Out in the darkness, well after midnight, Keldon Johnson knew better than to chase what was lost. But he also knew what needed to be done. So he strapped on his overalls. He rounded up some help. And he went to work.
What was lost was Mulan, one of his prized Highland cows. Earlier that spring evening, while the seventh-year Spurs forward had been at Frost Bank Center laying waste to comparatively docile Bulls from Chicago, Mulan ran roughshod through the fence of the front pasture at Johnson’s Hill Country ranch in Boerne.
She’d ventured onto the adjacent property, probably. But after making the 45-minute drive home from the arena, Johnson didn’t dare give pursuit and risk stirring the neighbors.
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Instead, he and his most trusted ranch hands — his brother, cousins and two best friends from Virginia — made sure Mulan’s youngest calf was accounted for, and taken care of. They separated the horses and donkey from the goats. As best they could, they mended the wires that had been broken.
And once the dawn arrived?
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“When we came back outside in the morning,” Johnson says, “she was waiting at the fence.”
Standing in the middle of that front pasture, watching over Mulan and her friends Trixie and Black Jack, Johnson tells that story with obvious pride. It’s not the pride of a man who got what he wanted right away.
It’s the pride of a man who put in the sweat and the care and the love he thought his dream demanded. It’s the pride of a man who always knew what was coming, even when others weren’t so sure.
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And it’s the pride of a man wise enough to know that if you build something the right way, with the right people around you, what looks like it was lost will have a way of coming back around again.
“There’s no real set way how we’re supposed to do this,” Johnson says, “but I feel like we figured it out together.”
In this moment, he’s talking about the team he assembled at his bucolic home compound, which now features two guest houses for friends and family and a man-made pond stocked with bass and catfish.
But he might as well be talking about his day job, where the 26-year-old Sixth Man of the Year candidate remains the emotional center of a franchise now refilled with championship expectations.
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Keldon Johnson poses with his friends and relatives at his ranch in Boerne. Johnson has become the heart and soul of the Spurs as the Spurs go into the playoffs and the No. 2 seed in the Western Conference.
Mike Finger/San Antonio Express-News
“All a dream”
For the Spurs, the postseason darkness lasted six excruciating years. Never in their history had they gone even close to that long without a playoff appearance. But like their most rambunctious player, they knew better than to chase what was missing blindly into the night.
With Johnson often taking the lead, first as a high-spirited youngster and later as an even higher-spirited savvy veteran, they strapped on their sneakers and went to work. They developed good habits, and as best they could, they mended the pieces of the operation that had been broken since their five-championship heyday.
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They did it without entitlement.
And when someone at the ranch mentions how all of this seems connected, one of Johnson’s oldest friends nods his head.
“It was all a dream at one point,” Tae Holmes says. “And now it’s real.”
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Holmes has been following Johnson for a long time. In the early days, back in rural Virginia in and around the small town of South Hill, he followed him from gym to gym on the youth basketball circuit.
Later, Holmes followed his buddy into college basketball, with the more heavily recruited Johnson heading to Kentucky while Holmes played at Southside Virginia Community College.
And eventually, Holmes followed him to Texas, too. Johnson made sure of that.
As the Spurs’ 29th overall pick in the 2019 NBA draft, Johnson immediately gravitated to the open spaces on the outskirts of San Antonio. He bought lots of boots and cowboy hats and blue jeans. He went dove hunting in Medina County. And he decided that what he really wanted to do with his multimillion-dollar NBA salary was to buy a parcel of land where he, his loved ones and a bunch of animals could live the country life.
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Just off a quiet road north of Boerne, he had room for Holmes and Tone Seward, another one of his friends from Virginia. He also had room for his brother, Kaleb Johnson, who played college basketball at Georgetown and made it to the NBA G League with the Valley Suns, but admits he wasn’t immediately on board with the arrangement.
“When we first moved out to the ranch, I was like, ‘what are we doing?’” Kaleb Johnson says. “The thing is, (Keldon) got out here at 19. And Texas has shaped who he is as an adult.”
But that brings up an interesting question, doesn’t it? Even if Keldon Johnson’s closest family members acknowledge that his environment changed parts of him, doesn’t it stand to reason that who he is also made an impact on his environment?
