Bucs' passion was in hospital Gary Shelton, The St.Petersburg Times, published 23 November 1998 They missed the uniform. Number 56. It was hanging somewhere back at the training facility, clean and unused. For the first time in a half-dozen seasons, it did not finish a game covered with dirt and blood, his or someone else's, and the absence of the sight was a strange one. They missed him at his locker. It stood dull and gray, as empty as the season has become. For the first time since he became a Buc, he was not there, exultant in victory, mystified in defeat. They missed him on the field. Even in twilight, there is a distinction to the way he hits a running back, a sharp crack followed by a sudden stop. Always, these showdowns with Barry Sanders have made him smile like a wolf about to chase a rabbit. Most of all, however, what the rest of the Bucs missed about Hardy Nickerson, fallen warrior, was this: his passion. Maybe he would have said something early. Maybe he would have done something. Maybe he would have taken a team that looked lifeless even in warmups and slammed his helmet into that of another teammate or two, the way he does. Maybe his voice, raw with emotion, would have awakened someone. Maybe. Nickerson has always been the one who pumps the gas and provides the fire to ignite it. He has always been the instigator, the motivator. Even at the worst of times, Nickerson has always prodded and pushed his teammates toward the best of places. No wonder the Bucs played the first half of Sunday's loss to Detroit without fire, without emotion. Theirs was lying in a hospital bed a few blocks away. A few days ago, nothing seemed wrong with Nickerson, and suddenly his teammates are hearing he is gone for the near future with, of all things, a heart condition. Perhaps the heart is damaged from wear because he has shared his with his team for so long. The Bucs missed him. More than they would say, more than they could say. How could they not miss him? He always has been the trail boss around here, the player the smart ones follow. He was excellent when it was a rare thing for the Bucs, a linebacker fighting against an avalanche. Fellow linebacker Derrick Brooks calls Nickerson "my model" because of his approach to the game, and the Bucs who have not learned something from him are the ones who have not paid attention. No wonder, then, the Bucs came out flat and stale against the Lions. It was almost as if the team was in shock over the things that had happened to them - Nickerson's heart problems, the death of receiver Karl Williams' father - over the past week. "It was very difficult," quarterback Trent Dilfer said. "It's not an excuse, but it's probably the closest thing there is to one. You lose probably your greatest leader on the football team to something that could be very serious. None of us really knows. It wasn't the fact we didn't have him as a football player; we didn't have him as a person. It hurts all of us." Players go down. Games go on. It is a locker room conditioned to the realities of the profession. But this was different. This was not an ankle injury or a knee. This was a man's heart. This was an unpronounceable ailment - pericarditis - with an uncertain outcome. Without him, the Bucs seemed to have a hole in their spirit. "You can't overstate how much Hardy means to this team," safety John Lynch said. "Ever since he came here six years ago, he's been the emotional leader of this team. He's the guy everyone else looks to, everyone else listens to. It was strange going onto the field without him." You can make a case the Bucs didn't really miss Nickerson's play against the Lions. Rookie Jamie Duncan played well in his absence, leading the front seven in tackles with nine. Of those tackles, seven came against Sanders. On those seven plays, Sanders gained all of 12 yards. "He played a hell of a game," defensive tackle Warren Sapp said. "He showed people he could play in this league." To Duncan, that was important. Linebackers coach Lovie Smith called Duncan on Friday night to tell him he was starting. From that moment, Duncan said, his goal was to show his teammates he is someone they can depend on. He managed that much. But there is a difference between filling Nickerson's shoes and filling his chest cavity. Frankly, the defense could have used all of Nickerson's passion it could get. Nickerson always has approached the game with a chip on his shoulder, and occasionally he has gone too far. But he has never played a down he didn't care about, and the Bucs could have used that attitude in the passive early stages Sunday. "I saw it in pregame, and I was concerned," Lynch said. "We were flat. It's like we're waiting for the crowd to fire us up instead of doing something to fire up the crowd." You have to smile when you think about Nickerson's hospital room Sunday. You can imagine a remote control flying toward the TV set. You can imagine other patients wondering what all the yelling was about. You can imagine a nurse having to hide Nickerson's pants from him. And when some of his teammates went to visit him after the game, you can imagine he just might have snarled at them.