The Purple and Gold

The blinding camera flashes of Draft Night were a fading memory. The ESPN interviews, the trending hashtags, the thousands of messages flooding your phone—none of it mattered inside the walls of the UCLA Health Training Center in El Segundo.

Inside, there wasn’t any hype. Just pure athletic training by the players and coaches themselves, the smell of hardwood floors, and the relentless squeaking of basketball shoes. This? This was your new “workplace” for the remainder of your stay with the Lakers.

Wearing your training gear wasn’t like it was back home. Inside the Lakers Training Facility, it was as if you were a baby again, learning everything brand new. And the people inside? They were an entirely different breed of athletes than you’d ever faced. The coaches were more strict than anyone you’ve experienced.

Coach Vogel wasn’t an exception; tiring back-to-back drills and watching film to study your next opponents were draining to every single fiber of your body.

“Holy shit... I feel like I’m gonna pass out,” you say to yourself while running laps on the hardwood court. Consequently, you slip onto the floor face-first, earning a mix of laughter and pitying stares from the veterans.

“Choi, what the fuck are you doing? Get up and run those laps!” you hear your coach yell to you.

"Yes, coach!" you reply, your chest heaving as you quickly scramble back to your feet to finish the drills. Your lungs are burning, yet you push yourself forward, reminding yourself that you were chosen first overall for a reason. With that single, grounding thought, the pain and suffering from the suicide sprints fade into a sharp, searing adrenaline rush.

“Alright! Take a breather for 10 minutes, and after that, we’re doing scrims! I better not see any of you slacking off either.” your coach says before leaving.

Finally letting your body rest for a second, you gulp down from your water bottle. After a few seconds, you realize you’ve already drunk all of your water.

Walking towards the nearest water refill station inside the facility, you were minding your business until you felt a presence behind your back. Turning yourself around, you see your fellow rookie, Austin Reaves, with his bottle in hand.

“Dude, I cannot for the life of me do another suicide drill like that again..” he exclaims as sweat drips from his body.

“Honestly? After kissing the ground earlier, everything suddenly got easier. Good motivation tactic there.” you reply as you step back, drinking your water from your tumbler.

Austin was your fellow rookie, though your way on getting to L.A. couldn't have been more different. While you were shaking hands on Draft Night, Austin didn't hear his name called at all. You met him a month later, and despite the massive contrast in your contracts, you had become friends with the 23-year-old Arkansan.

The piercing shrill of Coach Vogel’s whistle cuts your conversation short, echoing off the high ceilings and instantly ending your brief moment of peace with your teammate. Walking towards the court where the rest of the team is, you stand next to Austin, starting to listen to what the coach will say next.

"Alright, let's get to it! First to fifteen by ones and twos!" Vogel yells, clapping his hands. "Purple team, Gold team, c’mon let's go!"

You toss your empty tumbler onto the bench, jogging back onto the hardwood alongside Austin. The coaching staff tosses you a purple practice pinnie. You pull it over your head, looking around to see who you’re running with. Dwight Howard, Rajon Rondo, Carmelo Anthony, and Austin are in purple.

In the opposing pinnies were Anthony Davis, Russell Westbrook, Talen Horton-Tucker, Chaundee Brown Jr. and… LeBron James.

"Choi!" Coach Vogel barks, pointing a clipboard directly at you. "You’ve got Bron. Let’s see what that wingspan can do against a real forward."

Your stomach drops slightly, though you keep your face completely passive. Guarding LeBron James in an empty gym during your first real NBA scrimmage. “Alright.. Let’s show 'em what you can do Y/N.” you say to yourself. You clap your hands together once, the sharp sting grounding you.

Tipoff begins, and your team wins the tip courtesy of your big man. Rondo brings the ball up for your squad, but the Gold team quickly forces a turnover. Suddenly, they are in transition.

The ball swings around the perimeter, fast and fluid, until it lands squarely in the hands of the King at the top of the key.

The rest of the Gold team immediately clears out. An isolation play.

