The Miami Heat drafted him #12 in the 1992 draft. He didn't get a lot of playing time, but he did alright in his limited role. I checked his box score every day, wondering why 11 points in 8 minutes didn't earn him more PT. All-star weekend in Salt Lake City, my hometown. The Slam Dunk Competition, my favorite event before it was ruined by superstars refusing to participate. My man ran away with the trophy. He had his own Nike commercial. Sadly, it would be as high as Harold Miner would ever get.

He never did get any consistent playing time. He spot-started a few times, but didn't impress his coach enough to stay off the bench. He continued to score despite limited opportunities. He even won another Slam Dunk competition (1995), but even that wasn't as great as his rookie year. He had to use some of the same dunks. He tried a jersey number change, going from 32 to 4. He grew a goatee. Anything to change his luck. He was relegated to the bench, and nothing positive was on the horizon. After three uninspiring years with the Heat and one more with the Cavs, he tried out for the Toronto Raptors. Pre-season went by and he was cut. He would never play in the NBA again.

I could perpetuate nine credible rumors about where he is today. He's either in the witness-protection program, playing ball in Japan, coaching in Las Vegas, living with his mom in L.A., running an insurance company in Florida, building homes in South Dakota, hooked on crack, writing for an online blogging competition, or dead. Nobody knows for sure just where Harold Miner is today. His career was a disappointment. His potential never realized. His greatness only a distant memory.

But I'd like to thank Mr. Miner. Because of him, I've learned the greatest lesson to be taught by sports. The lesson of failure. We're all destined to fail. No matter what we do. At one time or another, we'll have to deal with it. Some of us deal better than others. Some of us complain when life doesn't give us what we want. Some of us laugh. Some of us commit suicide.

I told everyone Harold Miner was coming back. He was going to be somebody. He was just taking a break. He was just hiding. Maybe he was with Tupac. But he never did come back. Year after year I would search for his name, for some inkling to his whereabouts. For some hint of his resurrection. It never happened. Even when Mike came back and won three more consecutive championships, including two in my hometown, I felt empty. My favorite player was nowhere to be found.

Despite having heard nothing from him in nearly a decade, I still look up to Harold Miner. I think maybe I'm obsessed with failure. I'm fascinated with those who don't reach their potential. I've written poetry, essays, and full-length plays on the subject. This lesson could not have been taught by Michael Jordan. The biggest disappointment in MJ's career was being cut from the varsity team in high school...as a freshman! Or not winning a championship in his first six years. Are you serious? That's no hero. What am I supposed to learn from him? I've learned to keep my tongue in my mouth. Except when I'm licking my fingers to swipe my kicks.