By Mark Peters (Chicago Sun Times Writer) -- April 3, 2025
I’ve watched basketball from folding chairs in dusty gym corners, balanced notebooks on my knees while officials argued over foul counts, and seen more fourth-quarter collapses than most folks care to remember. I’ve covered the LSA and IHSA circuits for more than 35 years, and in that time, I’ve seen prodigies rise and fall, flashy scorers burn out, and a few rare players etch themselves permanently into the memory of the game.
But every once in a while, it’s not just the player you remember. It’s a moment. A move. A signature so distinct it becomes part of who that athlete is. In the winter of 2019, I saw such a move from a soft-spoken point guard named Conor McCaffrey. A year later, in an entirely different gym, I saw Kloe Froebe—a freshman phenom from Lincoln—pull off the exact same move.
And in that moment, something clicked.
A Moment in Metamora
I’ve covered more holiday tournaments than I can count. I’ve walked into hundreds of gyms in December, where the hardwood is slick with condensation, the bleachers creak under the weight of winter coats, and the first thing you hear is the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of basketballs echoing during warmups. Most games, especially those early-afternoon ones, pass through me like scenery on the highway—respectable, forgettable.
But that day—December 28th, 2019, Metamora, Illinois—never left me.
It was the second day of the Metamora Holiday Tournament, one of those under-the-radar showcases where strong programs brought their middle school teams to battle in front of a half-filled crowd of parents, curious locals, and the occasional scout who wanted to see what the future looked like.
I arrived early. I always do. I was seated in the first row of the upper bleachers—same spot I always choose when I’m watching a player everyone whispers about but hasn’t truly seen yet.
The buzz was about a small, almost wiry guard from Our Savior’s Springfield. Not tall. Not flashy. But a coach’s dream. His name kept popping up on stat sheets and in emails from other writers. “Conor McCaffrey,” they said. “You’ve got to see him with your own eyes.”
So I did.
And midway through the third quarter of what had, up to that point, been a back-and-forth game against Washington Middle School, I saw something that made me drop my pen.
The game had slowed into a defensive grind. McCaffrey had already dished a few nifty assists, hit a corner three, and taken a charge—typical floor general stuff. But now, with the score tied at 32 and the shot clock unofficially draining (we old-school guys keep our own in our heads), the ball ended up back in McCaffrey’s hands.
The defender—6 inches taller, long-armed, and aggressive—got into his body. Pressured him. Baited him.
That’s when it happened.
McCaffrey dribbled once left, shifted his defender, and then with no hesitation at all, planted off his left foot, stepped back, and launched a three-pointer from just inside the volleyball line.
The mechanics were pristine.
There was no extra hop, no falling away. Just a clean, balanced fade off the left foot, squared shoulders, and a soft flick of the wrist.
The ball cut through the air with a low hiss and sank straight into the net.
Swish.
No rim. No bounce. Just nylon.
And in that moment, I didn’t cheer. I didn’t even blink.
I froze.
Because in 35 years of doing this, I’ve maybe seen a left-footed stepback like that a handful of times. And never—not once—from an 8th grader in a holiday tournament.
I jotted it into my notebook. Big, bold, underlined:
“Left-footed stepback. Rare. Poised. Beyond his age.”
I underlined “rare” twice.
Then I turned to Dave Nelson, who had just taken a bite of a soft pretzel. “Did you see that?”
He raised his eyebrows. “The footwork?”
I nodded. “That’s not normal. That’s instinctive. That’s a kid who’s not playing middle school basketball in his head. He’s already at the next level.”
We watched the next two minutes in silence, neither of us jotting down much. Just observing. McCaffrey was in total control—directing teammates, calling out switches, walking the ball up the court like he had a clock ticking inside his brain. No panic. No showboating.
He knew what he was doing.
I wrote one more line:
“Doesn’t flinch. The gym moves around him.”
After the game, I didn’t even bother with the concession stand or the box scores. I walked back out to my car and sat with the notebook open on my lap. Snow was beginning to fall—soft, swirling flurries brushing across the windshield.
And I kept seeing the same image in my mind:
McCaffrey—barely 14 years old—slowing the moment, shifting the defense, and executing a move I’d only seen from pros.
It wasn’t just the highlight.
It was the timing.
The calm.
The intelligence.
This wasn’t a kid relying on athleticism. This was a student of the game, manipulating space, taking what the defender gave him, and using technique that shouldn’t have even been in his arsenal yet.
