance.

“More than ready,” answered Curry, adjusting the backpack on his shoulders. Inside it were carefully chosen gifts for a very special fan.

In the elevator, a newly hired nurse widened her eyes upon recognizing the player. “You’re… you’re…?” she stammered.

Curry smiled gently, bringing his finger to his lips. “I’m here incognito today. Can we count on your discretion?”

On the fifth floor, a small waiting room had been reserved for the first contact with the Martinez family. When Curry entered, Elena immediately brought her hands to her face, unable to contain her tears. Robert, usually a reserved man, extended his trembling hand for a greeting that turned into a spontaneous hug.

“Thank you,” whispered Elena, minimally regaining her composure. “You can’t imagine what this means to our son.”

“How is he today?” asked Curry, genuinely concerned.

“It was a difficult night,” replied Robert, his voice choked. “But when we reminded him you were coming today, he found strength from somewhere.”

“Jason watches your videos on nights when the pain is unbearable,” continued Elena. “He repeats your plays in slow motion, analyzing every movement. It’s like he finds peace in that.”

Curry listened attentively, asking questions about Jason’s tastes, his preferences, his history as a basketball fan. The conversation, initially tense, flowed naturally for a few minutes until Dr. Anderson discreetly signaled that everything was ready. The moment of truth had arrived.

With his heart racing in a way that no decisive game had ever provoked, Curry followed the corridor to room 305. Through the half-open door, he could see Jason lying in the hospital bed, tablet in hand, concentratedly watching a video of Warriors highlights. With a deep breath, Curry gently knocked on the door and entered.

The universe seemed to freeze for Jason Martinez. At that instant, the tablet slipped from his hands, and his face, thin and pale, transformed with an expression that mixed absolute shock and pure joy—an expression so genuine that all present felt the weight of the moment.

“Hey champ, I heard you’re my number one fan,” said Curry with a warm smile, approaching the bed.

Jason opened and closed his mouth several times, like a fish out of water, before finally managing to stammer, “I don’t… don’t believe you actually came.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” replied Curry, sitting on the edge of the bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The conversation flowed surprisingly easily after the initial shock. They talked about the last game against the Lakers, about the new shoes Curry was developing, about Jason’s favorite video games and his preferred music. The teenager, who moments before could barely stay alert for more than a few minutes, found an unexpected source of energy.

“I want to show you something,” said Jason, indicating a folder on the table beside him. Emma stepped forward to reach for it. Inside the folder were dozens of meticulous drawings of Curry in action—shooting, dribbling, celebrating. One in particular caught the player’s attention: a black-and-white illustration of himself in midair, about to take a shot, with surprising and precise details.

“You drew this? It’s incredible, man,” said Curry, genuinely impressed. “Can I keep it?”

Jason nodded, incredulous that his idol wanted something created by him.

At that moment, Curry opened his backpack and took out a white box. “I brought something special. These are the new Curry 8s, not yet released,” he explained, revealing a pair of immaculate white sneakers. “But they’re kind of plain like this, don’t you think?” He took some waterproof colored pens from his backpack. “How about you draw something special on them? I promise to wear them in a game.”

With trembling but determined hands, Jason accepted the challenge. For the next 20 minutes, under Curry’s attentive gaze, he personalized the sneakers with personal symbols—small details that represented his journey—and on the side of one of them, the phrase that had become his personal mantra: “I can do all things.”

When he finished, Curry pointed to the small hoop installed on the wall. “What do you think about testing your skills?”

With extreme care and Emma’s help, Jason was placed in a wheelchair. Curry handed him an official Warriors ball, autographed by the entire team. Positioning himself behind the chair, he guided Jason’s weakened arms in the shooting motion. “One, two, three,” they counted together. The ball made a perfect arc and fell cleanly through the hoop without touching the rim. The sound of applause from those present was muffled only by the radiant smile that illuminated Jason’s face—a smile that, for that brief moment, carried no trace of pain.

