The Lakers fall to Magic’s wave of physicality

LOS ANGELES — The ball skipped off Wendell Carter Jr.’s fingertips and through the net with 6.7 seconds left, and the Crypto.com Arena crowd made a sound that wasn’t quite a gasp, not quite a groan. It was the noise of recognition. The noise of fans who’ve seen this movie before, who know how it ends, who understand that some teams are built of brick and some are built of sand.

The Lakers are sandcastles. Beautiful, intricate, impressive to look at. But when the tide comes? When a physical, unrelenting team like the Orlando Magic decides to test the walls? 

They dissolve. They wash away. They leave nothing behind but wet footprints and the memory of what might have been.

The final score read 110-109 Magic. 

The Lakers went 4-4 on an eight-game homestand that was supposed to be a springboard. 

Instead, it’s become a diagnosis. A revelation. A confirmation of what the scouting report has said for months: if you’re physical with them, if you muck things up, if you refuse to let them play pretty, the Lakers will fold. They’ll quit. They’ll hide their eyes and hearts from the smoke.

They have no marbles.

In the movie “Major League," the character Isuro “Kamikaze" Tanaka tells teammate Pedro Cerrano: “You have no marbles." 

It’s a simple diagnosis for a complex problem. A player with all the physical tools but without the internal fortitude, the crazy, the willingness to go to war.

The Lakers have no Kamikaze.

LeBron James isn’t Kobe Bryant. Luka Dončić isn’t Kobe Bryant. 

That’s not a knock—different eras, different players, different styles. 

Kobe had his own flaws, his own complications. But one thing he never lacked was the maniac gene. The willingness to get in the mud, to chest up, to stare an opponent in the eye and dare them to try something. The crazy that makes winning possible when everything else fails.

This team doesn’t have that. 

They have Marcus Smart, who would absolutely throw down in a club brawl.

 They have Jared Vanderbilt, whose defensive intensity borders on derangement. 

Two guys you’d want in a fight. Two guys who play like their hair’s on fire.

But neither of their leaders shows that same willingness. 

Neither LeBron nor Luka seems interested in mucking things up with opponents. 

Neither one derides teammates when derision is needed. 

Neither one torments opponents’ minds, bending them to their will through sheer force of presence. 

Instead, they end up palms-up after every play, turning toward officials, begging for whistles that never come.

It’s a bad look. It’s a losing look. It’s the look of a team that still doesn’t understand what it takes to win when the game gets ugly.

Ask any scout. Ask any opposing player. Ask anyone who’s watched this team stumble through 57 games of “figuring it out."

The formula is simple: be physical. Be unrelenting. Muck things up with their marquee players. Watch them fold.

Orlando executed it perfectly Tuesday night. 

Paolo Banchero bullied his way to 36 points, 10 of 11 from the free throw line, a big body using his 6-foot-10 frame to overwhelm whatever the Lakers put in front of him.

Marcus Smart tried. Too small. Everyone else tried. Banchero just used his footwork and went around.

He is eerily reminiscent of LeBron James. Banchero has the size and strength, and, unlike James, the willingness to seek and absorb physical contact.

Doesn’t mind the physical contact. That’s the key. Banchero embraces it. Seeks it. Thrives in it. Meanwhile, the Lakers spent the night turning palms skyward, hoping someone in a striped shirt would save them.

The Lakers’ players were extraordinarily frustrated and flummoxed with the officiating.

Redick’s response was telling: “There’s probably a level of frustration when you’re turning the ball over and you’re feeling like you’re getting fouled. But I said it this morning. They’re going to foul every possession. You just got to play through it."

Play through it. Simple concept. Apparently, difficult execution.

The Lakers led by 12 in the first half; they led by 13 in the second half. Led by three with seconds left. Led by two after Luka found LeBron for a dunk.

Then the tide came.

Desmond Bane, who was 0 for 5 from three through three quarters, drilled a go-ahead three with 34.6 seconds left. Then Carter got his putback. Then Luka hesitated on an open look, took an extra dribble, picked up his dribble, passed to LeBron, and LeBron’s desperation fallaway 3-point attempt clanked off the rim as time expired.

Two possessions. Two mistakes. Two players who usually make those plays, failing to make them.

Maybe. Probably. But here’s the thing about players with marbles: they don’t care about their shooting percentage when the game’s on the line. 

They want the ball. They want the moment. 

They want to feel the weight of everything pressing down and prove they can hold it up.

Luka hesitated. LeBron’s shot didn’t fall. The Lakers’ sandcastle washed away.

After the game, Redick was asked a question that cut to the heart of everything.

“Do you know what this team’s DNA is yet? Has that been established?"

He paused. He chose his words carefully. He didn’t have a good answer.

“Still trying to figure that out," Redick said. “I know that’s a copout and probably is. But building an identity is difficult. You think about our team last year and this team is different. Our identity will eventually be different."

Eventually, that’s the word that haunts. 57 games into an 82-game season, and they’re still waiting for eventually.

Redick referenced a meeting with Phil Jackson, who said he always knew who his team was by Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving was three months ago. The Lakers still don’t know.

The record says 20-11 since a certain point. The context says all 11 losses have been by double digits. When they lose, they don’t just lose—they let go of the rope. They stop fighting. They accept.

“What does that say about the team when you do lose?" a reporter asked. “It’s by these wider margins."

Redick deflected, talked about effort, talked about technique. But the question hung in the air like smoke after a fire. What does it say? It says they lack the kamikaze gene. It says they have no marbles.

Look at the box score. Orlando snatched 13 offensive rebounds, which led to 15 second-chance points. The Magic shot 63% at the rim, in the paint, wherever they wanted.

