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“Los Angeles sports legend” is the most appropriate way to describe the contributions of Gail Goodrich, who returned to Southern California on Friday as an 82-year-old full of stamina and humbleness after his alma mater, Sun Valley Poly High, named its gymnasium the Gail Goodrich Sports Complex.

“This is where it all started,” Goodrich said. “I have great memories here. I’m emotional that they’re going to name the gym after me. I had great coaches. I had great teammates. I’ve been one to always look to the future. Today is a day to recall and look back.”

There are few individuals in sports history who achieved what he accomplished in his hometown as a basketball standout. He led Poly to the City championship over Manual Arts in 1961, helped UCLA win two NCAA titles under coach John Wooden, including a record-setting 42-point performance in the 1965 final, and won an NBA title as the Lakers’ leading scorer in 1971-72 on a team that had a 33-game winning streak and featured fellow future Hall of Famers Jerry West and Wilt Chamberlain.

In the 1961 title game, Goodrich suffered an ankle injury in the third quarter. He came back to dominate the fourth quarter, finishing with 29 points. He played the game on a Wednesday, graduated on a Friday and was at UCLA that Monday.

Four of Goodrich’s high school teammates attended Friday’s ceremony, including center Ernie Brandt, who said, “I’m the guy who passed the ball to him all the time.”

This was the second gym-naming ceremony for Goodrich, who traveled from his home in Idaho in 2015 to see Madison Middle School in North Hollywood name its gym the Gail Goodrich Sports Center.

He graduated from Madison at 5 feet 2 and 99 pounds. At Poly, by his senior year, he was nearing 6 feet tall. He was known for his accurate left-handed shooting touch. He recalled how his father built a basket at home and he practiced into the night.

“I lived at the Poly gym. I became a gym rat. The gym became my second home,” he said.

He helped launch Wooden’s UCLA basketball dynasty that would lead to 10 titles in 12 years. Assistant coach Jerry Norman was one of the few recruiters to pay attention to him in high school and was at Poly on Friday. Goodrich was inducted into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame in 1996.

In 2014, Goodrich wrote about Wooden, “He never talked about winning. He talked about being a success and being able to look in the mirror at the end of the day. If you did the very best you could, that’s all anybody could ask.”

Poly opened its gym two seasons ago. Officials sought recommendations for dedicating the gym. Poly coach Joe Wyatt said there was no need for debate.

“I said, ‘Gail Goodrich.’ That’s an easy one. That’s perfect,” Wyatt said.

“As a friend told me, ‘I reached the top of the mountain for my craft,’” Goodrich told Poly students who filled up the bleachers. “Yes, you will get roadblocks and get knocked down. Sometimes you have to take three steps back, but find your mountain and don’t let anyone tell you you can’t do it.”

Kami Miner, an All-American volleyball player at Redondo Union and Stanford, dropped by her alma mater’s match last week before heading to Italy to play pro volleyball.

Coach Tommy Chaffins knew what to do.

“Hey, you want to come into the team room?” he asked.

“‘I’d love to,” Miner said.

Redondo Union players got a good pep talk before a win over Long Beach Poly.

“She loves Redondo,” Chaffins said.

Redondo Union is 13-1 heading into a competitive home match on Tuesday against Marymount, followed by a showdown against Mater Dei on the road.

Abby Zimmerman, a four-year starter and captain headed to Cal, has been leading the Sea Hawks.

This is a daily look at the positive happenings in high school sports. To submit any news, please email [email protected].

Los Angeles is neither a dance center nor a dance desert. We don’t have much of a history of nourishing major ballet companies. We do have a plethora of smaller companies — modern, classical and international.

You may have to look for it, but somewhere someone is always dancing hereabouts for you.

I sampled three very different dance programs last weekend at three distinctive venues in three disparate cities and for three kinds of audiences. The range was enormous but the connections, illuminating.