The left-footed stepback is one of the most difficult shots in basketball. Your body isn’t aligned naturally to the rim. You’re moving against your dominant foot. You have to plant, elevate, and release—all while fading away. Most high schoolers can’t do it consistently. Some college players never even try.
But McCaffrey had mastered it—not just technically, but strategically.
And that moment, tucked inside a cold Metamora gym with less than 300 people watching, was the first time I realized:
This kid was different.
Different in how he read the floor.
Different in how he prepared.
Different in how he delivered.
And that stepback—planted on his left foot, balanced in mid-air, confident in execution—became the symbol I attached to everything else he did from that day forward.
Years later, when I saw Kloe Froebe, in a different gym, in a different uniform, execute the same move with the same footwork and same precision—I didn’t just think of the move.
I thought of Metamora.
That gym. That moment. That 14-year-old general in blue and white. And how, without saying a word, he made a 60-year-old writer drop his pen.
Because greatness, when it appears, doesn’t always come in fanfare. Sometimes, it’s just a quiet kid with a left-footed stepback and the calm to change a game.
And once you see it, you never forget it.
A Year Later: Deja vu in Lincoln
January 2021. Just over a year removed from that cold afternoon in Metamora when I first saw Conor McCaffrey make magic with a left-footed stepback three that froze the gym—and my pen—I found myself in another familiar place: the hardwood cathedral that is Roy S. Anderson Gymnasium, home of Lincoln Community High School.
It was a Friday night matchup between Lincoln and Decatur Eisenhower, and the place had that buzz you only get when a small-town phenom takes the court. The stands weren’t just full—they were alive. Parents. Old-timers. Kids in “FROEBE 5” shirts. I’d made the drive not just to see a game—but to see the freshman that had been making headlines all season long.
Kloe Froebe.
Her reputation had already spilled out of Logan County and into state-wide discussions. Some called her the most complete guard in the 2024 class. Others said she was the most dominant freshman Lincoln had ever seen. I just wanted to see if the tape matched the talk.
I showed up early—old habit—and took my usual seat a few rows up on the visitor’s side. It was warm inside, the gym lights humming above, the court glossy and reflecting sneakers like a stage. I remember unzipping my jacket and thinking, “Let’s see what all the noise is about.”
From the opening tip, Froebe commanded attention. She wasn’t loud—she didn’t bark orders or wave her arms—but she controlled the game with every movement. The passes were crisp. The defense was suffocating. The cuts were deliberate. She was, in every way, the axis around which Lincoln turned.
By the middle of the second quarter, she had a modest 14 points—nothing too flashy. A couple of steals. A few coast-to-coasts. Textbook stuff.
Then, with just under two minutes left in the half, it happened.
Froebe received the ball on the right wing, same spot where McCaffrey had stood a year prior in Metamora. Eisenhower had just switched to a 2-3 matchup zone, and her defender—a lengthy junior guard with quick feet—pressed up, clearly trying to push her toward help.
Froebe surveyed the floor calmly. The bench was calling a set. The fans were clapping the possession down.
Then she went to work.
One jab to the right.
A crossover to her left.
The defender shifted hard—too hard.
And with just enough daylight, Froebe planted off her left foot, stepped back, and rose into a fadeaway three.
I held my breath. It felt familiar. Too familiar.
Swish.
Clean. Confident. Controlled.
I blinked once, twice. My pen hovered above the page.
Then I said it out loud—softly but clearly, to the young writer sitting beside me.
“She just did Conor’s move.”
The writer beside me was Grant Davis, a new face from the Springfield Ledger. Maybe 23, fresh out of journalism school, eyes glued to every possession like a kid watching magic. He turned and asked, “What do you mean?”
I smiled and leaned in, the way an old scout does when he knows he’s about to give out a secret.
“That stepback,” I said. “That exact one. Left-footed plant. Hips squared. Same lean. Same release. I saw Conor McCaffrey do that in Metamora. December 2019. Identical.”
Grant furrowed his brow. “You sure?”
I nodded. “Positive. You don’t forget a move like that. Not when it’s that clean. Not from someone that young.”
He looked back at the court, then at Froebe jogging back on defense, eyes focused like nothing had even happened. “Wow,” he said. “I’ve watched her all season… I didn’t know that was McCaffrey’s thing.”
I tapped my notebook. “Now you do.”
The rest of the game blurred a bit after that shot—not because it wasn’t competitive, but because I was watching through the lens of déjà vu. Every time Froebe handled the ball, I saw Conor’s control. The timing. The patience. The refusal to rush.
