Charles Pierce, writing for Grantland, remembers the first time he saw Doc Rivers play. It was at a high-school tournament in Boston, against a team from New York:
Rivers had pulled a muscle the night before and played the first half with his leg tightly wrapped, which restricted his mobility. Frankly, I didn't see what all the fuss was about. Neither did the kids from New York. They waited for him outside the locker room at the end of halftime. Various 12-letter aspersions were cast. Slang for female naughty bits filled the air.
Rivers went back into the locker room. He came out without the wrap.
Then he proceeded to tear the New Yorkers several new apertures for themselves. He drove and dunked. He rained 3-pointers. He missed 3-pointers, went over their heads, and tip-dunked the rebounds.
This occasioned a certain enthusiasm on my part. After one such play — I think it was one of the tip-dunks — the folding chair in which I was sitting flew backward and smashed to pieces against the hockey boards behind me.