At the grand end of the scale, Miami City Ballet brought its recent production of “Swan Lake” to Segerstrom Hall in Costa Mesa — beginning a run of varied versions of Tchaikovsky’s beloved ballet this summer. It will be Boston Ballet’s turn at the Music Center this weekend. San Francisco Ballet gets in the act too, dancing excerpts at the Hollywood Bowl as part of this year’s Los Angeles Philharmonic “Tchaikovsky Spectacular.”

On a Television City soundstage in the Fairfax district, American Contemporary Ballet, a quintessential L.A. dance company that explores unusual sites around town, is presenting George Balanchine’s modernist classic “Serenade,” along with a new work by the company’s founder, choreographer Lincoln Jones. Meanwhile, on Saturday night, violinist Vijay Gupta and dancer Yamini Kalluri mingled Bach and Indian Kuchipudi dance tradition at the 99-seat Sierra Madre Playhouse.

Miami City Ballet has attracted attention for mounting what is being called a historically informed “Swan Lake” by the noted Bolshoi-trained choreographer Alexei Ratmansky. He has done his best to re-create the 1895 production at the Mariinsky Theater in Ratmansky’s hometown of St. Petersburg.

Historically informed performance, or HIP, is a loaded term, and “Swan Lake” is a loaded ballet. HIP came about when the early music movement discovered that trying to re-create, say, the way a Handel opera might have sounded in the 18th century by using period instruments with what was believed to be period practice techniques proved deadly boring. Eventually, the movement realized that using the old instruments in sprightly, imaginative and contemporary ways instead made the music sound newly vital, and even more so when the staging was startlingly up to date.

Ratmansky’s reconstructed “Swan Lake” does much the opposite with modern instruments and old-fashioned ballet, and it got off to a disorienting start Sunday night. Tchaikovsky’s introduction was played glowingly by the Pacific Symphony in a darkened hall meant to prepare us to enter a different world. But the modern orchestra and distractingly bright audience phones only served to remind us that it is 2025.

The orchestras of the late 19th century had lighter, more spirited-sounding instruments, a quality that matched the choreography of the time. But when Sunday’s curtain rose to archaic scenery, costumes, choreography and acting, it felt, in this context, like wandering into a tacky antique shop.

That said, Ratmansky has a lot to offer. Going back to 1895 can, in fact, signal newness. There is no definitive version of “Swan Lake.” Tchaikovsky revised it after the first 1877 version but died before finishing what became the somewhat standard version in 1895. Even so, choreographers, dancers, producers and even composers have added their two cents’ worth. The ballet can end in triumph or tragedy. Siegfried and his swan-bride Odette may, individually or together, live or drown. “Swan Lake” has become so familiar that modern embellishments become just a lot more baggage.

In this sense, Ratmansky’s back-to-the-future compromise with modernity is an excellent starting place for rethinking not just an iconic ballet but ballet itself and the origins of its singular beauty. The two swan acts display an unfussy delicacy.

Cameron Catazaro, a dashing and athletic Siegfried, and Samantha Hope Galler, a sweetly innocent Odette and vivacious Odile, might have been stick figures magically wondrous once in motion. Meaning was found in Siegfried’s impetuous leap and the Black Swan’s studied 32 fouettés. All else was distraction.

That is precisely the next step Balanchine took 40 years later, in 1935, with his “Serenade,” which uses Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade for Strings,” written just after he composed “Swan Lake.” In Balanchine’s first ballet since arriving in the U.S. in 1933, the Russian-Georgian choreographer wanted to create a new kind of ballet for a new world — no story, just breathtaking design.

Although ACB made no mention of the fact, Balanchine moved to L.A. in 1938, three years after the American premiere of “Serenade,” to a house just a few blocks up Fairfax Avenue from Television City. In the few years he spent in Hollywood, he played a significant role in making dance for the movies that entranced the world.

