LOS ANGELES — They trusted. They believed. They transformed.
In a league where legends loom larger than life, where coaching carousels spin faster than a fastbreak, the Los Angeles Lakers have unearthed an unlikely conductor—a rookie coach in a Kelly Green Eagles hoodie, drenched in ice water, grinning through the storm of his own making.
JJ Redick, the former sharpshooter turned podcast savant turned clipboard revolutionary, stood soaked and triumphant Friday night after the Lakers' 140-109 demolition of the Houston Rockets.
The victory sealed a top-3 seed in the brutal West, 50 wins for the second time in 14 years, and a truth as sharp as his famed jumper: This is no longer Darvin Ham's fractured fairy tale. This is Redick's redemption song.
These Lakers were forged through culture and are not just a roster but a brotherhood.
Last season, under Ham's hesitant hand, the Lakers were a cacophony—a discordant mix of aging icons and unsure youth, collapsing in fourth quarters, crumbling under expectations.
This season? Artwork composed by a coach who'd never led a huddle, conducted with the poise of a veteran, demanding harmony in every pick, pass, and possession.
"It's about creating a rhythm, a trust," Redick said postgame. Water skiing across from his brow, referencing the $17,000 carpet damage from his ice bath, he said, "These guys… they've been through valleys. Now? They're climbing peaks."
Peaks like Friday night.
Luka Dončić dropped 39 points in three quarters, blending step-back sorcery and paint pyrotechnics. Austin Reaves added 23, as his confidence bloomed like a sunflower in a field. LeBron James lounged late after tweaking his groin, his 14 points a mere footnote, his body preserved for the playoff grind ahead.
But this wasn't about stars. This was about the system. About a coach who turned "Let LeBron cook" into "Let's feast together."
Last season, the Lakers ranked 25th in assists, isolation-heavy and joyless.
This year? Fifth.
Ball movement like an Alvin Ailey showcase, mismatches exploited like Wall Street, defense disruptive without desperation.
Redick's genius? Clarity over chaos. Visualization over verbosity.
Before games, he meditates, picturing defensive rotations, offensive sets, and the "connecting plays" that bind his squad. At halftime, he warned his stars about "Dallas possessions"—where selfish plays are fined and teamwork is treasured.
Result?
The Lakers shot 58 percent from the field, 45 percent from deep, and secured their seventh straight game with 30+ assists.
"He's changed everything," Austin Reaves said. "Last year… we were lost. Now? We're a family."
Family.
The word hangs in the air inside crypto.com Arena, heavy with meaning.
Last season, Ham's Lakers were tenants in a house divided—LeBron's frustration boiling, Anthony Davis' health flickering, role players adrift.
Redick, the rookie, rebuilt the foundation. He empowered Dončić to balance scoring and playmaking, transforming him from a ball-dominant enigma to a late-game decision-making "60/40" threat.
He unlocked Reaves' swagger, turning him from a bench spark to a cornerstone. He convinced LeBron to trust the process, to rest, to breathe.
The stats speak for themselves: 50 wins, a top-5 record, and the Pacific Division crown, their second in 13 years.
But the soul of this team? It's in the details.
You see it in Dončić's explosive drives.
"He has more burst than when he arrived," Redick said.
It is evident in Reaves' fearless mismatches and when James, the defensive "quarterback," barks orders and scrambles coverages, as his voice serves as a metronome for unity.
Resting six starters, Houston offered little resistance—a preseason cameo in April's clothing. Nonetheless, the Lakers dominated with their 41-point third quarter, a statement to the West: We're here. We're ready.
Yet Redick, ever the realist, knows the truth. The playoffs present a gauntlet of adjustments and pressure.
"You're judged on culture… and playoff grit," Redick admitted.
But for one night, in a locker room smelling of sweat, feet, and wet carpet, the Lakers dare to dream—of banners, of legacy, of a rookie coach who turned doubt into doctrine, chaos into chorus.
They trusted. They believed. They transformed.
Western Conference, beware.