On a cold November night in Oakland, Steph Curry had just finished dazzling 20,000 fans at the Chase Center. The Warriors’ star had racked up 38 points and, after the game, spent hours at a charity event for underprivileged kids. Cameras flashed, children beamed, and Curry’s trademark smile never faded. But when the lights dimmed and the crowds dispersed, another story—one that would never make the highlight reels—was just beginning.
Exhausted but restless, Steph asked his security team for a few minutes alone. “Just a walk to clear my head,” he insisted, waving off their protests. As he wandered the quiet, uneven streets of Oakland, the city that had shaped his career, he found himself near Lake Merritt, drawn to a small, dimly lit square.
There, beneath the harsh glow of a streetlamp, a figure huddled on a bench. The woman’s face was half-hidden by her hair, her body curled beneath a thin blanket. Something about her posture tugged at Steph’s memory. He stepped closer, heart pounding, and whispered, “Angela?”
She startled awake, recognition and embarrassment warring on her face. “Mr. Curry,” she murmured, instinctively straightening her hair. Angela Hernandez—his secretary for five years, the woman who’d once kept his world spinning smoothly—was now sleeping rough on a park bench.
Steph sat beside her, careful to keep his distance. “Angela, what happened?”
Her story spilled out in halting fragments. After leaving Curry’s team for a better-paying job at a tech startup, she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer. The startup collapsed during the pandemic; her health insurance vanished, and her savings evaporated under the weight of medical bills. She’d sold her car, fallen behind on rent, and finally lost her apartment. For three months, she’d been homeless, her 16-year-old daughter Sophia staying with a relative.
Steph’s heart ached with guilt. How could he not have known? Angela had always been the model of professionalism—efficient, discreet, never asking for help. “Why didn’t you reach out?” he asked.
Angela’s answer was simple, and devastating: “Pride is the last thing you let go of when you’re falling.”
He called his wife, Aisha, and arranged for Angela to spend the night at a hotel. “Just tonight,” she insisted. “Tomorrow, I’ll go my own way.” But Steph had already made up his mind—he would not let Angela disappear again.
The next morning, he returned to the hotel with clean clothes, toiletries, and a new phone. “You need a way to stay in touch,” he said, brushing aside her protests. Aisha soon joined them, bringing a gentle warmth and a plan: Angela and Sophia could stay in the family’s guest house, a private space with its own entrance. “Not charity,” Aisha promised. “A safe place to get back on your feet, on your terms.”
Angela hesitated, her pride warring with her need to reunite with Sophia. “Just until I’m stable,” she finally agreed, tears in her eyes.
That afternoon, they picked up Sophia from school. Mother and daughter clung to each other, relief and hope mingling with months of fear. For the first time in weeks, Angela could breathe.
Steph’s help didn’t stop there. He arranged a medical appointment with a top oncologist, determined to ensure Angela’s cancer was truly in remission. He also began to see the bigger picture. “How many other Angelas are out there?” he wondered aloud to Aisha. “People who supported us behind the scenes, who have no safety net?”
Together, they decided to launch the Second Chance Foundation, a nonprofit dedicated to helping behind-the-scenes workers in sports and entertainment who faced financial or medical crises. “You should run it,” Steph told Angela. “No one understands what’s needed better than you.”
Angela resisted at first, but as her health stabilized and Sophia flourished in her new school, she found her confidence returning. She accepted the role, determined to use her experience to help others.
Six months later, the ballroom at the St. Regis Hotel in San Francisco glowed with soft light. NBA stars, business leaders, and celebrities mingled at the Second Chance Foundation’s inaugural gala. Steph took the stage, scanning the crowd until he found Angela and Sophia, both radiant in their new lives.
“Many of you have asked what inspired this foundation,” Steph began. “It was an unexpected encounter that opened my eyes to a reality I’d never really seen. Someone who worked closely with me for years lost everything after a cancer diagnosis. I didn’t know. None of us did. That made me wonder how many others are silently struggling.”
He announced three programs: an emergency medical fund, temporary housing, and job placement services. “We’ve raised $15 million already, but the real goal is dignity and community,” he said.
When Steph called Angela to the stage as executive director, she hesitated only a moment before walking up, Sophia squeezing her hand. “When Steph Curry found me that night in Oakland, I had lost almost everything,” Angela told the silent crowd. “But I hadn’t lost my identity or my worth. A true second chance isn’t just about recovering what you lost—it’s about rediscovering your value when someone truly sees you.”
The applause was thunderous. Later, on the hotel terrace, Angela found Steph gazing at the city lights. “You changed my life,” she said, offering him a glass of water. “But you also changed your own.”
Steph nodded. “I used to think charity was about writing checks. Now I know it’s about seeing people—really seeing them.”
The next morning, Steph, in a cap and sunglasses, volunteered at a local shelter, serving breakfast and listening to stories. For every Angela, he realized, there were thousands more. And for the first time, he felt he was truly making a difference—one person, one story at a time.