ACB, though, did seem to have movies on its mind in the darkened soundstage with the dancers lit as though in a black-and-white film. But with the audience on bleachers very close to the makeshift stage, the musicians unseen behind the seats and the dancers up close, there was also a stark intimacy that exposed the exacting effort in re-creating the beauty of Balanchine’s steps. The effect was of being in the moment and, at the same time, going into the future.

“Serenade” was preceded by the premiere of “The Euterpides,” a short ballet with a score by Alma Deutscher. The 20-year-old British composer, pianist, violinist and conductor wrote her first opera, “Cinderella,” which has been produced by Opera San José and elsewhere, at 10. “The Euterpides” is her first ballet, and it offers its own brand of time travel.

Each variation on a Viennese waltz tune for strings and piano represents one of the classical Greek muses. The score sounds as though it could have been written in Tchaikovsky’s day, although Deutscher uses contemporary techniques to reveal each muse’s character. “Pneume,” the goddess of breath, gets an extra beat here and there, slightly skewing the rhythm.

Jones relies on a dance vocabulary, evolved from Balanchine, for the five women, each of whom is a muse, as well as the male Mortal employed for a final pas de deux. History, here, ultimately overwhelms the new staging in a swank contemporary environment.

Gupta makes the strongest conciliation between the then and the now in his brilliant “When the Violin.” On the surface, he invites an intriguing cultural exchange by performing Bach’s solo Violin Partita No. 2 and Sonata No. 3 with Kalluri exploring ways in which she can express mood or find rhythmic activity in selected movements. She wears modern dress and is so attuned to the music that the separation of cultures appears as readily bridgeable as that of historic periods.

Well known in L.A., having joined the Phil in 2007 at age 19, Gupta has gone on to found Street Symphony, which serves homeless and incarcerated communities, and to become an inspirational TED talker. He is a recipient of a MacArthur fellowship and, since leaving the Phil, a regular performer around town in chamber programs and plays a Baroque violin in the L.A.-based music ensemble Tesserae.

For “When the Violin,” Gupta employs a modern instrument in a highly expressive contemporary style, holding notes and expanding time as though a sarabande might turn into a raga. He pauses to recite poetry, be it Sufi or Rilke. His tone is big, bold and gripping, especially in the wonderful acoustics of this small theater. The Bach pieces are tied together by composer Reena Esmail’s affecting solo for “When the Violin,” in which the worlds of Bach, Indian music and Kuchipudi dance all seem to come from the same deep sense of belonging together and belonging here and now.

It took only a violinist and a dancer to show that no matter how enormous the range, the connections are, in such a dance, inevitable.

Amy Bloom’s exquisite “I’ll Be Right Here” is a slim volume spanning close to a century. While it’s tempting to label the novel a family epic, that description would fail to capture how Bloom reconstitutes “family” on the page, or how her chapters ricochet forward and backward from decade to decade or year to year, shifting perspective not only from character to character, but from first- to third-person point of view.

These transitions, while initially dizzying, coalesce into a rhythm that feels fresh and exciting. Together they suggest that memory conflates the past, present and future, until at the end, our lives can be viewed as a richly textured tapestry of experience and recollection, threaded together by the people we’ve loved.

The novel opens with a tableau: Siblings Alma and Anne tend to their longtime friend, who’s dying. They tenderly hold Gazala’s hands in a room that “smells like roses and orange peel.” Honey — once Anne’s sister-in-law and now her wife — massages Gazala’s thin feet with neroli oil. “Anne pulls up the shade. The day is beautiful. Gazala turns her face away from the light, and Alma pulls the shade back down.” Samir “presses his hand over his mouth so that he will not cry out at the sight of his dying sister.” Later in the novel, these five will come to be dubbed “the Greats” by their grandchildren.

The scene is a foreshadow, and signals that the novel will compress time, dwelling on certain details or events, while allotting mere lines to other pivotal moments, or allowing them to occur offstage, in passing. At first this is disorienting, but Bloom’s bold plot choices challenge and enrich.

