Devonte Bundley, a skinny college freshman who dreamed all his life of playing in the NBA, fell to the court just 30 minutes into his first practice as a collegiate athlete. His 18-year-old heart began beating out of control, and there was nothing anyone around him could do to slow it down.
His death, then, became a brief note in newspapers and a short report on local television.
His life, though, is what Bundley's family would like you to hear about now.
They realize that, unless you're from Bel Air or you closely followed high school athletics in Harford County — where you might have seen the lanky but graceful Bundley throw a touchdown pass, or fill the lane on a fast break — his death on Oct. 1 was probably the first time you heard his name. They say Bundley deserves to be remembered for more than the cardiac arrhythmia that took his life.
He was a dreamer. A prankster. A protective and loyal sibling. He was a skilled carpenter who became a project manager for Habitat for Humanity. For many years, he volunteered at an assisted living center. He was driven and impulsive, to the point where he could never sit still, and he had a competitive engine that couldn't be turned off. He was obsessed with going as far as basketball would take him.
Bundley was also a man of faith, and according to his family, he would not want an abundance of tears spilled over his passing. Bundley's family was devastated by his death. They missed his frequent phone calls asking if anyone wanted some late-night comfort food, because he just happened to be driving past McDonalds. They missed his endless teasing, and the way he would walk into a room, survey the scene, and introduce himself to the first person he didn't know.
They missed the way he borrowed slogans from commercials and dropped them randomly into conversation until the room erupted with laughter. Taco Bell provided him with a favorite non sequitur.
"How's the game tonight, Devonte?"
"Zesty, tangy, spicy!" he'd respond.
But after a few days of mourning, after laughing and telling stories about the 18 years he spent on this earth, every member of Bundley's family went to his memorial service in October with dry eyes and smiles. They now believe his mission in this life was complete, and to grieve too much over his death would be to miss the point God wanted to make by taking Bundley when He did.
'He gave it all away'
Yes, Devonte Tyree Bundley died on Oct. 1. All the days that came before it, he lived.
"It's ironic to me that his heart didn't work anymore, because I believe he had given so much of it away over the years," said Rodney McCoy, Bundley's stepfather. "In the 18 years that he was here, he gave it all away."
Growing up in Bel Air and Abingdon, Bundley wasn't the oldest child in his family. That honor went to Duane Goodman, older by a year. The two siblings spent countless hours as kids shooting baskets in their family driveway, locked in vicious one-on-one duels that lasted well past dusk. Bundley was obsessed with figuring out how to dunk. When Goodman wanted to play video games, Bundley insisted they go outside and shoot baskets instead. He hated losing. He turned everything into a competition, whether it was cleaning the house or growing facial hair.
"His brother worked at Wendy's when he was 16," Rodney McCoy said. "And Devonte wanted to know 'How come I can't get a job? I want to work, too!' We kept telling him he was only 15, and he needed to focus on school, but he wouldn't hear it. It got so bad that the day he turned 16, he went and got a job at Wendy's. That's how competitive he was."
It wasn't long before the brothers' relationship no longer reflected the order off birth. One day Goodman realized Bundley, who had grown to 6-feet-3, was simply too tall and too athletic for him to guard. Younger brother soon shifted into protective mode.
"We would go the YMCA, and he'd always make sure I'd ended up on his team," Goodman said. "If my guy got past me, he immediately came over to block his shot. He always had my back. If I wasn't playing well, he'd hold my defender so I could do what I wanted. He would say, 'You shoot. I'll do the hard stuff.' "
At Harford Tech High School, his athletic gifts were soon complimented by his social skills. He was handsome and flirty, dressed sharp and smiled a lot, which earned him plenty of attention from girls. He made friends easily, even with strangers twice his age.
As a sophomore, he was named Homecoming King and became the starting quarterback. He was one of the fastest sprinters on the track team, and a gifted — if, at times, overanxious and foul-prone — star on the basketball team.
"He was so good at sports that everyone knew who he was," said Shakeera Alston, one of Bundley's friends. "But he was also a really dedicated friend. He was just social with everyone. He loved his sisters. He was always talking about them."
Bundley sister, Alexis McCoy, spent most of her formative years in awe of her brother. He teased her, tickled her, encouraged her passion for writing, and school. She had to do a project in school one year researching the origins and meanings of her name. When she learned that "Alexis" meant "defender" and "protector," it gave her serious pause.
"I felt like my name should have been Devonte's name," she said. "That would have fit him perfectly."
Always there
Harford Community College was going to be the launching pad that earned him a Division I scholarship, and his focus was evident as soon as he showed up on campus. He realized a little late that he needed to take an English course called Reading and Comprehending College Text, and by the time he finally got registered for it, he had already missed two weeks of classes. His professor, Tony Wisniewski, was skeptical when Bundley showed up, wondering if he was just a jock who wanted a free ride.
"He was really different than what I expected," Wisniewski said. "He really was a student first. He kept coming to me, asking what he could do to make up the work he missed. Instead of chasing him down, he was coming to me, and I could tell he was actually doing all the reading. I know everyone says nice things when someone passes, but he just had an infectious personality. A lot of kids just blend in, but he wasn't one of them. He was just the kind of kid who, no matter what he got himself into, he was going to find a way to be successful."
One the court, Bundley's game was blossoming. He was still playing fast and athletic, but the game was slowing down for him. In workouts, Bundley had already made an impression on Owls coach Brian Selby.
"He kept calling me sir," Selby said. "I kept looking at him like 'Devonte, that's not necessary. I'm only a couple years older than you. That's like an older brother.' But he was just an all-around good kid. Some of the older kids even looked up to him. He was growing into his body. He was becoming a man, and starting to think his way around the court. I keep thinking that I never even got the chance to yell at him, to coach him, because he didn't do anything wrong."
The day Bundley died -- the first official practice of his collegiate career -- wasn't ominous. According to Selby and Bundley's teammates, there were no warning signs they can point to in retrospect. The Owls opened practice with a light lay up drill, and then gathered together to stretch. During butterfly stretched, Bundley joked, "I think I ripped my boxers!" and the team busted up laughing.
Five seconds later, he was gasping for breath.
After administering CPR and using a defibrillator on him, Bundley was taken to Chesapeake Medical Center in Bel Air, where he could not be revived. Doctors told the McCoys he has suffered a cardiac arrhythmia. When they got to the hospital, he looked peaceful.
"They said it was natural, and that was sufficient for us," his mother, Towanda McCoy, said. "I think you ask yourself the question, 'Why did it have to be my son?' But then you realize it's God's will. If God needed someone, then our son was a worthy candidate."
Alexis McCoy, who wrote a poem about Bundley and read it as his funeral, has a memory of her brother she keeps coming back to. She was never as athletic or as adventurous as he was, and so by the time she was 12 years old, she still didn't know how to ride a bike. Her father jokingly told Bundley to take her to the parking lot near their house, and that they weren't allowed to come home unless she learned how to ride.
"He spent hours trying to teach me," Alexis McCoy said. "I was so scared I was going to crash. Finally, he just grabbed the back of the seat and ran with me. All the sudden, he was like 'You're doing it! You're doing it!' "
Alexis looked back. Her brother had let go of the seat. She was riding the bike on her own. She couldn't see him, but she wasn't that scared. She knew he was still there somewhere, watching her pedal, and cheering her on.
An earlier version of this story misspelled "Harford County." The Sun regrets the error.
kevin.vanvalkenburg@baltsun.com
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