Shocking: Warriors owner’s son “ran away” after 10 years, the reason shocked everyone!

SAN FRANCISCO — Kent Lacob’s decision was settled. This was happening. But execution of his strategy, technically and emotionally, required telling his father. So he put himself on the calendar of the Golden State Warriors’ CEO. This wasn’t the kind of bomb to drop over dinner. This demanded its own slot.

The anxiousness grew palpable as soon as Kent started the drive from Chase Center to his dad’s house. He’d made this trek so many times, it could feel monotonous, second nature enough for him to zone out in his Porsche Panamera and think about work as the Warriors’ vice president of basketball development. But on this trip, he felt each thump of his heartbeat along the way.

Highway 280 seemed to stretch ahead slowly for the 30-plus miles, elongating every curve. As the city’s skyline disappeared into his rear view, swallowed up by his descent into the Peninsula’s tree-lined wealth, the internal turbulence heightened. Every turn brought him closer to the man at the center of his world, the architect of the empire for which he is an heir. How would his father and boss respond to this play for independence?

He arrived at his dad’s home in Atherton, parked and went inside, like he’s done countless times, heading straight to the home office, the place where blood and business mixed. His pops knew something was up. Why else would his son put himself on the calendar? The suspense ended immediately, as soon as the meeting started.

Kent quit.

Caught off guard, stunned by the revelation just before June’s NBA Draft, Joe Lacob took a moment. He stared at his boy, processed the news, then uttered his initial response.

“Well,” he said, “that took some balls.”

Nothing is wrong. Nothing happened. Kent is adamant his departure isn’t rooted in family drama. The opposite, he assures. He loves this so much. Basketball. The Warriors. The family pride. The pressure to maintain the standard of excellence they’ve built.

Always competing with the privilege, though, is a tugging at his core. The part of him that’s fully aware that every door he walks through is already open. His quiet disdain for the nepotism charges he can never shake, no matter how hard he works. Kent is a basketball nut who sometimes can’t believe the dream he’s living, working in the front office of the NBA. But even the glow of the Warriors can’t rid the shadow of his father’s enormity.

It’s what convinced him he must leave it.

For the last 10 years, he’s lived in the NBA trenches. Constant flights. Lonely hotel rooms. Stinky gyms. Innumerable phone calls. Relentless slate of meetings. A small price to be behind the curtain, in the room where it happens. Kent’s been part of three championships and is forever connected to one of the great eras in basketball history. Even sweeter, he worked shoulder to shoulder with his big brother, Kirk, living inside the world their father built, in part for them.

But a decade engulfed in a world carved for him didn’t exactly produce contentment. He’s 32 now. He’s getting married soon. And he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t even try to make his own way. Attempt to exist, professionally, outside of Joe Lacob’s world.

“I’m very curious about what else, what other type of perspective I can gain from stepping outside of that,” Kent said. “I understand how it’s attractive in many ways. Yeah, it’s very comfortable. And I’m incredibly fortunate to have this. Not by my own doing. But I have stepped into a world that just put me in this situation to have all this around me. I’m incredibly grateful for it. But I also don’t think that it necessarily gives me a fully robust perspective on life and what it is that I ultimately am going to want when I, like, reflect on what I did with my life.”

Kent’s hesitance to talk about this is tangible. His hands fidget with the table in the front-office conference room. He steals moments looking through the glass wall, as if the perfect explanation eluding him might be down on the empty Warriors practice court. His smile isn’t coming as easily as usual.

Joe Lacob, left, and co-owner Peter Guber celebrate the Warriors’ 2022 title. (Elsa / Getty Images)

He knows this will be misunderstood. It will wind up another way to deride him for his privilege. He also knows the ability to walk away from an NBA front-office job, with nothing lined up, is a prime example of said privilege. He can’t win for losing because his birthright won’t let him lose.

