I overcame my previous game’s wardrobe faux pas by donning an All Star green mesh tanktop with the number 33 on the back (a leftover souvenir from younger days playing on a men’s rec basketbal team). It seems that Plimpton may have been looking on from the architectural ghost of the old Boston Garden, I sensed him nodding in approval at my retro attire. Whatever, the shirt change seemed to work.
The Celtics overcame horrid first half shooting to rally in the second half behind the brawny determination of Shrek, otherwise known as Glen Davis. He bulled and lunged and ran and finally, after one particularly aggressive foray to the basket during which he was fouled, bellowed like an enraged hippopotamus. Quite a prodigious, not to say inelegant, sight to behold. Especially the drool and the fact that Nate Robinson, the diminutive back-up point guard, was piggybacking him at the time. His game was truly amazing, it was like driving in a car that would never break down because there was an unending stream of Miles Davis cool jazz playing, every cut from Kind of Blue, and the car itself performed with elan and hugged the corners and eased over rough tarmac and exuded an irie calm in the midst of rush hour angst and congestion, and there was nothing smoother, the steering wheel responding like, well, a well-oiled cog, the horse power humming a cat’s purr aria and every motion imbued with certainty and trust. The result? This series is wide open once again, Shrek’s heroic spittle hanging over all.