According to the people who spend day after day with him on the court, in the locker room and on planes and buses, there’s no doubt about that last part.
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San Antonio Spurs forward Keldon Johnson (3) reacts after making a basket over the Portland Trail Blazers at Frost Bank Center in San Antonio, Wednesday, April 8, 2026. The Spurs defeated the Trail Blazers 112-101.
Sam Owens/San Antonio Express-News
“Heart and soul of the team”
Yes, when Johnson arrived in San Antonio, he had to adapt to the Spurs’ way of doing things. But over time, he became the Spurs’ way of doing things. He’s now the longest-tenured player on the roster.
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And when new arrivals show up — whether as unheralded two-way contract signees, or as veteran trade acquisitions, or as a 7-foot-4 superstar who happens to be the most hyped draft pick in decades — they invariably find themselves emulating Johnson.
Much like previous generations of Spurs playoff powerhouses took their cues from the likes of Manu Ginobili, an eventual Hall of Famer who accepted a bench role for the benefit of the team, the current group has their own role model for sacrifice.
Victor Wembanyama, who never misses an opportunity to praise Johnson’s attitude, calls him “one of the most selfless persons I know.” Spurs head coach Mitch Johnson calls him “the heart and soul of the team.”
The way Keldon Johnson sees things, though, he’s thriving because he learned to fit in. Much in like his front pasture, where the key to a good day for the goats and the cows is making sure the donkey doesn’t get too full of himself, the Spurs have their own code of coexistence.
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As he put it earlier this season, “If you buy into this culture, you will get a lot out of it. If you don’t, it’s hard.”
The work, of course, is supposed to be hard, and Johnson never shies away from that. But as any grizzled rancher can tell you, there’s no need to make a job harder than it needs to be.
Some people can’t help thinking the work is supposed to be miserable. Johnson never has seen it that way.
He brings an omnipresent smile and an oversized boom box to his paying job every day. To watch him walk into a locker room, or check into a game, or toss hay to the cows, is to realize something.
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To Johnson, the work is the reward.
San Antonio Spurs forward Keldon Johnson (3) reacts to a 3-pointer made by San Antonio Spurs forward Carter Bryant (11) during the fourth quarter against the Portland Trail Blazers at Frost Bank Center in San Antonio, Wednesday, April 8, 2026. The Spurs defeated the Trail Blazers 112-101.
Sam Owens/San Antonio Express-News
“He came a long way”
There are days when the work feels less rewarding than others, particularly to those responsible for checking the boxes on Johnson’s never-ending list of ranch projects.
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When asked if they consider the duties they perform on a daily basis a job, Holmes and Seward go back and forth debating the topic before Johnson’s brother steps in to make a concession.
“It does get tedious,” Kaleb Johnson says. “Especially when it gets hot.”
But even if Keldon Johnson’s helpers are known to carp about their assignments from time to time, and even if a day or an afternoon or an hour rarely goes by without plenty of good-natured trash talk directed toward the 6-foot-6 head cowboy, the vibe of Johnson’s ranch is one of undeniable joy and gratitude.
“He came a long way,” Seward says. “And him bringing us along shows what kind of person he is.”
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In case there was any doubt about this, Johnson doesn’t see his ranch as business venture. The Highland cattle aren’t going to be sold for beef. The goats aren’t destined for tacos de cabrito. The animals aren’t pets, necessarily, but he names many of them, and he hopes to let them roam the pasture forever.
“Let them have a good life,” Johnson says. “I get to find a peace, and kill the time trying to help these guys out. Keep them from hurting each other, hurting themselves. Keep them healthy, things like that.”
Again, he sounds proud of what he built here. He didn’t rush it. He didn’t chase it into the darkness. He created the kind of place where whatever might be lost for a moment — whatever might have wandered off during the night — would want to return with the dawn.
But Johnson has no time to be sentimental. Standing in the middle of the pasture, he turns to see his friends and relatives leaning against a gate.
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“We got all these ranch hands,” Johnson bellows, “and don’t nobody want to help!”
The ranch hands hoot with laughter.
Of course they’ll follow him.
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