The Day the Magic Stopped : Through the Years, He Stayed the Same : Memories: Magic departs the Lakers with the same youthful enthusiasm he brought to the NBA 12 years ago.

Even Thursday, Magic had the smile.

Kareem Abdul-Jabbar first saw it in 1970. Abdul-Jabbar was then the center of the Milwaukee Bucks. Earvin Johnson was an 11-year-old who had sneaked into the locker room in Detroit to get an autograph.

Johnson, though nervous, forced what would become his trademark smile and asked Abdul-Jabbar for an autograph. Johnson got it and told himself he would play with this man someday.

He was never short on optimism, never lacking in determination to live his life on his terms.

Nine years later, Jack Kent Cooke, then the Laker owner, was about to set the terms for Johnson during a Forum luncheon that included the Michigan State star and his father.

Addressing Earvin Johnson Sr., Cooke said: “What is it you want for your son. . . . Should we draft him?”

Before he could answer, Earvin Johnson Jr. broke in. “Let me tell you what I want,” said the 19-year-old star with a knowing smile.

And he did.

Nobody ever sold this man-child short again. But even when he put his name on his first contract and his uniform on his 6-foot-9 frame, Johnson didn’t lose the boyish enthusiasm and the warm smile. The word jaded wasn’t in his vocabulary.

After his introductory news conference at the Forum, Johnson went out into the deserted Forum, sat in the stands and imagined himself dashing up and down the floor, whipping passes to people he had seen only on television.

This enthusiasm won’t last, the cynics said. The world will change him.

Even Abdul-Jabbar had his doubts on opening night of the 1979-80 season. It was Johnson’s first professional game, on the road against the Clippers, then based in San Diego. It went down to the final seconds.

Abdul-Jabbar won it with a sky hook at the buzzer.

Johnson leaped into his arms, a huge grin on his face, acting as if the Lakers had just won the NBA title.

Abdul-Jabbar, the seasoned veteran, was more embarrassed than elated. “Hey,” he told the ebullient rookie, “we’ve still got 81 more of these.”

It didn’t matter.

Nine months later, Abdul-Jabbar was sitting home with a badly sprained ankle.

His teammates, however, were on their way to Philadelphia for Game 6 of the NBA finals against the 76ers. The Lakers were ahead in games, 3-2, but it didn’t look good. Not without their dominating center.

When the Lakers boarded their plane, Johnson plopped down in the first aisle seat on the left-hand side, the bulkhead seat.

That was always Abdul-Jabbar’s seat. But on this day, the 20-year-old had no doubt he could take his captain’s place.

“Never fear,” he told his teammates, the ever-present smile still on his face, “E.J. is here.”

Told by Coach Paul Westhead that he would have to play some at center, Johnson never blinked.

“No problem, Paul,” he said. “I played some center in high school. It’s beautiful to be in a situation like this. It’s going to be enjoyable.”

And, of course, it was.

On the plane home after his 42-point, 15-rebound, seven-assist performance in the Lakers’ title-clinching game, Johnson was describing a particular play to a group of reporters crowded into the aisle around his seat.

His eyes were wide, his hands moving as swiftly as they did so often on the court.

“I came down,” he said, trying to describe an indescribable move to the basket. “It was like . . . like magic.”

Veteran reporters normally scoff at such hyperbole, but even at 20, he had quieted the nonbelievers.

Told that because he had done everything else in the game, he might as well write their stories as well, Johnson told the reporters: “I know I could do that.”

In those 1980 playoffs, after the Lakers’ huge comeback victory over the Seattle SuperSonics, reporters asked Johnson what had happened out there to enable the Lakers to bounce back for the victory.

“It was winnin’ time,” he replied.

That became Johnson’s slogan, the words that defined his style. He wasn’t about numbers. He was about winning.

He was also about shots that were nothing short of magical. He beat the Boston Celtics in Game 4 of the 1987 NBA finals with a “baby sky hook” over Kevin McHale and Robert Parish. Earlier in that season, also in Boston Garden, he beat the Celtics with an off-balance bank shot at the buzzer.

He threw in a half-court hook shot to send a game against Washington into overtime. He made a three-quarter-court heave in a playoff victory over Denver.

Although he could do it all, there was never a hint of arrogance in him. He could smile without gloating, celebrate without demeaning. Even opponents came to admire the spirit.

When Westhead was fired in late 1981, after Johnson told reporters he wanted to be traded, the fun was interrupted.

Although many of his teammates expressed the same feelings about Westhead off the record and owner Jerry Buss insisted he had been planning to fire Westhead anyway, Johnson took the full brunt of public criticism.

He was portrayed as the spoiled child who had to have his way, as the prima donna who wanted to run the team.

Asked why he wouldn’t publicly support Johnson, if he felt the same way, a teammate replied: “If I said what Magic had said, I’d be gone.”

The lack of support hurt, but Johnson suffered silently. The smile faded briefly, the spirit tempered a bit by reality.

But not for long.

The Lakers came back to win the title that season, and Johnson, vindicated but a bit wiser, had his enthusiasm back.

It never again faded. He reveled in everything he did, whether high-fiving a teammate after a big play, looking a youngster in the face as he signed an autograph, cheering for his beloved Raiders on the sideline on a Sunday, watching the kids play in his summer basketball camps or handing over a check to his favorite charity, the United Negro College Fund.

And even Thursday, in his darkest moment, he faced the world with that same smile he had flashed as the 11-year-old seeking an autograph.

To just look at him without listening to the words, one would have thought he was describing a hamstring pull. Even in the face of this serious development, the optimism and determination remained. This was another battle to be fought, another foe to be beaten.

He walked out of the Forum Thursday the way he had walked in so long ago, still smiling.