[Congressional Record Volume 149, Number 85 (Wednesday, June 11, 2003)]
[Senate]
[Pages S7707-S7708]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                       EULOGY OF DAVE DEBUSSCHERE

  Mr. REID. Mr. President, I read in a number of national publications 
brief excerpts of the eulogy that former Senator Bill Bradley gave at 
the funeral of Dave Debusschere. The paragraphs I saw were really 
moving.
  I was able to obtain a copy of the full eulogy that Senator Bradley 
gave on May 19 at St. Joseph's Church in Garden City, NY. It is really, 
truly, a moving eulogy. It outlines the context and the relationship of 
Dave Debusschere and Bill Bradley and other members of the New York 
Knicks team, but especially those two who were roommates

[[Page S7708]]

during many years of their travels around the country playing 
championship basketball. It explains their personal relationship, as 
Bill Bradley can do. He explains also what a team is all about. We, 
both in the majority and minority, are always working with our team. I 
recommend this as reading for everyone.
  I ask unanimous consent that the full text of the speech given by 
Bill Bradley at the funeral of Dave Debusschere be printed in the 
Record.
  There being no objection, the material was ordered to be printed in 
the Record, as follows:

                       Eulogy of Dave Debusschere

       Geri, Michelle, Peter, Dennis, DeBusschere sisters and 
     family.
       Today, Willis asked me to speak for him, for Clyde, Earl 
     and all the Knicks who loved Dave. The moment I heard the 
     news last Wednesday, it was as if a lightning bolt hit my 
     heart. It was so shocking, so unexpected, so final.
       When I saw the newspaper stories after Dave's death, one 
     photo caught my eye. It was of Dave driving to the basket, 
     the ball in his left hand, legs sturdy, shoulders strong, 
     shock of dark hair matted with sweat, and a face full of his 
     unique determination. As I looked at it, I was reminded of a 
     time when we were all younger, and there was a magic about 
     life. A magic about life--there is no other way to describe 
     those years on our Knick 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 camaraderie, even brotherhood, of working in an 
     environment of mutual trust, with people you respected, each 
     of whom had the courage to take the last second shot.
       Dave's strength, his dedication, his unselfishness, his 
     fierce desire to win, and, above all, his commitment to the 
     team, were all at the core of that success. He seemed to say, 
     ``What's the point of achieving anything in basketball if you 
     can't share it?'' That's the beauty of having teammates. They 
     know what it takes to get through a long season, to recover 
     from a loss, to pull out a win when you're hurt or tired. 
     Dave believed that once good players have put on their 
     uniforms, everything else about them--race, ethnicity, 
     personal history, off-court style--fades into the background. 
     It's time to play--together. And we did.
       Dave DeBusschere left all of himself on the court every 
     game. He held nothing back. I can remember those nights on 
     the road in late February. Dave, his face drawn from the long 
     season; and Willis, with his brow furrowed, and heating packs 
     on each knee. They would look at each other in the locker 
     room of the fourth town in five nights, and their glances 
     alone seemed to say, ``I'm tired to my bones. I don't want to 
     go out there, but if you do it, I will too.'' And they always 
     did. Together they set the character tone for the team in a 
     kind of shared leadership that rarely needed words.
       If I had $100 for every night Dave played hurt, I could buy 
     a nice car. One night, Dave caught an elbow in the face that 
     broke his nose. The pain was obvious. I didn't see how he was 
     going to play the next night. But, there he was, ready to go, 
     when the buzzer sounded--with a strip of plastic over his 
     nose, held in place by white adhesive tape forming an ``H'' 
     above and below his eyes.
       I think the fans loved Dave because they sensed what his 
     teammates already knew: he was the real thing. No pretense. 
     He hated phonies. No guile. He told you exactly how he felt. 
     No greediness. I never heard him talk about points. No 
     excuses. He always took responsibility for his mistakes.
       Dave was a man of action, not words. He was above the petty 
     things in life, and he wasn't impressed easily. Power, fame, 
     money, were not the currencies he traded in. Friendship, 
     loyalty, hard work, were what he placed the greatest value 
     in. If Bush or Madonna or Rockefeller walked into a bar, I 
     bet he'd barely look up from the beer he was sharing with a 
     friend.
       There was a time when I'd slept in a room with Dave 
     DeBusschere more than I had with my wife. We were roommates 
     on the road for six years. That's about 250 games, 250 
     cities, 250 hotels.
