Tag Archives: Glen Davis

Last night I dreamt I was Big Baby; no hope, no harm, just another false alarm

Ever wake up in the middle of the night, sheets soaked through and hair matted down, an uneasy feeling of dread spreading through your chest cavity like an advancing Panzer division?  It’s not a pleasant way to wake up.  And I’ve got to tell you: The slow dawn of realization that your body has reacted this way because your racing mind tricked you into thinking you were Glen “Big Baby” Davis really doesn’t help matters.  In fact, it kind of makes things worse, vis a vis feeling like a double-barrel shot of loser-cum-psychopath.

Personally, I blame the lasagna and butter pecan ice cream before bed.  When your dinner/dessert plans trace trails blazed by Garfield and Cathy, you kind of deserve what you get.

So here’s the deal: Me and my fellow Celtics are playing the Magic in the Eastern Conference semis — don’t know for sure which game, but we’re at home, so it’s either Game 1, 2, 5 or 7, and the feeling was pretty intense, so let’s assume it was Game 7.  Things are pretty nuts — crowd popping off, giant men all around me, frightening old men in grey jersey shirts holding whistles and balls, all the accoutrements of postseason insanity.

And I am immediately aware from the very start of the dream that I am DEFINITELY Glen “Big Baby” Davis.  I can’t stress that enough; I am not an idealized version of myself inserted in the game, like Captain N: The Video Master:

I am Big Baby.  I am playing over my head and out of my league, operating at a level of functionality that nobody rational believes is actually possible, forcing Stan Van Gundy to consider me as a legitimate offensive threat, etc.

Perhaps more important than that, I am Big Baby; I want his wants, I need his needs, I feel his feels and I think his thinks.  I made a dream journal mad quick after I woke up, and here’s what I could remember:


  • I was also kind of disappointed with Doc, because he just kept listening to his iPod during timeouts. Like, we’d all gather around the bench, expecting him to draw up plays or talk about spacing or whatever, and he’d just kind of go “Uhhhhhhhh” and when he turned his head to the left you could totally see the earbud in, and when you looked down you could see his foot tapping.  I think he was listening to “Opposites Attract” by Paula Abdul and MC Skat Kat.


  • I was extra happy when Perk made a basket, because then we could hug.  But then I got bummed out because he didn’t want to hug like KG and Po’ used to hug.  I guess I just like big hugs, guys.

  • When we were leading big in the fourth quarter — oh yeah, I think we won the game, so maybe you should book it — I really wanted to dance.  Like, every time we stopped playing, I kept looking up at the big screen for Gino, because when you see Gino you can dance, and dude, I can dance:

  • Surprisingly, I wasn’t really hungry. Huh.

That’s all I can really remember.  I’m a little bummed that there wasn’t more insights, but there’s always more playoff basketball, lasagna and butter pecan ice cream to kickstart my pineal gland.

The End.

Big Baby dance video courtesy of Pause Police.


Eight things I learned while attending Celtics/Lakers last night

  • According to one horrendous drunk I met on the beer line who was “heah fah sum seminaaaaaaaaaaahs,” local scalpers had nosebleed seats going for upward of $200 a pop yesterday. And you wonder why there are so many pissed-off dudes calling for a foul on Gasol’s game-ending alteration; not tyte in this economy.
  • When it comes to “delivering penetrating analysis of live sporting events gleaned from the northernmost regions of Section 326 of the TD BankNorth Garden,” I = fail … or at least, I do if you’re looking for, y’know, actual sports information.

Seriously — almost nothing of value through my intermittent Tweeting last night. Check for yourself if you don’t believe. In my own retroactive defense, though, I do think that if I’d been able to receive @replies/messages from the folks I’d OK’d device updates for — still not real sure why the hell that didn’t work — I might have been in position for more legitimate ball talk. But even if I was, there probably wouldn’t have been much to it, because …

  • I have a much harder time assessing plays/seeing off-ball action live. I suspected this would be true, especially since I haven’t been to a live game in a while, but last night proved it.

My brother and I had a great view and we were able to diagnose some things (personal favorite: the way Ray Allen runs off screens like a slot receiver running an option route — sometimes continuing the curl to the cup, sometimes stopping dead and going right up with the J, sometimes starting to sell the curl before fading to the corner — and running each option at the same speed and without too discernible a pattern, so that when the shot’s in the air, you always find yourself saying, “How the hell did he get so open?”), but I’m positive that I missed a ton of stuff that more astute observers would have caught. That’s in part because …

  • I am a fantastic conversationalist who can make friends with all manner of semi-docile drunks in my vicinity. A fine skill, to be sure, but one that can cause you to miss shit.

For example, when all it takes are a few well-placed jokes and slight prods to get the dude next to me and his ladyfriend to divulge that there are five empty seats in the row in front of us because a whole crew of kids were talking during the National Anthem, then “got kicked out or whatever,” but really didn’t get kicked out they just went somewhere to try to find a spot to safely “blaze an L” in the Garden, and the reason that only one of the girls in the group came back three quarters later was because she had “ratted out all of her friends because ‘The Wire’ got them,” and it’s all a shame because “you’d have think she’da learned by now to stop snitching” … I mean, that’s more interesting to me than Doc’s substitution patterns. And speaking of Doc …

  • The man apparently crafted last night’s necktie entirely out of the Power Cosmic. Check it out:

It looks like something off a goddamn Joe Satriani album cover. Really enjoyed that. I also enjoyed …

  • The pounding, pulsating hatred Boston fans have for Sasha Vujacic. He got more boos than anyone not named Kobe Bryant last night, which blew me away.