The Lacobs have all heard the comparisons to “Succession,” the hit HBO show where the children of a media mogul — a quartet of heirs who relished their family’s wealth — vied thirstily for the throne of their father’s global conglomerate. But the Lacob offspring seem to bond more over their desire for an identity outside of the empire.

Kirk, 36, the eldest, is the outlier. He’s all in. But arriving here was a process.

He planned to start a tech company after Stanford. Shortly after graduating in 2010, his dad struck the deal to buy the Warriors. Kirk and Kent dreamed of working in the NBA, once reality crushed their dreams of playing. Kirk envisioned getting into a front office one day. Four months after graduating, he was Golden State’s director of basketball operations.

He didn’t want the Warriors job at first because of how it would look. Then, five years later, after the first championship of this era, the same impetus prompted him to consider going to business school. But then, and each time leaving came up, he opted to stay. His father’s message remained the same: Don’t throw away a dream opportunity because you feel bad about how you got it.

“Does it bother me? Of course,” said Kirk, wearing a violet Golden State Valkyries t-shirt beneath his quilted jacket as he stood outside the owner’s suite at Chase Center. “But I also get it. I mean, that is why I’m here. Our family bought the team. That happened. There’s no running from that at all. … I think the nepotism thing, for me, it’s more of a challenge. ‘OK, you don’t think I’m good enough?’ Great. Now I’ve got to work harder. … But, to be clear, there are a lot of other things in life that are way harder than this.”

Kelly, 35, second in line, never entered the NBA fray. She’s currently the CEO of a startup, grinding away in her own world.

As is Kayci, 30, the baby of the family. On Sept. 5, her movie “Everything to Me” will make its debut in theaters. Originally titled “The Book of Jobs” when it hit the film festival circuit, it’s a coming-of-age film loosely based on her life growing up in Silicon Valley and her determination to be the next Steve Jobs. “Everything to Me” has been a multi-year project requiring everything Kayci has to get across the finish line. She didn’t lean on her dad’s wealth and clout to get it done. But still.

“I can be the first to acknowledge I’m immensely privileged,” she said in a phone interview. “Look, did I have the opportunity to go get some advice from (Warriors co-owner and film producer) Peter Guber? Yeah,” she said. “He didn’t fund my movie, and, if anything, he kind of tried to talk me out of it a little bit. But that advice and that relationship is more valuable than anything. So, of course, I have advantages.”

Her parents didn’t really want her in the movie industry. They encouraged her to go it alone to fully comprehend the difficulty. Her mother, the late Laurie Lacob, also dabbled in the film industry. It wasn’t until Kayci found her stride, she said, that they saw her vision.

“There’s been times,” Kayci said, “where I think, ‘Am I wasting a huge opportunity? Would my life be easier by joining this company in some ways? Is it just the right thing to do?’ … But to be honest, it was never my dream. I loved playing sports growing up, but I wasn’t like my brothers.”

From left: Kayci, Kent and Kelly Lacob, in 2023. (Courtesy of Kayci Lacob)

Life in the shadow of a famous father — who was a venture capital star before becoming a public figure as the owner of an NBA dynasty — means more than inheriting the name, and the access it brings. It also means inheriting a narrative they didn’t write.

With wealth and exclusivity come expectations of success. Every achievement is coated in privilege. They’re the lucky ones. Born into a bubble of resources and possibilities. Their norm is an extravagance most humans will never know. Their dreams perched above a safety net with a 1 percent chance of failure.

Simultaneously, their independence is harder to secure. They scarcely know the fulfillment of starting from the bottom. The honor of self-made glory, near impossible to behold. And bequeathed confidence expires faster.

That’s why none of them are surprised at Kent’s decision. It tracks.

“He’s got that entrepreneurial spirit in him,” Joe Lacob said. “He’s got a wild hair up his ass a little bit more than some of the other kids.”

Kent remains coy about his next move. His stated plan: Be open and free, see what the universe throws his way — instead of jumping into the next thing. He said it won’t be another franchise. He can’t see landing in a corporate setting. But the avid reader with a Bachelor of Science degree from the Philosophy-Neuroscience-Psychology program at Washington University in St. Louis will only say he has other interests.

