``Len Bias has done more in death than he ever could have in life. Had he lived, he would have entertained,'' she said. ``But in death, he's fought for life.''

Next Wednesday, the NBA draft will make millionaires of a few dozen very young men, the youngest crop of players ever to enter the league. Six who just finished high school could be taken in the first round. Nearly all of them will be woefully unprepared for what comes next. Len Bias certainly was.

On June 17, 1986, standing alongside commissioner David Stern, Bias seemed to have everything. He was a University of Maryland star, big, strong and fast and just 22, what talent scouts call a ``stud.'' The defending champion Boston Celtics of Larry Bird and Kevin McHale had maneuvered to grab Bias with the No. 2 pick. He was the anointed successor. Between a contract and sneaker money, he was about to pick up a million dollars.

Two days later, Lonise Bias was roused from her sleep by a phone call at 6:30 a.m. The voice on the other end said Len was dead. Soon enough, she learned how: cocaine overdose. Her tragedy was about to become everybody's.

``Just yesterday,'' she said Thursday, ``a lady faxed me a letter telling me how her life was changed the morning Len died. But for 15 years, from heads of state to the lowest part of this nation, from top to bottom, I've heard the same stories over and over again.''

Len Bias' death became more than a sign of the high-flying times, it became the central symbol. Actor John Belushi died of an overdose a few years earlier, but instead of mourning a man whose life ended with the best days still ahead, people shrugged. Drugs were assumed to be part of the Hollywood lifestyle. When Len Bias died, people shivered. Sports were supposed to be different.

Lonise Bias learned the truth the hard way.

``Fifteen years ago, I said, 'God, what happened? What happened to my life?' And I prayed to die, to be honest. I asked God to let me die. But what I heard back was, 'Lonise, eat the loaf of bread in your hand and stop begging. You still have a husband, three children and so many other loved ones.'

``That was when I realized Len died to bring forth change,'' she said, ``and I had to let it go.''

She spoke movingly about her eldest son to a packed Cole Field House on the Maryland campus at a service four days later, and hasn't stopped talking since. In the intervening years, what she calls her mission has taken her around the country to speak at schools and business conferences, in front of students, captains of industry and professional athletes.

She shares her experiences about dealing with hardship, something which befell her family a second time in 1990, when another son, 20-year-old Jay, was killed in a drive-by shooting. What keeps her talking is the belief her message has struck a nerve.

``Whatever else it did, Len's death triggered a change in this country in terms of drugs, and cocaine in particular,'' she said.

It certainly changed the way sports viewed its drug problem. Within months, the NCAA, NBA and NFL responded by instituting a drug-testing policy or plugging loopholes in existing ones.

For some ballplayers, it was too late. Bias' draft class, long regarded as the worst all-around in NBA history, contained three other top 10 picks -- Chris Washburn, William Bedford and Roy Tarpley -- who washed out of the league within several seasons because of alcohol or drug problems.

Even so, Lonise Bias believes those cautionary tales still resonate for the generation of kids who will follow in her son's footsteps next week on the NBA stage. Most of them were 6 years old or younger in 1986, but the idealist in her believes the likelihood they will abuse drugs is much smaller because of Len's death. The pragmatist in her, though, worries about the other land mines the combustible mix of youth and wealth sets in their paths.

``They will need folks in place to coach them and train them, but not in terms of their ability. They have plenty of mentors for that.

``Their skills come naturally, but life is set up so that understanding comes with length of days. You just cannot take a 17-, 18-, or 19-year-old man and expect them to behave like someone who is 35. Someone needs to teach these kids about the discipline that goes with manhood.''

Len Bias would have been 37 this year had he survived, wise enough, perhaps, to do that kind of mentoring. In Lonise's mind, he has been doing it all along. Two weeks ago, she was back in Cole Field House for her granddaughter's high school graduation. Her 9-year-old grandson, who was along, saw a jersey hanging from the rafters.

``He said, 'Nana, Nana, I saw Uncle Len's jersey.' It filled me with pain and sorrow at first. But then I thought, `We've got four beautiful grandchildren, and his story will become their foundation,''' she said. ``And I thought about how sometimes God restores what he takes away.''

Jim Litke is the national sports columnist for The Associated Press. Writeto him at jlitke(at)ap.org

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updated at Thu Jun 21 16:34:31 2001 PT

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