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Original Issue

Blood, Sweat and Magic Dave DeBusschere, 1940-2003, gave his all, every night

The moment I heard of Dave DeBusschere's death it was as if a
lightning bolt hit my heart. In the next day's papers, one photo
caught my eye: Dave driving to the basket, the ball in his left
hand, shock of dark hair matted with sweat and a face full of his
unique determination. It reminded me of a time when we were all
younger and there was a magic about life.

There is no other way to describe those years on our Knicks
teams. How it felt to hear the roar of the Garden crowd, to know
the satisfaction of a play well-executed, to feel the chills of
winning a championship, to share the brotherhood of working in an
environment of mutual trust, with people you respect, each of
whom has the courage to take the last-second shot.

Dave left all of himself on the court every game. He held nothing
back. Once he caught an elbow in the face that broke his nose.
The pain was obvious. I didn't see how he would play the next
night. But there he was when the buzzer sounded--with a strip of
plastic over his nose and adhesive tape forming an H above and
below his eyes to hold it in place.

Dave and I were roommates for six years, and he taught me a lot.
In my second year in the NBA, we lost a close one in Philadelphia
on a bad pass I made when the Sixers were applying full-court
pressure. I was dejected. Dave put me straight: "You can't go
through a season like this. There are too many games. You blew it
tonight, but when it's over, it's over. Let it go, or you won't
be ready to play tomorrow." It was NBA lesson No. 1: Don't make
today's loss the enemy of tomorrow's victory.

He wasn't always serious. One summer his family and mine
chartered a boat to tour the Greek islands. We pulled up off a
beach, and Dave and I swam ashore. As we were coming out of the
water, we saw a lone man lying on a towel: an American. He looked
at us and shouted, "DeBusschere! Bradley! Oh, my God! Wait till
my family sees this!" and took off. Dave just smiled and said,
"Let's go." We swam back to the boat and watched as the man, his
wife and kids ran back onto the beach. "Honest, they were here!"
we could hear him shout. "I swear it!"

Championship teams share a moment few others know. The
overwhelming emotion derives from more than pride. Your devotion
to your teammates, the depth of your sense of belonging, is like
blood kinship but without the complications. In the nonverbal
world of basketball, it's like grace and beauty and ease, and it
spills into all areas of your life.

So I say, brother, goodbye; we'll miss you, number 22. May God
grant you a peaceful journey.

COLOR PHOTO: JOHN D. HANLON (DEBUSSCHERE) CHAMPAGNE DAYS Bradley (left) and DeBusschere were roomies andchamps.