It wasn’t just the stepback they shared.
It was the way they moved.
Froebe finished with 29 points, 7 rebounds, and 6 assists that night. She never celebrated too loudly. She never broke her rhythm. It was clinical. A freshman in body, but with the presence of a college junior.
When the final horn sounded and the crowd filed out, I remained seated for a few moments, replaying that one shot in my mind.
Back right wing. Left foot. Fade. Flick. Swish.
Just like Conor.
It was the same exact footprint.
Something More Than Coincidence
At first glance, it looked like a fluke. A technical overlap, maybe. A footwork habit passed through osmosis by watching enough tape or mimicking higher-level guards. I’ve seen plenty of players—boys and girls—try out a James Harden eurostep or a Steph Curry relocation three. The game is full of copycats. That’s not new.
But what I saw between Conor McCaffrey and Kloe Froebe—that specific stepback, off the left foot, with identical rhythm, spacing, and finish—wasn’t imitation. It was alignment.
That’s when I realized this wasn’t just some coincidence. It was something more.
We in the basketball world talk a lot about the "feel for the game"—that intangible gift that some players have, where everything seems to slow down, where the right decision reveals itself in real time. It’s a sixth sense that can’t be taught, can’t be drilled, and can’t be faked. McCaffrey had it. Froebe had it. And somewhere in their development—hundreds of miles apart, on different paths, in different leagues—they both built the same solution to the same problem.
Because that’s what the left-footed stepback really is—a solution.
It’s a counter to over-aggressive defenders who cheat to the right shoulder. It’s an answer to trap zones that over-commit. It’s a tool that buys space not by overpowering, but by disappearing—drifting back just enough to make a clean release. And only a certain kind of player finds that move on their own. A player who sees the game in terms of timing, space, control.
I asked Kloe about it a year after I saw her first do it.
She grinned and said, “I didn’t even know it was weird until my AAU coach told me. It just felt natural. I needed space, and that’s where I found it.”
But when I followed up and asked if she’d watched Conor McCaffrey’s tape—her answer stopped me.
“Yeah, actually,” she said. “My mom made me watch his games in middle school. She said he played the right way. That I could learn from him.”
That confirmed what I had already suspected. That move wasn’t taught in a camp. It wasn’t mimicked from an NBA player. It came from watching someone who saw the game the same way—and recognizing a kindred rhythm.
That rhythm, I’ve come to believe, is what binds Froebe and McCaffrey.
Neither of them were highlight-hunters. You didn’t see them yelling at cameras or throwing down dunks. They were surgical, not sensational. Kloe’s pace as a freshman at Lincoln was mature beyond her years—patient, purposeful. Just like Conor’s was at Our Savior’s Springfield.
They each moved through the game like they were solving a puzzle.
And when I saw Froebe use that move in a packed gym against Decatur Eisenhower in January of 2021—a mirror image of what I had seen McCaffrey do in Metamora a year earlier—I knew it wasn’t coincidence.
It was recognition.
It was legacy.
It was basketball DNA.
Years later, now that they’re a couple—each thriving in their respective college paths—it makes even more sense. They finish each other’s thoughts off the court. On the court? They finish each other’s moves.
“I think we just get each other’s rhythm,” Conor told me. “Even before we were together, I could tell watching her play—she understood spacing and pacing like I did. Not a lot of players have that.”
And Kloe, when asked if she consciously adapted her stepback to match his, said it best:
“I think we both figured out the same answer. Just from different gyms.”
Not imitation.
Resonance.
That’s what made me stop calling it Conor’s move. And not quite Kloe’s move either.
It’s theirs—not just as a shared skill, but as a shared understanding of the game.
There are plenty of players with better verticals. Plenty with flashier handles. But this move—that crossover into a left-footed fade—belongs to two minds that play chess while the rest of the gym is playing checkers.
And if that’s not something more than coincidence, I don’t know what is.
Sharing a Signature
Today, in 2025, Conor McCaffrey and Kloe Froebe are both navigating the early stages of adulthood—college schedules, new challenges, and higher levels of competition. But as their respective journeys continue to unfold, one thing remains as clear as the glide of a left-footed stepback: these two don’t just play basketball—they think it.
And in their shared playbook, no move defines that better than the one they both unintentionally mastered: the left-footed stepback three. It’s a rare and refined maneuver, but for both of them, it became something more than just a bucket-getting weapon. It became a signature.
