Los Angeles Lakers forward LeBron James (23) plays for the ball against Phoenix Suns guard Collin Gillespie (12) during the second half at Crypto.com Arena.Eric Lambkins IITue, December 2, 2025 at 8:42 AM UTC·4 min readLOS ANGELES — The final buzzer echoed through a stunned crypto.com Arena, a sterile, surgical sound cutting through the thick haze of collective disbelief.
On the scoreboard, a vulgarity: Suns 125, Lakers 108.
AdvertisementAdvertisementAdvertisementBut the numbers that told the tale, the damning digits that painted a portrait of profound apathy, were these: 22 turnovers. 32 points surrendered off those giveaways. A fast-break points disparity of 28 to 2. One steal. Zero blocks.
This game was an autopsy, a clinical dissection of a team that forgot the foundational, non-negotiable tenet of the sport: you must play hard.
From the opening tip, the Lakers moved with a ponderous, leaden gait.
Their passes were lazy lobs, their defensive rotations were a step slow, their collective spirit — deflated. The Lakers were a sleek sports car running on fumes, passed repeatedly by a salvage truck fueled by pure desire.
AdvertisementAdvertisementAdvertisementThe Suns, missing Devin Booker for three quarters, exploited this lethargy; they reveled in it, feasted on it.
The post-game pressers were not places of strategic analysis, but confessionals. The tone was one of bewildered honesty. Coach JJ Redick, his usually analytical demeanor stripped to a raw core of frustration, struggled to comprehend the spectacle.
"If you don't play hard against that team, you're going to get exposed," Redick said.
Redick's blunt, terse words unvarnished the night's thesis. He searched for answers, landing on a pop-culture, Space Jam metaphor that spoke to the sheer strangeness of it all.
AdvertisementAdvertisementAdvertisement"It's like the Monstars took over the people that you've grown to coach… It's weird," Redick said
His players, the stars tasked with setting the tone, echoed the sentiment in a chorus of self-flagellation and stark admission.
Luka Dončić, who poured in 38 points but was haunted by a career-worst nine turnovers, shouldered the blame with a grimace.
"That was my fault. No way I can have nine turnovers in the game," Dončić said.
When asked about the Suns' defensive schemes, he conceded a deeper, more troubling root: "It was kind of confusing… but just can't have that," Dončić said.
AdvertisementAdvertisementAdvertisementThe confusion was a symptom; the disease was a lack of forceful, decisive energy.
Austin Reaves, whose 16 points felt hollow, distilled the game to its essence with brutal clarity.
"We played like… one of those games we played bad. They played harder than us," Reaves said. "That can't happen."
Reaves pointed to his own unforced error—dribbling the ball out of bounds—as a microchosm for the night: a moment of inexplicable, focus-less sloppiness that infected the entire roster.
Even LeBron James, who preserved his historic double-digit scoring streak with a late three, could only diagnose the obvious.
AdvertisementAdvertisementAdvertisement"Turnovers. Turnovers. Transition points," James said. "Pretty much all pick sixes."
His analysis of the energy disparity was pointed.
"They was a step ahead of us for sure… We looked like we could have had a little bit more energy versus a team that played that way. So, they took advantage of that," James said.
The Suns' role players became protagonists in the Lakers' tragedy. Dillon Brooks, the perennial agitator, didnt just talk; he torched, finishing with 33 points and a plus-22 rating.
Collin Gillespie, a name known mostly to die-hards, erupted for a career-high 28, hitting eight threes, many uncontested, as the Lakers' defense consistently went under screens—a cardinal sin against a shooter, a telltale sign of disconnected, foggy effort.
AdvertisementAdvertisementAdvertisementThe stat sheet was a ledger of lethargy. Rui Hachimura: one shot attempt, one rebound, a night of cardio.
Deandre Ayton: only six looks, rendered an afterthought.
The team's 10 assists through three quarters screamed of a stagnant, selfish, joyless offense. They were individuals sharing a court, not a team sharing a purpose.
Their performance was the stark antithesis of everything the Lakers had built during their 14-4 start. The communication, the game-plan discipline, the togetherness Redick had praised—all evaporated.
"The basketball gods reward you and they also punish you," Redick resigned. "In the moments when we had a chance to be rewarded, we didn't do what we were supposed to do and we got punished."
AdvertisementAdvertisementAdvertisementThe punishment for their lack of effort is severe, and the lesson learned must be equally jarring and searing moving forward.
As Los Angeles embarks on a road trip through Toronto, Boston, and Philadelphia, they carry the film of this game as a stark reminder.
Talent is a gift. System is a framework. But effort is the currency that makes it all work.
On a cold Monday night in Los Angeles, the Lakers went bankrupt. Their account is now empty, and the collectors—a league full of hungry, scrappy teams—are alining at the door.
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