“Well, coach, I think we both know why I asked to meet with you today,” Lance Stephenson said as he sat down across the desk from Doc Rivers.
Doc sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, a gesture familiar to Lance. “I think we both do. But go ahead and explain it anyway.”
Given the whole situation, Lance was not inclined to particularly civil during this meeting; however, he reined his emotions in and tried to speak with a level voice at a proper volume. “When I agreed to get traded from the Hornets, it was with the knowledge that I was going to a better situation. But the trade was made under false pretenses and nobody was honest with me about what was going down here in Los Angeles.”
“It’s a business, Lance, as you well know,” replied Doc. Lance did know. He had heard that line more times than he could count. He had probably even said it himself a few times. “I know it just as well as you. My hands were tied by those higher up.”
“But you’re the GM!” Lance exclaimed. “You control all personnel decisions! You’re telling me that you don’t have the power to change this?”
Doc’s face bore an expression that could have been sympathy. “I already told you. There’s nothing I can do.”
Lance pulled out a balled-up jersey from his pocket and threw it on the desk. “When I agreed to go to the Clippers, I expected the jerseys to be, at the very least, wearable,” he said coldly. “The Hornets had great jerseys, and I thought that your so-called ‘redesign’ would at least match theirs in quality. But I’m not going to step on the court wearing this ugly thing. It’s just not happening.”
Doc’s face registered no surprise at the topic of Lance’s complaint. “Trust me, at no point was I asked to approve or even weigh in on these ugly-ass things,” he said, pointing at the jersey on the desk. “But you don’t see DeAndre or Austin complaining about them. They just put them on and play.”
“Oh, of course, you bring up the daddy’s boy!” Lance yelled, losing his cool. “He might be happy to wear an ugly jersey like a good little son, but I definitely am not. I’m demanding a trade to somewhere that has cool uniforms. So not the Thunder.”
Now Doc did look sad as Lance whipped around and stormed out of the office. “We’ll see, Lance.”