LeBron stands there for a moment, dribbling the ball with a slow, rhythmic, menacing cadence. He isn't looking at the rim; he’s looking right at your chest, calculating your center of gravity.

You drop low into your stance, spreading your arms wide. Your seven-foot wingspan casts a massive shadow. “You’re 6'7", 220 pounds of pure muscle. You dominated overseas. You were picked first overall. You can hold your ground.” you tell yourself as assurance, focusing deeply on your assignment.

LeBron takes one hard jab step. You don't bite. You stay perfectly disciplined, shifting your weight just enough to cut off the driving lane.

Then, LeBron actually moves.

It happens so fast your brain barely processes it. He drops his shoulder and explodes toward the right side of the paint. You slide your feet quickly, beating him to the spot, ready to absorb the contact and force a tough shot. You brace yourself, chest out, arms up.

BANG.

The moment his shoulder collides with your chest, the wind is violently knocked out of your lungs. It feels less like playing basketball and more like being hit by a speeding bullet train. Your 220-pound frame, which felt so solid a minute ago, is effortlessly displaced with one jab.

You stumble backward, your sneakers squeaking desperately trying to ground you back as much as it can as you try to regain your footing, but the momentum is gone. LeBron doesn't even break his stride. With you knocked entirely out of the play, he elevates off one foot, absorbs secondary contact from Dwight Howard like it’s a gentle breeze, and throws down a thunderous, rim-rattling tomahawk dunk.

The gym goes dead silent for a split second before the Gold team erupts. Anthony Davis is yelling, slapping LeBron’s chest as they jog back on defense.

You stand up in the paint, rubbing your sternum, your lungs burning as you try to suck oxygen back in.

The King jogs past you, not even out of breath. He gives you a small, acknowledging smirk and taps you hard on the chest right where he just bulldozed you.

"Looks like you need more weight room training, rook," LeBron says, his voice deep and casual. "Welcome to the league."

You grit your teeth, the embarrassment from the suicide drills earlier morphing into a cold, sharp determination. You look at Austin, who is wide-eyed with his mouth open on the wing, having just witnessed you get turned into a turnstile.

“Alright,” you think to yourself, wiping the sweat from your eyes. “My turn.”

“Yo, we got ball! Get up rook!” you hear Rondo shout, as you move with your team towards the basket, passing the ball in bounds.

You jog down the court, your heart striking a steady rhythm against your chest. The fiery hot burning in your lungs fades, replaced with the icy, hyper-focused calm that got you drafted in the first place. You find your spot on the right wing, ready to start a play with your team.

LeBron picks you up immediately. He’s standing a little closer this time, his stance wide, a competitive glint in his eye. He slaps the floor with one hand. "Come on, rook. Show me why you're number one," he says to you, almost encouraging you to do better.

Rondo crosses half-court, reads the floor, and without even looking in your direction, strikes a bullet pass right into your shooting pocket, nearly hitting the side of LeBron’s head, but accurate enough to get the ball to you.

You catch it cleanly. The gym goes quiet again. Another isolation.

You grip the leather, the rough texture that you’re very familiar with. You know you can't out-muscle him; you just learned that the hard way. But you have youth, speed, and that polished three-level scoring the scouts obsessed over.

You hit him with a sharp, aggressive jab step to the right. LeBron shifts, perfectly balanced, anticipating the drive.

You immediately cross the ball low and hard between your legs to your left hand, exploding toward the free-throw line. LeBron slides with you, his defense absolutely smothering, ready to contest the layup.

But you have no intention of going to the rim.

Right at the elbow, you plant your foot hard, stopping on a dime. The sudden, violent deceleration creates a fraction of an inch of space. You rise up into your shooting motion.

LeBron recovers instantly, launching his massive frame toward you, his hand thrust high into your face. This is where your physical gifts take over. You lean back slightly into a fadeaway, utilizing every inch of your towering frame and your massive wingspan. You elevate high above his outstretched fingertips, your eyes locked entirely on the rim, and…

Flick.

The ball arcs beautifully through the humid gym air.

Swish. It snaps through the net so cleanly it barely moves the twine.