GAME WON'T BE THE SAME.

Byline: STEVE DILBECK

There had been a warning. A reality check when we wanted to believe otherwise, wanted to think Chick Hearn would somehow go on forever.

You knew the day had to be coming soon when Chick no longer would sit behind the mike, no long thrill us, entertain us, amaze us. Yet year after year, there he was. L.A.'s own ageless wonder.

Then came the heart blockage, the surgery, the marvelous 3,338-game streak with the Lakers coming to an end. Chick promised he would be back. We knew he was 85 and wondered, but we believed Chick. We always believed in Chick.

Life without Chick was a temporary thing then. We could wait until he was strong. Even when he suffered his setback with a fall that damaged his hip, we felt a certain comfort in knowing he would return.

Astonishingly, he did. He returned concerned over the Lakers' play, and in typically blunt style, quickly said so. Returned and did his unique simulcast. Then gave special life over the radio to the ninth championship the Lakers won during his 42 years behind the mike.

Chick, the only Lakers' broadcaster we've ever known, back home. Giving us comfort just with the sound of his voice.

Only this time his exit isn't temporary. This time we hear what the doctor is trying compassionately to tell us.

Chick won't be back at the mike again. He's lying at Northridge Medical Center desperately fighting for his life. This time there are no promises.

``If he has full recovery in terms of his motor functions, he will very likely have speech difficulty,'' Dr. Asher Taban said.

Chick fell and hit his head. He underwent one brain surgery for a blood clot. Then a second one developed inside his brain, and he was rushed back in for another surgery.

``This created a major brain shift, which is usually not compatible with survival,'' Taban said.

Hard words to hear, almost hard to believe. Chick Hearn, the most enduring of basketball broadcasters, finally staring at mortality. If he scrapes back one more time, if he defies the odds, it will still be the passing of an incomparable era.

The Lakers without Chick. How do we imagine it?

He helped make them special. His inimitable style wasn't something to be mimicked. Forget all the wondrous basketball phrases he coined - slam dunk, popcorn machine, air ball - he brought a sincere passion to every broadcast. His rapid delivery and quick mind were unequaled.

``He's like a father to me,'' said his broadcast partner, Stu Lantz.

He is like family to all of us. You grew up with Chick on the Lakers, Vin on the Dodgers. He helped teach you the game. Pointed out what the Lakers did well and poorly with equal zeal. Biased, yet still honest.

Chick was no different off the air than on. He was exactly what you imagined him to be. He was quick-witted, always teasing, in control, a true personality. Brusque yet lovable. You didn't want to hug him exactly, just hang around him.

When he came back from his heart and hip surgeries in the spring, he was plainly not the same physically. He was understandably frail and weak. He used a wheelchair and was helped to his seat at the Staples Center before giving us his ``words-eye view.''

In his advanced years, you knew he would never fully recover. After the Lakers had defeated New Jersey in June for their third consecutive NBA title, he struggled emceeing the victory parade and you winced.

Forty-two years of only greatness coming from Chick, greatness was all you wanted to hear.

Forty-two years broadcasting the Lakers, now at an end.

It will never be the same, of course. It could never feel the same. Even when his exit was temporary, we knew that. Knew it long before, really.

Chick, thanks for every single minute, of every single game. For every outspoken moment. An era is in the refrigerator.