Not because they forced it. Not because they studied it in a workout video. But because it was something each of them came to naturally—like a phrase two writers unknowingly use in the same way, or a melody played in two different towns on the same piano.
McCaffrey recalled it with a grin:
“When we first started talking and she mentioned she’d watched some of my games in middle school, I thought it was cool. But then I saw her do that move in a clip from her freshman year at Lincoln, and I was like—wait a minute. That’s mine! The plant, the balance, even the little hesitation before the pull—it was spooky how similar it looked.”
Froebe laughed when asked about it:
“We literally had the same argument for months—'You stole it from me!’ ‘No, I had it first!’ But in the end, I think we just both grew into it the same way. It’s funny now, but at the time it was a real surprise.”
But deeper than the teasing and shared film clips lies a truth that both of them understand well: the footwork, the calculated nature, the timing of that move—it isn’t for everyone. It’s not flashy for the sake of flash. It’s deliberate. It’s patient. It’s built for players who wait, then strike. For players who don’t need the game to be loud in order to dominate it.
I once asked both of them—separately—what the move felt like.
Conor answered:
“It’s like breathing space into a play. You’re in control, but you don’t rush it. You sell the threat, then retreat. The stepback’s not about flash—it’s about freedom. It’s creating your own rhythm when everything else is out of sync.”
Kloe’s answer was nearly identical:
“I like it because it feels calm. Everything slows down. When you plant that left foot and fade, it’s almost like time stops for a second. That’s when you know the shot’s going in—when it feels like you owned the tempo.”
And that’s the beauty of their bond. They don’t just share a court vision or an unselfish style. They share a tempo. A cadence. A way of making the court feel smaller for their teammates and bigger for themselves in the moments that matter.
To fans, the left-footed stepback is a highlight. To analysts, it’s a footnote. But to McCaffrey and Froebe, it’s identity. It’s who they are on the court.
They don’t explode into it. They don’t scream for attention after making it. They just glide into the motion, float for half a second, and land with the confidence of someone who’s been there before.
Coach Phillip Heppe, who coached McCaffrey at Our Savior’s, summed it up best:
“You see a lot of kids who want to show the world they can do something flashy. But when Conor did that move, it wasn’t to show off. It was because it was the right move. That’s the difference. Kloe’s the same way. She doesn’t waste movement. She doesn’t need approval. She just wins.”
And it’s that shared philosophy—substance over spectacle—that gives the stepback its real meaning. It’s not just something they both do. It’s something they both believe in.
Over time, the move has become a running joke between the two—Conor teasing Kloe that she stole it. Kloe telling him he copied her. But beyond that, it’s become part of their shared basketball language, a sort of shorthand that expresses everything they value: control, intelligence, trust in craft.
When they train together, they don’t compete to see who makes more. They compare form. They talk about timing. About balance. About when not to use it. That’s the real connection.
“They’re two players who trust the process,” said analyst Brian Crain. “They don’t rush. They don’t panic. And that move—they both use it the same way. It’s not a trick. It’s a tool. A subtle message to the defense: ‘I see you, and I’ve already decided how this ends.’”
Even their defenders started to recognize it.
“I remember hearing a coach during a timeout say, ‘Watch the left foot. If she plants, it’s over,’” Froebe said with a grin. “That’s when I knew it was becoming a thing.”
There’s something rare about seeing two generational players discover a move so specific, so technical, and yet so theirs. And it’s even rarer for those two players to find each other—not just on the court, but in life.
As I sit and reflect on all the highlight reels, buzzer-beaters, and broken records I’ve documented, I keep coming back to that one foot, planted with precision, just before fading back into a clean release. It’s not just a move.
It’s who they are.
Quiet, composed, deadly.
Not built for the crowd, but for the craft.
Not for the highlight, but for the win.
And if future generations come along and try to imitate it—if kids across Illinois are planting that left foot and fading back with confidence—let the record show:
It wasn’t Steph. It wasn’t Luka.
It was Conor.
And it was Kloe.
Two basketball minds, sharing one perfect step.
The Analyst's View
There are certain plays that define careers, and then there are those that define players—a subtle difference, but a critical one. In my nearly four decades of watching and writing about high-level basketball in Illinois, I’ve become a student of the game within the game. The patterns. The decision-making. The space creation. And that’s where this left-footed stepback—the one shared by both Conor McCaffrey and Kloe Froebe—lives and breathes.
