LOS ANGELES –– ‘Twas Christmas night in crypto.com, and throughout the arena,

Not a Laker was hustling, not even the cleaners.

The stockings were hung by the locker room bare,

In hopes that some effort soon would be there.

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The fans nestled snug in their purple and gold,

While nightmares of turnovers danced in the cold.

LeBron James, in his jersey, and the coach in a tracksuit,

Had just settled into a nightmarish pursuit.

When out on the court there arose such a clatter,

The Rockets were scoring — it was really the latter.

Away to the basket they flew like a flash,

While Lakers stood statuesque, lacking the dash.

The scoreboard was gleaming, a 23-point lead,

The Lakers were flailing, consumed by their greed.

For offense alone was their singular quest,

Defense forgotten, like an old Memphis Grizzlies’ vest.

Amen Thompson scored 26, a virtuoso display,

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Kevin Durant added 25, in his methodical way.

Alperen Sengun grabbed 12 boards, more than L.A.’s whole starting five,

While the Lakers played basketball barely alive.

James scored just 18, his impact a crater,

Minus-33 while on the court—the data can’t cater.

Luka Dončić added 25, but the turnovers combined,

Nine between the two, the Rockets would find.

The Rockets led 63-53 at the half,

While James had eight points—eight too few by math.

The third quarter opened with an 18-5 run,

The Lakers surrendered; their will came undone.

“They scored on the first 13 possessions,” JJ Redick said, his voice thin, “Effort and execution — we were terrible within.”

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The coach’s frustration, a palpable thing,

“We don’t care enough right now,” Redick said, like a king.

Care. That word hung in the locker room air,

A concept as foreign as playoff hardware.

“We had it,” Redick continued, his voice dropping low,

“This culture can change like that,” he said, snapping just so.

The numbers are damning, the analytics clear,

A 26-point swing in net rating—oh dear.

With Smart, they were +13.5, just humming along,

With James, they’ve plummeted, -13.1 dead wrong.

The Lakers were 15-4 in their first 19 games,

They played with connection; they played like bright flames.

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Then James returned, and the schedule grew tough,

Now 4-6 in ten games—is that enough?

“Is the care factor coachable?” one reporter inquired,

“Or is it something you either have or you’re tired?”

Redick paused, considering the question’s sharp edge,

“Guys say they want to win,” he said, standing on the ledge.

“The care factor is: do I care enough to do what I’m supposed to?”

Redick spoke of championship habits, of being closely attuned.

“That’s what we don’t have right now,” Redick said, plain as day,

“And it’s pretty consistent who those guys are,” in a tone that betrayed.

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Their defense was 14th before James’ return,

Now 25th and falling, a concern that burns.

This team held under 100—the Bucks, in a win,

James played sub-10 minutes; the lesson sinks in.

The body language told stories that box scores can’t capture,

A shrug, a half-jog, a laugh with the opposition’s rapture.

While Redick screamed rotations, while fans screamed dismay,

James seemed to whisper, “It’s just another day.”

“We practice them all the time,” Redick said of his schemes,

“It’s a matter of making the choice,” he said in a shattering of dreams.

“Too often we have guys that don’t want to make that choice,”

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Redick’s voice was a scalpel; his words had a voice.

“Saturday’s practice,” Redick warned, “will be uncomfortable. The meeting will be uncomfortable. I’m not doing another 53 games like this.”

The coach at his wits’ end, a season on the brink,

A roster of talent, yet unable to think.

Marcus Smart spoke of leadership, of leading by example,

“Putting my body on the line,” Smart said, ample.

But who follows? Who listens? Who makes the hard choice?

When the star of the show uses his aged, selective voice?

The Rockets were 7-7 on the road, now improved,

The Lakers were exposed, their problems removed.

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From the shadows of “potential” and “we’ll be fine soon,”

Into harsh Christmas daylight, beneath a December moon.

Reaves left at halftime, a calf strain again,

12 points in 16 minutes, then gone from the din.

“Not my decision,” Redick said of the medical call,

But the fragility showed—they could not afford to fall.

Yet fall they did, and fall they keep falling,

A team that once soared is now merely crawling.

The answer isn’t straightforward; both require nuance,

The defense will be bad, with or without James’ entrance.

But the offense was balanced when James was the third option,

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Once his usage increased, the team lost its traction.

James picks and chooses his moments on D,

While teammates stand static, failing to see.

The greatest present James could give, some fans dare to say,

Is James waiving his no-trade clause and going away.

The greatest gift the Lakers could give, in return,

Is youth and assets, for the fifth title King James yearns.

But Christmas comes in miracles, through hope and for cheer,

Not in radioactive locker rooms, and indeed, not through fear.

Yet here stand the Lakers, tradition in tow,

Their 52nd Christmas game, and 27th blow.

Jared Vanderbilt flashed, and Smart showed some fight,

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But rotations are fickle, your stars aren’t quite right.

The problem is bigger than one man’s plus-minus,

It’s systemic, it’s cultural, it’s all of us.

The Rockets scored 119, the Lakers just 96,

A 23-point margin, a holiday fix.

The fans left early, the stadium cleared,

Another Christmas ruined, another loss leered.

“We’ve got to be better,” Smart said, simple and true,

“Stuff like that can’t happen,” of course, Smart knew.

But knowing and doing are different beasts,

One requires thought, the other, release.

So ’twas the night of Christmas, in Lakerland gloom,

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A season once promising is now facing doom.

The questions hang heavy, the answers seem far,

Who are these Lakers? Who are they, these stars?

A team with no energy, a team with no fight,

A team that once dazzled now fades into the night.

The desert revealed them, the Rockets exposed,

The truth is now out there; the door is now closed.

Yet doors can reopen, can swing both ways,

Can welcome the morning, can brighten the days.

But first must come honesty, hard choices made,

Championship habits cannot be outweighed.

The Lakers have talent, the Lakers have names,

But talent alone wins no playoff games.

It takes five guys moving; it takes trust and belief.

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It takes caring enough to embrace the complicated grief.

So on this December night, as the chill falls on nowhere,

As palm trees stand silent beneath the thick air,

The Lakers face Christmas with coal in their socks,

A team that must look in the mirror and talk.

About who they are, about what they will be,

About giving effort, about setting free

The potential they’ve bottled, the promise they’ve sold,

Before this whole season turns purple to mold.