“The turnovers, the fast break points, the points in the paint—it just killed us," Redick said. “A team shoots 63% and most of that’s at the rim or in the paint. It can be deflating."

Deflating. That’s the word. A team that gets deflated instead of angry. A team that folds instead of fights.

James was asked if this loss was somehow acceptable because they played the right way, played together, played hard enough to win.

“No," James said flatly.

But then he couldn’t explain what went wrong. Couldn’t articulate why they keep squandering leads. Couldn’t identify why, with the game on the line, they couldn’t get stops.

“We go up three, they come down, hit a three," James said. “We go up three again, they come down, get an and-one. We go up two, they take the lead. It was just like couldn’t get a key stop."

Key stops don’t happen by accident. They happen because someone decides they won’t let the other team score. They happen because someone gets low, gets physical, gets crazy. They happen because someone has marbles.

Watch this team for five minutes, and you’ll see it. Every drive, every bump, every contested shot—palms up. Eyes on the ref. Expression of incredulity. How could they not call that?

It’s exhausting. It’s ineffective. It’s the opposite of what championship teams do.

Championship teams don’t look for calls. They look for blood. They understand that officials are human, that they miss things, that the game isn’t always fair. 

So, they adjust. They play harder. They impose their will so thoroughly that the officiating becomes irrelevant.

The Lakers don’t do that. They complain. They gesture. They lose focus while they’re busy arguing. 

And the other team? They keep playing. Keep attacking. Keep proving that physicality beats talent when talent won’t fight back.

Banchero is 22 years old. He’s having a down year by his standards. But when he played the Lakers, he looked like an MVP candidate.

That’s not coincidence. That’s pattern.

Banchero pulled everything out of his bag against Los Angeles. He put on a dazzling display of why he was worthy of a number one pick.

He also exposed everything the Lakers lack. Size, yes. Strength, yes. But more than that: willingness. Willingness to initiate contact instead of avoiding it. Willingness to impose instead of react. Willingness to be the hammer instead of the nail.

Banchero doesn’t turn palms-up. He turns shoulders-down. He goes through you, not around you. He understands that in the NBA, especially in the playoffs, the whistle gets tighter and the game gets looser. The team that embraces that reality wins. The team that fights it loses.

The Lakers are still fighting, still hoping, still waiting for someone to save them.

With the game on the line, the Lakers had the ball, trailing by one, 6.7 seconds left. Luka Dončić, one of the most clutch players of his generation, caught the ball above the 3-point line on the left wing.

He had an open look. A clean look. A look he’s made hundreds of times.

He hesitated. Took a dribble. Picked up his dribble, passed to LeBron.

Why?

“I thought I was a little far," Luka explained afterward. “Tried to take one dribble closer. Probably should have picked up the ball just trying to attack."

He was asked if his poor shooting night—2 of 10 from three—played a role in the hesitation.

“Maybe a little bit," he admitted. “I thought it was enough time to get a better look, try to drive the ball maybe."

Confidence. Rhythm. Trust. All the things that separate the great from the legendary, the players with marbles from the players without.

LeBron got the ball with almost no time left, threw up a fallaway, missed. Game over.

“We executed," LeBron insisted afterward. “We didn’t get the shot we wanted."

Executed? They passed up an open look for a contested one. That’s not execution. That’s hesitation. That’s uncertainty. That’s a team still trying to figure out who they are with 25 games left in the season.

Sandcastles are beautiful. Children spend hours building them, shaping them, adorning them with shells and flags. They’re works of art, really. Impressive displays of creativity and patience.

But they’re not built to last. They’re not built to withstand waves. They’re built to be admired in the moment, photographed, remembered fondly. Then the tide comes and they’re gone.

The Lakers are a sandcastle team. Beautiful when conditions are perfect. Impressive when the game flows their way. 

But ask them to hold up against a physical, unrelenting opponent? Ask them to withstand the waves that come in the fourth quarter, when every possession matters and every bump is legal, and every whistle is questionable?

They dissolve. They wash away. They leave nothing behind but the memory of what might have been.

Redick was asked about the team’s identity. He didn’t have an answer. LeBron was asked about the team’s growth over the past three weeks. He didn’t have an answer either.

“I don’t know," LeBron said. “I don’t even know what today was when I woke up. You asked me about the last three weeks? I’m the wrong guy to ask."

That’s not the answer of a championship leader. 

That’s the answer of someone who’s been in the league 22 years, who’s seen everything, who maybe doesn’t have the energy to pretend anymore. 

It’s understandable. It’s human. 

It’s also not what you want to hear from your best player after a loss like this.

The Lakers are 32-28. Sixth in the West. Close to the play-in, far from the top. 

They have 25 games left to figure out who they are, what they believe, whether they’re willing to fight.

The evidence so far suggests they’re not. The evidence suggests they’ll keep playing pretty, keep looking for calls, keep losing to physical teams. 

The evidence suggests that when the playoffs come, assuming they make it, they’ll get bounced by someone who wants it more.

Someone with marbles.

The Orlando Magic aren’t a great team. 

They’re good, maybe very good, but not great. 

They’re young, talented, learning how to win. They’re also physical, unrelenting, and absolutely convinced they belong.

They came into Crypto.com Arena and took a game from a team with more talent, more experience, more star power. 

They did it by being tougher. By wanting it more. By refusing to fold when the Lakers made runs.

They did it by having marbles.

The Lakers didn’t. They won’t. Not until something fundamental changes. Not until someone in that locker room decides that pretty basketball is overrated, that winning ugly counts just as much, that the only thing that matters at the end of the night is whose hand is raised.

Fifty-seven games in. Still figuring it out. Still palms-up. Still sandcastles waiting for the tide.

The tide came Tuesday night. It’ll come again. And again. Until someone decides to build something that can withstand the waves.