Steph Curry shows otherworldly skills as USA beat France for basketball gold

WWith 16 seconds left on the clock at the Bercy Arena, Steph Curry took the ball in the middle of the court, 30 feet from the rim, and already fell backwards. The air was blocked by two French defenders in front of him. He couldn’t see the basket. The milliseconds ticked away before he lost control, before gravity kicked in and the day came closer.

Somehow, from that blind spot, he still released the ball in a hard, flat, perfect arc, and the roar of the crowd told Curry he had indeed hit the invisible target past the waving hands. It was a remarkable display of Morse code accuracy at its finest.

But at that moment, Curry was in the midst of his own cold, clear moment of clarity, a man playing with a kind of light around him, all the while propelling the U.S. men’s basketball team to the gold medal that, despite all the sweat and heart of France, always seemed within reach.

That three-pointer was Curry’s third in just over two minutes of the final quarter. The second was equally artful in its own way, made by the hilariously nonchalant feint that no one, even now, seems to be able to fathom, Curry dropping a shoulder to send the nearest Frenchman up the stairs, out of the stadium and toward the Gare de Lyon, then letting the net flutter with surprising economy of movement.

The 98-87 victory in this Paris 2024 final marked the U.S.’ fifth straight Olympic gold, a feat that someone somewhere will probably call a five-peat, but which was achieved here with difficulty in a thrillingly physical contest before a raucous home crowd. Ultimately, the U.S. simply had too many weapons, too many sharp edges to call upon. As the Cuban coach famously said in 1992, after trying in vain to suppress the first Dream Team: “You can try, but you can’t cover the sun with your finger.”

The Bercy Arena is a vast, square, windowless hangar, steeply sloping, teeth-chatteringly cold at the top of the stands, and below that crammed with flags, blue French colours and that very peculiar crackle of event glamour that always surrounds these kinds of venues. The stars of France had come out. Thierry Henry was in the house. And Emmanuel Macron.

But somehow American basketball always seems to have a sense of its own space, a portable sports embassy. It’s inherent in these occasions. Basketball at the Olympics is a kind of traveling marching band. It’s Uncle Sam in oversized sneakers. The Olympics are such an American event now, fueled by American TV dollars, populated by the fanny-pack ultras of American sports tourism. Basketball is the heart, the center, the ultimate deterrent. For many Americans, these are the Olympics.

And so, at 21:22, it was finally time for Amururrricia’s Theeee Yooonighted Stayyytss. The theatre of those opening ceremonies was gripping in itself, the players coming out one by one like game show contestants, the whole arena in thrall to the sheer uncontrollable energy of the thing. There was a huge roar of boos for Joel Embiid, born in Yaoundé, once eager to play for France but now an NBA MVP, a genuine American Olympian and a major pantomime villain in Bercy.

The first act of power was LeBron James delivering a quick two-point rush. France star Victor Wembanyama conjured up his first floating dunk of the game, showing he can drift, hang and blow in the right bubble, floating like a zeppelin.

Wembanyama made a beautiful back-flip pass, made another and within three minutes France were up 11-10. It was breathtaking.

The team had compared this finale to a confrontation between a low-budget film by a French auteur and a Hollywood blockbuster: Breathless against the Avengers, Jacques Tati trying to outrun Tom Cruise on his motorbike. But France played with great skill and heart here.

“We want to shut mouths. It’s going to be war,” Guerschon Yabusele warned in the preliminary match, which is certainly a lot more fun than just being happy to take on this challenge against an opponent you respect. And he played a fantastic, relentlessly aggressive game.

James played like a basketball Beckenbauer, now more erratic, even more handsome and stately, always seeing the pass in transition, a perfect control valve. Every moment he was there, the US always seemed to win.

At times like these there is a sudden problem of scale in these games. The combined annual salary of the American team is £487m. This is the most professionalised sport ever devised. These players are paid $50m a year in basic salaries. This is a theatre that revels in its excesses, the lifestyle, the glitz, the chinchilla-furred helicopter gunships, the vellum-lined personal spas, the solid gold bidet set, the hat made entirely of parmesan cheese.

The French players are solid, top-tier Euroleaguers, with a touch of NBA class, and at center lurks Victor “the Alien” Wembanyama, a prodigious 20-year-old with ethereal (can a 7-foot-10 human be ethereal? Yes, he can) talent and vision.

But France kept pushing, kept itself in sight. At the end of the second quarter, the US led 49-41, but still seemed a bit frantic and belligerent at times. The halftime score was also the moment for a strange and terrifying dance event, performed by people on chairs in black clothes who seemed to express a terrifying vision of existential dread. Cheers then. Where’s Snoop?

Why is basketball in the Olympics anyway? Some have asked this question. Why is a billionaire professional athlete competing for a gold medal? The answer is obvious. This event is huge. You’re going to sell a ton of phones, computers, financial services, and hospitality packages. Plus, these are some of the most talented and focused athletes on the planet. If that’s not it, what is? The basic beauty, the grace of those white shirts that swoosh, float, spin. Plus, basketball is global, easily accessible, cheap, male and female in code. And it was thrillingly close here, too, until Curry produced that moment of killer calm.