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<UID>
9301030660
</UID>
<PUBLICATION>
DETROIT FREE PRESS
</PUBLICATION>
<DATE>
930122
</DATE>
<TDATE>
Friday, January 22, 1993
</TDATE>
<EDITION>
METRO EDITION
</EDITION>
<SECTION>
SPT
</SECTION>
<PAGE>
1C
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<ILLUSTRATION>

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<CAPTION>

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<BYLINE>
MITCH ALBOM
</BYLINE>
<AFFILIATION>

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<MEMO>

</MEMO>
<COPYRIGHT>
Copyright (c) 1993, Detroit Free Press
</COPYRIGHT>
<HEADLINE>
THE MASK CAN'T HIDE MAN BEHIND WEBBER
</HEADLINE>
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MINNEAPOLIS --  The elbow flew, it made contact, and suddenly, Chris
Webber was Rocky, taking the whack and hitting the deck, as the crowd noise
swirled like a jet engine on dope. He was halfway  to la-la land, head on the
floor, eyes wet with ooze. You could almost hear Burgess Meredith yelling,
"Stay down! Stay down!" Jalen Rose leaned over him. Steve Fisher leaned over
him. The trainer, Dave  Ralston, leaned over him.

  What do doctors tell you when your nose is broken? 1) Take it easy. 2)
Avoid stress. 3) Avoid contact. Above  all, avoid contact. 

  To which Chris Webber says: 
  Cut me, Mick.
  So instead of sitting at home in a nice warm bed, here was Webber, with
two straps of Velcro and a plastic Phantom-of-the- Opera mask covering his
broken schnozz, less than 36 hours after surgery -- What'd he fly? Air
Hospital? -- and he's out there in the middle of a boxing match of a
basketball game in this cinder-block palace, and pow! Gopher Randy Carter, 235
pounds, thick enough  to be a heavyweight, whacks him square in the nose.
Right in the honker. And down he goes.
  I half expected the referees to start counting: "One! Two! Three! . . . " 
  They needn't have bothered.  Say what you will about Webber, his
cockiness, his high fives, the way he hangs on the rim after a slam dunk. But
it's hard to doubt his toughness, not after Wednesday night. Not after getting
up from  that blow and coming back two minutes later and diving again for a
loose ball on the very next play and finishing the night with seven blocks and
another Michigan victory. 
  "He didn't even want  to come out after the hit," said Ralston,  who saw
that Carter's elbow had knocked the mask right off  Webber's nose. "He was
woozy, for sure, but he said, 'I want to stay in.' I said, 'You have to come
out. It's the rules.' "
  Ralston shook his head.
  "That was about the only way I could get him out of the game."
 What happened to Tuesday? 
  Consider what Webber, whose nose was broken  by teammate Eric Riley during
a defense drill Monday afternoon, had been through the last 36 hours: Operated
on in Ann Arbor, pumped with medication to kill the pain, forced to sit for a
fitting of the  plastic mask, rushed to the airport, put on a plane, given
more medication, woken up -- "I don't even remember Tuesday night," he would
say -- and suddenly, here he was, coming out in the starting lineup,  in enemy
territory, looking like Jason in "Friday the 13th." He picked at the black
straps. He adjusted and readjusted the plastic. He looked like a man playing
with a fly in his face. The sweat would  drip out the center of the mask,
beneath his already tender nose, and the tightness of the plastic would force
him to breathe through his mouth, so that he looked like a very young child
running up and down the court, his mouth open in apparent wonder.
  "That was the hardest part," Webber said later,  "just breathing."
  The basketball part seemed to return rather quickly. Although his shot
was off in the first half, and he missed a dunk -- cause for considerable
embarrassment on this  team --  Webber was right there, playing tough defense,
blocking five shots in the first half alone.
 Back, better than ever 
  And after he took the blow to his face, believe it or not, he actually came
back stronger. With the score still close, 51-46 Michigan, he half-blocked
another  shot, raced  to  the other end and slammed home a feed by  Rose. On
the next possession he sneaked inside the defender and slammed home another.
On the next possession, he took the ball inside, turned and banked  home a
hard jumper. And on the next possession he made a beautiful feed to Juwan
Howard for an easy lay-up. The next two Michigan baskets: Webber slam! Webber
slam!
  "Hey, if having a  mask on your  face affects you, then you're not a very
good player," Webber said rather nonchalantly -- although he was sniffing --
after his performance, which included 12 points and four rebounds.
  And seven  blocks?
  "I had to let them know they couldn't come at me just because I was hurt."
  You know  the nicest part of all this? The way Webber's teammates seemed
to rally around him. After Carter  knocked Webber down,  Rose, the closest
thing Webber has to a brother on this team, came charging downcourt absolutely
determined to score. He did. Over and over.
  "That's my boy over there," Rose  said afterward, nodding to Webber. "I
had to let Minnesota know that Chris may be out, but Jalen's still here."
  "I did think I had broken it again," Webber admitted of that Carter jolt
to the schnozz.
  Then why did he want to stay in?
  "Because . . .," he said. He didn't finish. What you learn about athletes,
the good ones, is that when danger circles and injury threatens your
confidence, the  game becomes clear, very focused, and you find out who you
are athletically in a very simple fashion:
  You follow your instincts.
  Or, failing that, your nose.
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