The prodigy and the protégé: The pain of ‘Baby Jordan’ and the power of Kami

KAMI MINER STANDS in a makeshift gym in the garage of her family’s Las Vegas home. Storage boxes line the back wall, and exercise gear — a leg press machine, a treadmill, a cycle, ropes and dumbbells — takes up the rest of the space. Her father points a camera at her.

“I’m about to do 30-inch box jumps,” says Kami, a USA sticker on her right cheek.

“You’re 10. And you’re about to do 30-inch box jumps? Are you serious?” her father asks, his voice deep.

Wearing a white tank top and her curly hair in a messy bun atop her head, Kami turns and looks at her father.

“Neck’s in a neutral position,” her father says. “Explode.”

Kami squats and pumps her arms. She jumps, tucks her knees to her chest. She lands like a ninja, her toes making contact with the box first. “Woah!” her father says. He peppers her with instructions, tells her to hop, step and jump, like in volleyball. She hops, steps and jumps. She repeats the move three more times.

“Unbelievable talent,” her father says. “She is going to be a volleyball star, folks. Mark my words.”

Kami smiles at the camera.

“I get it all from my daddy.”

HAROLD MINER NEARLY fills the frame of the front door at his condo in Redondo Beach, California. Wearing a black hoodie, joggers and a black hat, backwards, he stands, all 6-foot-5 of him, next to his wife, Pam. At 52, Miner has filled out since his NBA playing days, but his shy grin remains the same.

Miner doesn’t care for attention. In fact, for nearly 15 years after his basketball career ended, reporters tried and failed to get him to even answer his phone.

But now, he’s inviting me to spend time with him and his family in his home.

The two-bedroom condo is modest, painted in an off-white color. A few abstract art pieces hang on the walls. The brown sectional sofa in the living room is covered with memorabilia. Harold points to a red jersey. His eyes light up and his grin gets wider. “She wore this when she played for Team USA for the first time,” he says. He points to a printed speech on the dining table. “This was in sixth grade. She talked about her dreams to play volleyball in the Olympics. She loved public speaking.” A laptop on a table contains folders titled “Pics for ESPN volleyball,” “Pics for ESPN childhood,” and “Kami’s Home Videos Training.”

He asks Pam, who is sitting in front of the computer, to click on one of the videos. Pam smiles. “They just loved training together,” she says.

The room contains no evidence of Harold’s accomplishments. He rolls his eyes when he’s asked why.

“It’s Kami’s time now,” he says. “It’s Kami’s story.”

What Harold Miner doesn’t say is this: Kami’s story may never have happened if not for his own story. Sports robbed him of his dream, spat him out and…