In the Warriors’ universe, outside interests collect dust. Especially when your last name is Lacob.

“When you’re my kids,” Joe Lacob said, “you worry about the nepotism charges, and I understand it. I’ve been on the other side. I know what it’s like to look at the rich kid growing up with all of the advantages and whatever. So I understand why people say stuff like that. Now, I know my kids aren’t that way.”

They had to obsess over being good. Prove themselves.

Kent loved that part. The immersion. The meter never shutting off. The process. The combination of long hours, short lunches and late nights with your friends is its own reward. He worked his way from the general manager of the Santa Cruz Warriors to a key cog in the Warriors’ front office. He helped find and develop Juan Toscano-Anderson, swung and missed on Alen Smailagić, and rallied for the signing of Gary Payton II. It was all part of the endless hours of discussion, study and scouting that went into these moves. And the debates with Kirk.

“We get to rip on each other,” Kent said, “give each other a hard time. Go through the serious stuff. Go through the fun stuff. It’s been a blast.”

Kirk Lacob, in 2018. (Noah Graham / NBAE via Getty Images)

But the decision to leave has been brewing over the years. He’s talked about another life. Hinted at other things. He met Blake, his soon-to-be wife, in 2020. A ballet dancer, she injected a unique perspective into his life. Bob Myers, the head of basketball operations for 11 years, preached balance, encouraging his staff to have outside interests, take breaks from the hamster wheel, and prioritize family as much as possible. Kent worked closely with Myers, a mentee drawn to the holistic bent.

So one can imagine the messaging Kent received when Myers walked away in May 2023, partly because of the elusiveness of balance in their world. Even more, the seismic jolt of his perspective when his mom died from a long battle with cancer a month later.

“I think he really talked about this most with our mom,” Kayci said. “I know they had a lot of conversations about it just because she was great. She cared so much about his personal fulfillment and was really understanding of both sides.”

Kent changed. And so has the franchise. The front office had six people when he came aboard. It now has 44.

Well, 43.

“It’s going to be so foreign,” Kent said. “But what gave me life was that feeling of, ‘Oh man, I’m scared and nervous and I don’t know what I’m doing. So now I have to figure it out.’ I’m sort of excited to be back in that state of being uncomfortable and not having certainty of what’s going to happen.”

When he was preparing to tell his father, the uncertainty wasn’t quite as inspiring. His father is reputed for his demanding style and combustible energy. He’s a man who gets what he wants, and Kent knew his father wouldn’t want him to leave.

But the moment didn’t produce the sparks he might’ve imagined. His revelation didn’t provoke anger or disappointment. The boss transitioned to the father. Surprise gave way to understanding. And understanding produced pride. A pride Kent could see in his dad’s eyes.

“I think sometimes your parents surprise you,” Kirk said. “I think my dad definitely surprises people. People think of him in a very certain way, and he’s not always the caricature that people portray him as.”

Their father remembered his empire was built on risk. He remembered the desperation in his gut, pushing him to forge his own way. Joe remembered the voice of his father, who dropped out of college and worked at the same company for 40 years, in his ear: Don’t be like me, Joe. I never took a risk.

Those lessons, from their hard-knock life in New Bedford, Mass., helped build a kingdom so vast that Joe Lacob’s children would never know deprivation. And what the father saw when Kent resigned was how their opulence didn’t quench his son’s drive. Success didn’t breed complacency. He saw himself in Kent.

It’s not the same desperation. Not even close. Kent’s leap is more exploration than risk. But his father could see the hunger, the audaciousness. And he respected it.

Giving his blessing was telling his son: Be like me.

For Kent, doing that means leaving.

(Top photo of Kent Lacob in 2018, when he was the Santa Cruz Warriors’ general manager: Noah Graham / NBAE via Getty Images)