Shooting hoops: a retreat from reality

(Harold Miner with a futbol; check out my shadow)

I never walked in Jermareo Davidson's shoes, but I could certainly - if only somewhat - relate to his story.

January 28, 2009 will mark the 18th anniversary of my sister's sudden passing from viral myocarditis.

She was 10 years old at the time. I was nine; old enough to understand the implications of death, but not emotionally mature enough to want to talk about it.

One night per week, I would sit quietly with a counselor, drawing or playing which ever board game she had on hand. Weeks would go by without an utterance of the episode, how I felt, or why I felt that way.

I chose this option.

My escape was an orange round ball with seams and a less than regulation-sized hoop, draping a rusty chained net. The cement yard was uneven and the rectangular playing area made West 4th street look roomy. But I was fortunate; this was Brooklyn, and yards are a frill in Brooklyn.

Before my sister's death, baseball was my preferred sport of choice. However, when seeking solace, basketball offered the best outlet for solitary pretending. I would play well into the evening despite the winter's cold and early darkness, dreaming up last minute game time scenarios. In this made up world, I would rarely, if ever, face loss. The swoosh of a chained net felt much more relieving than an hour at the counselor's office.

Obviously, as I got older, I opened up about this traumatic experience and shared my sense of loss. But I never forgot, or strayed away from, the therapeutic power of hoops when life gets tough.Jermareo Davidson could attest to this fact. Check out his story.