In 1930 Paris, a young Gazala and her adopted older brother, Samir, await the return of their father from his job at a local patisserie, when they hope to sample “cinnamon montecaos, seeping oil into the twist of paper,” or perhaps a makroud he’s baked himself. In their cold, tiny apartment, Samir lays Gazala “on top of his legs to warm us both, and then, as the light fails, our father comes home.”

The Benamars are Algerians, “descended from superior Muslims and Christians both, and a rabbi,” their father, M., tells them. He delights in tall tales of a Barbary lion that has escaped Northern Africa and now roams the streets of Paris. Years elapse in the course of a few pages, and it’s 1942 in Nazi-occupied France. One night before bed, M. Benamar shreds the silk lining from a pair of worn gabardine pants to craft a belt for his daughter. Then,“he lies down on the big mattress he shares with Samir and turns his face to the wall.” He never awakens.

Now orphans — we don’t know exactly how old they are — the pair must conceal that they are on their own. Samir lines up a job where their father worked, while the owner’s wife finds Gazala a position as companion to a renowned writer, offering her “up to Mme. Colette like a canape.” Colette (yes, that one!) suffers from arthritis, and is mostly bedridden. She hides her Jewish husband upstairs, while entertaining guests below. Gazala observes that her benefactor’s “eyes are slanted under the folds of her brows, kohl-rimmed cat’s eyes in a dead-white face, powder in every fold and crack.”

Soon, the sister and brother’s paths diverge, and Gazala makes her way to New York City.

It’s 1947. Through Colette, Gazala has found work at a shop on Second Avenue, and sleeps in the storeroom above. Enter Anne and Alma Cohen, teenage sisters who take an instant liking to Gazala and her French accent; in short order, they’ve embraced her as a third sibling. Months later, there is a knock on the bakery door, and it’s Samir, returned from abroad, in search of Gazala. For the rest of their lives, the nonblood-related siblings will conceal that they are lovers.

Going forward, the plot zigs and zags, dipping in and out of each character’s life. It’s 2010 in Poughkeepsie, N.Y., where Samir and Gazala have lived together in a rambling old house for decades, maintaining appearances by keeping separate bedrooms. They are old, and Samir “brushes her silver hair away from his lips.” She tells him she doesn’t mind that he smells of the shallots in their garden.

It’s 1968, and Anne, by now a wife, mother and lawyer, has fallen in love with her husband Richard’s sister, Honey. We glimpse their first sexual encounter after years of simmering emotions. Alma — who receives minimal attention from her author — marries a bighearted chicken farmer named Izzy, and later grieves the early loss of her husband, and the absence of children.

As they grow older, the circle consisting of Gazala, Samir, Anne, Alma and Honey will grow to include Lily, Anne’s daughter, and eventually Lily’s daughter, Harry. Gazala and Samir take in Bea, whose parents were killed in a car accident; she becomes the daughter they never had. This bespoke family will support each of its members through all that is to come.

It’s 2015 in Poughkeepsie, and Gazala’s gauzy figures float through her fading consciousness. Beneath the tree outside her window — ”huge and flaming gold” — sits her father, reading the paper. “Madame pours mint tea into the red glasses.” The other Greats are gathered round. One last memory, the most cherished of all: It’s 1984 and Gazala and Samir are in their 50s. He proposes a vacation in Oaxaca. “Let’s go as we are,” he whispers. At their hotel, “they sit beneath the arches, admiring the yellow sun, the blue sky, the green leaves on the trees, all as bright as a children’s drawing.” There, they freely express their love for each other.

As Bloom has demonstrated throughout her stellar literary career, which began in 1993 with the publication of her acclaimed story collection, “Come to Me,” she can train her eye on any person, place or object and render it sublime. Her prose is so finely wrought it shimmers. Again and again she has returned to love as her primary subject, each time finding new depth and dimension, requiring us to put aside our expectations and go where the pages take us. As readers, we’re in the most adept of hands.

Haber is a writer, editor and publishing strategist. She was director of Oprah’s Book Club and books editor for O, the Oprah Magazine.