Dude next to me repeatedly called Machine a “terrorist.” Guys behind me kept yelling, “WASH YAAAA HAAAAAAAIHH!” Every time he entered the game, my section seethed. Seems like a pretty disproportionate amount of hatred for the guy, but then again, he is a dirty, greasy terrorist, so I guess it’s all fair game. It really did seem like the entire case to be made for hating him more so than, say, Josh Powell is that he’s A) foreign and B) dirty-looking.

Um, Celtics fans? If those are your criteria, and you want to be spewing hatred on someone who is actually dismantling your team, how’s about spitting some venom on the dirty-bearded 7-foot Iberian who threw up 24 and 14 in your mugs and kept Ray from getting a clean look at the final shot. And speaking of beards …

  • Boston’s fanbase has a higher percentage of mad-thin chinstrap beards than any other NBA fanbase. For those unfamiliar with the style, a visual aid:

Also see Love, Kevin.

I would certainly be happy to be proven wrong, because that would mean there are exponentially more chinstraps being rocked out there than I would ever have anticipated, but Jesus Christ, dude. Twentysomething electrician’s apprentices from Framingham work hard on their facial grooming. That must be why they’re so confident, an attitude exemplified by …

  • The speed with which the fans heading toward the exit switched their style up from furious at the way OT ended to eager for a chance to right the ship come Finals-time.

As soon as we started filing out, you could hear the chatter: Bullshit call on KG, if he’s there for the last four minutes instead of Big Baby, it doesn’t go to OT; they had the inbounds play locked up, but Doc won’t let that happen again; we had ’em the whole way, just some fluky stuff down the stretch, etc.  (Of course, Lakers fans could say, “If we just hit our free throws, this game’s a 10-12 point breeze,” but whatever.)  There was a lot of confidence in the loser’s parking lot after the game, which was cool to see.  There were also, however, even more chinstraps, which were not.

At least one pervert loves this blog, and I have incontrovertible proof

So there I was last night — sitting in my apartment, minding my own business, listening to The Bar Exam 2 as I checked this site’s traffic stats.  Imagine my surprise when I saw this:


That’s right: “Baby dick.”

As of about 8:30 p.m. Eastern time on Jan. 14, 2009, “baby dick” was the top search term for this is the city line. (EDITOR’S NOTE: Still true at 10:30 a.m. on Jan. 15, 2009. Dope.)

Now, there are perfectly logical explanations for why this humble site showed up in the search dragnet when Baron Von Kid Trapp set his likely knifenailed, certainly forever unclean fingers to the keys:

  • One of the first posts I wrote prominently featured Boston Celtics “point forward” Glen “Big Baby” Davis;
  • A video post ostensibly written to make fun of a fucking crazy person included the tag, “this is my baby”;
  • The site’s second post, which explains this blog’s title, included the tag, “Nice name … dick.”

See? A perfectly cromulent explanation.

Still, one thought keeps scraping at the base of my skull … that there’s something AWESOME about being a completely non-sexual Web site that turns up when an inveterate creep Googles “baby dick.”  So, in the interest of trying to ensure that this happens again:

NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM (Image courtesy of 2TheAdvocate.com)



The venerable Dick Stockton.





The estimable Dickie Thon.

The estimable Dickie Thon.


Hott stuff, comin thru.

"Hott stuff, comin' thru."


Former U.S. Rep. Dick Armey, R-Texas.

Former U.S. Rep. Dick Armey, R-Texas.


Now, come on, horrific, horrific freakshows.  Let’s get this baby dick train rolling!

P.S.: My fiancee’s pep talk on doing more legwork to increase this site’s visibility: “You can’t just hope that people will search for ‘baby dick’ on the Internet and find your Web site!”  Um, yeah, actually, I can.

Big Baby Got Handles, Dog.


NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM (Image courtesy of 2TheAdvocate.com)

The City Line certainly wishes Celtics reserve Glen “Big Baby” Davis a belated happy 23rd birthday — for those not in the know, the Large Tot is a New Year’s Kid, so he was blowing out candles as the rest of the world watched Dick Clark do what Dick Clark does, even though Dick Clark can’t do that anymore.  And dude had sustained a concussion in a car accident on the Mass. Pike on his way to the C’s Dec. 21 tilt against the Dominant Team Pringles — he was definitely in need of some R-and-R, not to mention a little pin-the-tail-on-the-HEY-O!

Before Baby rocked into the wee small hours, though, he was slated to appear at an afternoon birthday party in Boston’s Faneuil Hall.  Sadly, the gig was canceled due to inclement weather (read: the shit that made getting anywhere in this God-forsaken city a pain in the balls all night long and forced you to ring in 2K9 by drunkenly staggering through frigid slush banks).  Not so sadly, the press release promoting the appearance — and listing Davis’, um, position — still remains.  Phone numbers and event-planning plugs removed because, well, that’s not the point:



Kill all that Starbury talk, son. The Celts have a backup floor general RIGHT UNDER THEIR NOSES, and they don’t even know it. I think the math works out like this: Big Baby at the point = (Lamar Odom + Anthony Mason + Tony Parker) / (Tony Delk – Zach Randolph).  That sound right to you?