Most fans see the bucket. A three-point shot. A quick crossover. Net. Scoreboard updates. But that’s surface level. What sets this move apart—and why it’s stuck in the minds of those of us who’ve seen thousands of hours of tape—is that it’s a conscious manipulation of geometry.
“That move isn’t just about separation,” said former Peoria Christ coach and now WGN analyst Jim Mader, “it’s about understanding your defender’s center of gravity. Most kids don’t think that way. They attack the space ahead of them. Conor and Kloe? They attack the space between them and their defender’s confidence.”
It’s a cerebral move. And one that, in this era of athleticism-over-execution, stands out like a symphony in the middle of a drumline.
The plant off the left foot as a right-handed shooter isn’t just rare—it’s fundamentally difficult. It forces your hips to adjust mid-motion, keeps your base squared, and relies on elite balance and timing. Most players step back on their dominant leg. They’re taught to.
But McCaffrey and Froebe? They rewrote that instruction.
“I teach young guards all the time,” said Brian Crain, long-time AAU scout and former AAU National Tournament official. “And I’ll show them Conor film, then Kloe’s, and they don’t believe me when I tell them they’re not siblings. It’s that similar. Same hip rotation, same follow-through. You can’t teach that. That’s pattern recognition—and high-level instincts.”
Even Rachel Connors, one of the IHSA’s first female video analysts and now working with ESPN Midwest, chimed in on the phenomenon:
“That stepback is a weapon not just because it’s effective—it’s because it’s unexpected. You train defenders to cut off the strong side, to anticipate the natural lean. But when a player moves into what seems like an awkward step, and still shoots perfectly? That’s basketball IQ elevated to art.”
What Conor and Kloe both understand—likely even before they had language for it—is the importance of timing over power. Neither of them are built like freak athletes. Neither relied on a lightning-quick first step or overwhelming size. They understood how to manipulate spacing, rhythm, and the mental state of the defender.
That’s what great guards do.
And if you watched McCaffrey at O.S. Springfield or Froebe at Lincoln High—or, if you were lucky, both—you’d see that this move wasn’t about flexing skill. It was about creating a beat. A pause in the music. A breath in the chaos.
“There’s a pause—just before the release,” I once told my intern at a sectional final in 2021. “Right there, in the plant, you can feel the defender guess wrong. That’s the genius of it. They don’t just create space—they create hesitation.”
And when defenders hesitate, even just for a second, it’s already too late.
Both players used the move at critical junctures, not for show but for survival. For McCaffrey, it was often the bailout shot late in a possession. For Froebe, it was the dagger—the play to silence a run or ignite a momentum swing. Each used it like a veteran plays a trump card. Not every hand—but always the right one.
“They both had that rare sense,” said Heppe, McCaffrey’s former coach at O.S. Springfield. “The move was a tool. Not a trick. And when they used it, you just knew the possession was going to end the way they wanted it to.”
It’s why the move has become, in a way, a shared signature. Not flashy like a windmill dunk. Not iconic like a Kareem skyhook. But a subtle, brilliant maneuver that leaves scouts nodding and defenders shrugging.
It’s not just a crossover.
Not just a stepback.
It’s a moment of complete control—mind over motion.
And that’s what’s made watching this development so remarkable over the last five years. As a historian of the LSA and a lover of IHSA lore, I’m not one to get overly romantic about footwork.
But when I saw Froebe use it a year after McCaffrey did—same left foot, same cold timing—I didn’t just feel déjà vu. I felt like I was watching the next chapter in a shared story. A basketball inheritance of sorts. One that didn’t come from YouTube. Didn’t come from trainers. It came from vision. From brains. From love of the game, in its purest form.
“People always talk about the flash,” said analyst and coach Donnie Reiger, who’s spent over a decade coaching 3A and 4A talent. “But that move? That’s real. That’s the one the college coaches notice. The one that tells you a player isn’t just playing—they’re thinking.”
And now, years later, Conor and Kloe don’t just share that move—they respect it in one another. That mutual respect, I believe, is part of what drew them together. Because when you’ve seen the game from the top of the key with defenders flying at you, and you’ve found peace in the form of a perfectly timed left-footed stepback—well, there aren’t many people who really understand that.
Except, perhaps, someone who’s done it too.
And if you’re asking me—the old man with the tattered notebook still filled with hand-drawn court diagrams and left-foot scribbles—that move belongs to them both now.
And we’re lucky to have seen it.