Three days after the meeting, the lights of the Chase Center shone intensely for the anticipated confrontation between the Warriors and the Lakers. During warm-up, commentators and fans noticed something different on Steph Curry’s feet.

“It looks like Curry is wearing personalized shoes today, something we haven’t seen in the official Under Armour ads,” observed the national broadcast narrator as cameras focused on the white sneakers covered with colorful drawings. “And look, he’s also wearing a t-shirt with the hashtag #PlayForJason during warm-up.”

On the third floor of UCSF Benioff, a small celebration was taking shape in the recreation room. Staff had organized an impromptu party to watch the game. Jason, in his wheelchair, occupied the place of honor in front of the big TV, surrounded by other young patients, their parents, and various members of the medical team.

“Look, those are your drawings,” exclaimed Emma, pointing to the close-up of the shoes on the screen.

Jason smiled weakly. He was having a difficult day with intense pain but had insisted on leaving his room for this moment.

The first half was relatively quiet for Curry, with only 12 points scored. At halftime, as cameras showed players returning to the locker rooms, the broadcast dedicated a minute to explain the story behind the personalized shoes, briefly sharing the meeting between Curry and the young fan with terminal cancer. On social media, the hashtag #PlayForJason began to gain traction quickly.

In the third quarter, something changed. Curry entered one of those almost mystical zones that defined his career—those moments where the rim seemed twice its normal size. Three consecutive three-point baskets, then two more. The entire arena vibrated with each shot. After a particularly difficult shot—off-balance, closely guarded, from an absurd distance—the ball perfectly found the bottom of the net. Curry, normally restrained in his celebrations during the game, pointed directly to the yellow bone cancer awareness bracelet on his wrist, a gift from Jason.

In the hospital’s recreation room, the reaction was deafening. Even the most debilitated patients found energy to celebrate. Jason, with silent tears streaming down his face, firmly clutched an identical replica of the bracelet in his own hand.

At the end of the game, with an impressive 43 points and nine three-point baskets, Curry was inevitably requested for the postgame interview.

“Steph, phenomenal night. Where did this inspiration come from today?” asked the reporter.

With teary eyes and without hesitation, Curry replied, “There are things much bigger than basketball. Meeting Jason and his family reminded me why we do what we do. Every shot today was for him.”

The following weeks brought a new routine for Jason. Besides medical visits and treatments, there were now regular video calls with Curry. During one of these conversations, the player appeared with a new development.

“We’re creating the HopeShot Project,” announced Curry enthusiastically. “An initiative from our foundation to support families like yours and fund research on osteosarcoma.”

Jason, visibly weaker, lit up with the news. In his last video call a few weeks later, Jason could barely speak but smiled seeing his drawing framed on the wall of Curry’s office.

“You’re not just my basketball idol now,” he whispered with effort. “You’re my friend.”

On a rainy Sunday morning, Jason Martinez passed away peacefully, surrounded by his parents and sister. Curry, who was playing away from home that day, requested a moment of silence before that night’s game.

A year later, under a sunny Oakland sky, dozens of children gathered for the inauguration of the Jason Martinez Court—a renovated space in the neighborhood where the teenager grew up. A colorful mural decorated the main wall, showing a young man shooting a ball under a starry sky. Elena Martinez, with her younger son beside her, cut the inaugural ribbon before the first basketball clinic, conducted by none other than Steph Curry.

At the end of the event, when the crowd was already dispersing, Elena approached Curry with a package in her hands. “We found this among his things,” she explained, handing him a framed drawing—the last one Jason had made in the hospital. The illustration showed Jason and Curry side by side on a court, not as fan and idol, but as friends. In the lower corner, in shaky but determined handwriting, was a simple message: “Some heroes wear basketball uniforms. Thank you for showing me that I can do all things.”

Curry hugged the picture against his chest, silently vowing that Jason’s legacy—a teenager who faced death with more courage than many show in life—would continue to live through every child who played on that court, every family helped by the project, and in every moment that he himself, Steph Curry, stepped on the court. Because sometimes, the greatest impact we can have is not in the victories we achieve but in the lives we touch along the way.