March 29, 2006
Big Baby
By LEE JENKINS
BATON ROUGE, La., March 28 —The governor of Louisiana did not come to see the part of the court that was used as a hospice. She did not come to see the section of the concourse that doubled as a morgue. She came, in large part, to see the man known as Big Baby.
They met on the baseline of the basketball court at Pete Maravich Assembly Center on Monday afternoon, the political leader of Louisiana and the emotional leader of the Louisiana State University men's basketball team.
The governor, Kathleen Babineaux Blanco, had sent for the sophomore forward, Glen Davis, as if she were his coach.
Davis greeted Blanco the only way he knows how. He wrapped her in a 6-foot-9, 310-pound hug. They made quite a pair, the embattled governor of this weary state and the rotund basketball star whose very name suggests rebirth. Amid the laughter, Blanco whispered to Davis: "I love your spirit."
She could not have missed him last weekend after L.S.U. defeated Texas in the Atlanta Regional final. Davis was wearing a yellow feather boa and leading his teammates in a second-line dance, their tribute to Louisiana's high-stepping past. Then he grabbed the microphone at the Georgia Dome and announced the Tigers' intentions for the upcoming Final Four. "Big Baby got to say something: We've still got tapeworms in our bellies. We're still hungry."
He earned his nickname because he was a big kid with a sensitive side. When Davis played Pop Warner football and everyone else on the team was older, he pouted because he was the baby. When he played high school basketball and his team lost, he cried. And when Hurricane Katrina struck in late summer and he held IV's for the victims who found refuge on his home court, he cried again.
But the reason his nickname stuck, and the reason it fits so snug, is that Davis never cries for long. He is too busy spreading laughter. He has dressed up as James Brown, as a ballet dancer and in drag. After one victory this season, he kissed his coach on the cheek. After one poor shot, he asked his coach to criticize him in front of the team. After one collision with a referee, he told reporters: "I was just praying to God I didn't paralyze anybody."
The face of this year's tournament has morphed from the irascible scowl of Gonzaga's Adam Morrison to Davis's irrepressible grin, complete with braces and exaggerated winks. Those who only see Davis on the court might guess that he never dealt with anything tougher than giving up Chips Ahoy cookies (his favorite) for organic oatmeal (his least favorite) to shed a few pounds.
But for many nights of his childhood, those chocolate chip cookies were all he had. With a mother addicted to drugs and a father he did not know, Davis bounced between shelters and foster homes, sometimes stealing food to eat. Although teammates may joke that Davis wears jersey No. 0 because it matches his round build, he picked it for a far more poignant reason.
"It's a symbol of my whole life," Davis said. "I started with nothing, with zero. But I really wasn't any different than I am now. I always try to love it up. This is me, regardless of the situation. You get it all the time."
He can seem to be overcompensating, the class clown still looking for acceptance. But the 20-year-old Davis is adored as much as any athlete in Baton Rouge, including that other big man with the equally outsized personality. Last fall, when Shaquille O'Neal, the Miami Heat center and L.S.U. alumnus, visited the University Laboratory School, Davis's alma mater, every kindergartner through 12th grader packed the gym.
But when O'Neal walked through the front door, the kindergartners and first graders mistook him for another player. They all began yelling: "Big Baby! Big Baby!"
University may be the most unlikely basketball factory in the nation. It is a college prep school on L.S.U.'s campus with fewer than 65 students per grade. It was not surprising that Garrett Temple, the son of the former L.S.U. star Collis Temple, would attend University. But for Davis to join him was a true upset.
"I'm an upper-class Southern Jewish guy who learned a ton from a black kid who had nothing," said Ari Fisher, the coach at University. "Glen taught us all not to live with regret. I never thought of him as a baby. I always thought of him as a man."
Fisher and Collis Temple helped bring Davis to University and then made sure he would stay there. Every day, Davis worked with Fisher. Every night, he stayed with the Temples. Once, Davis considered moving to New York and playing for an Amateur Athletic Union team that might have jeopardized his high-school eligibility. Fisher and Temple sent two deputies to the airport in New Orleans to pull him off the plane.
When University won the 2004 state championship, it became clear just how much Davis had influenced those who influenced him. Fisher joined his players in a mosh pit at midcourt and danced alongside them, looking like a jockey pretending to ride a racehorse. "That's what Glen can do," said Garrett Temple, now an L.S.U. guard. "He captures everybody's imagination."
Even the parents who sometimes failed him as a child could not resist his magnetic pull. Davis met his father, Donald Robertson, in his sophomore year of high school. His mother, Toyna Davis, went to games and bellowed in her deepest baritone: "My big baby!" Now, Davis visits his father regularly. He winks at his mother in the stands. His capacity for forgiveness is as large as his appetite.
"I knew from his birth that we would get together," said Robertson, a maintenance worker for the postal service in Port Allen, La. "The things that happened were my fault. It is just nice to be the father of a young man who is so humble."
Humble is not necessarily the word used most often to describe Davis. He likes to say he is better-looking than other players. He hams it up when television cameras are around. He used to showboat with the ball, dribbling higher than necessary. Davis believes he inherited his flamboyance from his mother, a former model. He probably gets his ball-handling skills from his father, a former high school point guard.
Unlike your typical 300-pounder, Davis is nimble enough to split double-teams, hit 3-pointers, fall to the floor and then hop up again, just like a bouncing baby. But he does not have great height or leaping ability. Davis's roommate, Tyrus Thomas, is probably the better pro prospect. Davis is the more colorful ambassador. His coach at L.S.U., John Brady, talks about him as though he were a human Mardi Gras float.
"We have a traveling road show here," Brady said. "It's 24-7. Glen is an entertainer. He has to have positive vibes around him. He hates confrontations. He is always looking for someone to love him."
Every week or so, when Davis is starved for affection or Cajun food, he heads to Phil's Oyster Bar in Baton Rouge, where his jersey hangs from the ceiling. He orders the seafood platter — catfish, stuffed shrimp, fried oysters, crab balls and hush puppies. No one calls him Glen. Everyone calls him Big Baby. "People come here just hoping to run into him," said the manager, Jordan Piazza.
Baton Rouge has never been happier to see the spring. Seven months have passed since the hurricane. Residents are fishing in University Lake. Sweet olive is blooming. Both of L.S.U.'s basketball teams, the men's and the women's, are in the Final Four.
It is as if the city is pregnant with excitement, everybody so very big with Baby.
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