       If the truth be told (as Geri knows), on many occasions 
     Dave woke me up with his snoring. I'd say, ``Dave.'' To no 
     avail. I'd shout, ``Dave!'' Still no success. Finally I'd get 
     out of bed, put my hands on his back and push him over on his 
     side. he still wouldn't wake up, but the snoring would stop. 
     And I'd get a few hours of sleep . . . until the next time.
       You get to know someone when you're with him that much. You 
     hear about his life; you meet his friends and family; you 
     know what he likes to eat, what he likes to do in his 
     downtime, what forms his daily habits; you learn what he 
     admires in people and what he can't stand.
       You can learn a lot of from your roommate, too, especially 
     if he's an experienced pro and you are not. It was my second 
     year in the NBA. I had just made the Knicks starting team as 
     a forward, and we had lost a close one in Philadelphia on a 
     bad pass I made when the Sixers were applying full court 
     pressure. After the game I was dejected. Back at the hotel. 
     Dave, who had joined the team from Detroit two months 
     earlier, saw how I felt and put me straight. ``You can't go 
     through a season like this,'' he said. ``There are too many 
     games, Sure, you blew it tonight, but when it's over, it's 
     over. Let it go. Otherwise you won't be ready to play 
     tomorrow night.'' It was NBA lesson #1; Don't make today's 
     loss the enemy of tomorrow's victory.
       On occasion, Dave, Willis and I would go to dinner on the 
     road, and Willis would begin telling hunting stories--what 
     weapons he used, where he used them and what the weather was, 
     how be tracked the animals, what his gear consisted of, the 
     angle at which he shot with his gun, or his bow and arrow, 
     and so forth. Dave and I were not hunters, but once Willis 
     got started, it took him more than a little while to finish. 
     After one such evening when we got back to our room, Dave 
     said, ``You know, I think Willis likes to hunt!''
       Dave also was not above practical jokes. Once after a 
     championship season, the DeBusscheres, Kladis's and Bradleys 
     chartered a boat to tour the Greek islands. One day we pulled 
     up off an island beach, and Dave and I dove off the boat to 
     swim ashore. As we were coming out of the water, we found a 
     lone man, laying on a towel. An American. He watched us 
     emerge from the sea, and shouted, ``DeBusschere--Dave 
     DeBusschere. Bradley. Oh my God! Wait til my family sees 
     this!'' and he took off. Dave looked at me; I looked at him, 
     and with a grin he said, ``Let's go.'' We swam back to the 
     boat, hid behind towels and watched as the man, his wife and 
     kids behind him, ran back onto the beach. ``Honest they were 
     here!'' We could hear him shout. ``I saw them! Really! They 
     were here I swear it.''
       It's been a long time since the Knicks were champions and I 
     roomed with Dave. But time has only deepened our friendship. 
     I always looked forward to our one-on-one lunches, our 
     dinners with Ernestine and the irrepressible Geri, our family 
     visits to Long Island, and on occasion a game like the one 
     last spring when Willis, Dave, Earl and I went to New Jersey 
     for a Lakers/Nets playoff game with loyalties split between 
     Willis's Nets and Phil's Lakers.
       Over the years I commiserated with Dave about the way the 
     Garden treated him when he was G.M. I spoke at Peter's 
     college graduation. I shared the pride that he and Geri felt 
     as Michelle, Peter and Dennis grew into spectacular young 
     adults.
       And, I will never forget when he told me how proud he was 
     to be sitting in the gallery the day I was sworn into the 
     Senate. Over the years he made campaign appearances in New 
     Jersey on my behalf, attended fundraisers to add star power, 
     and sloughed through the snows of Iowa and New Hampshire in 
     2000. Whenever I asked him to do something, he was there; and 
     every place he went, he made people feel good.
       Until last Wednesday, one of the most enjoyable things in 
     life was talking basketball with Dave DeBusschere. The 
     players and the teams, the rules and style of play have all 
     changed, but the sharpness of his insights never diminished. 
     What he said was always so clear and simple that I'd ask 
     myself afterwards, ``Why didn't I think of that?''
       Championship teams share a moment that few other people 
     know. The overwhelming emotion derives from more than pride. 
     Your devotion to your teammates, the depth of your sense of 
     belonging, is something like blood kinship, but without the 
     complications. Rarely can words express it. 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 to my big brother: Be proud. You brought all these 
     things to the many lives you touched. Goodbye, we'll miss 
     you, #22. May God grant you a peaceful journey.

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