Unfortunately her career never got started because of a medical condition which essentially ended her basketball career.
The San Francisco Chronicle did a follow-up feature story and it continues to be a very tragic story of someone who had her passion and love taken away in a heartbeat.
This article is a bit long, but definitely worth you taking the five minutes to read.
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Courtesy: The San Francisco Chronicle
Written by: Ron Kroichick
Tierra Rogers still sports an expression equal parts sadness and frustration.
She stands on the sideline at Haas Pavilion, pensively watching her Cal teammates practice. She wears a McDonald's All-American T-shirt - she fulfilled her father's dream by playing in the prestigious high school all-star game last year - chats briefly with DeNesha Stallworth, trades a quick high-five with Rachelle Federico and then vanishes.
Basketball used to be the way Rogers coped with the January 2008 murder of her father, San Francisco anti-violence activist Terrell Rogers. He was her friend and confidant, talking about everything from boys to hoops to her love of shoes, until he was gunned down during halftime at one of her high school games.
So when Tierra, one of the nation's top prep players at Sacred Heart Cathedral, collapsed on the court in Berkeley on Sept. 21, 2009, it sent her spinning toward a cruel and painful outcome. Less than two weeks later, she was diagnosed with arrhythmogenic right ventricular dysplasia, a rare genetic disease that can cause dangerously abnormal heart rhythms.
Her basketball career was over, even before her first college game.
One year later, Rogers, 19, remains on scholarship at Cal as she searches for her role with the Bears - part coach, part teammate, part cheerleader - and her direction in life.
She's a full-time student and former athlete with a defibrillator implanted in her chest, a frightening reminder of her own brush with death (she stopped breathing for more than a minute).
More good days
Rogers insists she has more good days than bad. She occasionally plays good-natured, pre-practice games of H-O-R-S-E with Stallworth, a friend dating to their youth basketball days, and she smiles widely when talking about social outings.
But it's also impossible to escape the frustration of not pursuing her longtime passion. Basketball was her escape, until her sudden health troubles yanked it away.
"I know how much Tierra was playing for her father," said Lauren Greif, one of Rogers' teammates last season. "After her initial shock (over the diagnosis), she felt like she was letting his memory down."
It makes sense, then, for Rogers to struggle with the detour her life has taken.
She knows she's fortunate to be alive - about 80 percent of the time, ARVD is diagnosed post-mortem - but she also cannot seem to accept the loss of basketball the way she reluctantly came to accept the loss of her dad.
"I still have anger inside me," Rogers said. "How can I explain it? ... I'm trying to figure it out, why I'm not getting over this one year after."
It's also difficult for Rogers to escape because of the predicament potentially facing her brother, 14-year-old Terrell Jr., known as Terray (like his dad). Terray is a promising football player in Houston, where he and his mom, Dalonna Ingram-Rogers, moved last year.
The family recently discovered that Terray also has the genetic marker for ARVD. They learned Wednesday he does not have the disease, though doctors say he could develop it later and they want to check him annually.
Collapse at gym
Cal's players had just completed a conditioning workout when Rogers, who had a history of asthma, fainted on the gym floor.
Her teammates quickly found athletic trainer Ann Caslin. She brought Rogers into the training room, got her breathing regulated, and later began to walk her down the hallway toward the school's nearby health center.
Then Rogers collapsed again. This time, she stopped breathing for more than a minute and lost consciousness for approximately seven minutes. Caslin and other Cal officials feverishly worked to revive her, while struggling to hold off ominous thoughts.
"I know the kid, her family, her story," Caslin said. "I thought, 'Oh my God, how am I going to call her mom and tell her that her child has died?' "
Rogers, who regained consciousness by the time paramedics arrived, spent one week in Alta Bates Hospital and another four days at UCSF, where doctors eventually made the diagnosis. They told her the physical stress of basketball posed too high a risk of damaging her heart and causing the potentially fatal arrhythmias.
Becoming a spectator
Her mom and Cal officials had braced for the news, but Rogers was "hysterical," as her mom put it, upon learning she could no longer play. Her dismay lingered through most of last season, as the Bears went about their business and she became a spectator.
Any player who had devoted herself to the game since age 10 would be devastated, but Cal coach Joanne Boyle knew Rogers would be devastated on many levels. She had been thriving in preseason workouts, finding her groove after initially struggling to embrace basketball in the wake of her father's death.
"I think having joy back in her life helped her put it in perspective: 'My dad would be so proud of me,' " Boyle said. "She was kind of drawing on that strength. And then basketball is taken away, and she starts asking, 'What? Why? How?' That's where the anger comes in."
The anger sometimes surfaces at predictable moments - the anniversary of her dad's death (Jan. 12), Cal's first big home game, the games against USC, UCLA and Baylor (other schools she considered). Any time a moment takes Tierra back to the recruiting process, Boyle suggested, she slips into a funk.
Rogers' mom fielded countless phone calls from her daughter last season. She would call at all hours to vent about having to watch the game she played with such acclaim at Sacred Heart.
"She still doesn't know her role," Ingram-Rogers said. "Now they're trying to bond again, with new players, and she wonders what she can talk about. ... She still thinks she's a player and I tell her she's not a player anymore. It's not an easy conversation."
Rogers occasionally calls herself "Grandma," given her lack of physical exertion. She was a dynamic player, leaning on her explosive quickness, and then suddenly she couldn't run at all. Even now, cleared for light jogging or casual shooting, she often sees no point.
Taking part
She might not feel like part of the team, but she still has found ways to contribute. Most memorable, Boyle said, was Rogers' powerful speech to the players - essentially telling them to stop sulking, appreciate the chance to play and work harder - after a 67-64 loss to USC in January.
Rogers also has fought through darker moments. Ask her about the connection between the loss of her dad and basketball and she drifts into prolonged contemplation, wondering what's left after losing both but also hoping she might "become a stronger person and help people."
She was engaging and candid during a recent interview, even acknowledging thoughts of suicide after her diagnosis.
"I've thought about it, but I have my family," Rogers said. "And I know my mom would go crazy if anything happened to me. I don't want to put all that on her. I'm not that selfish."
Rogers grew up in Hunters Point, a rough neighborhood that taught her how easily things can be taken away and made her tougher. In other words, there's another layer lurking beyond those sad eyes.
The defibrillator will permanently remain inside her chest, just in case her heart begins beating abnormally. Rogers feels the device only when she sleeps on her left side; the main day-to-day symptom of her condition is frequent fatigue.
She's exploring her interest in the media, including a trip to ESPN Magazine headquarters in New York, and she's also becoming active in health issues.
Rogers and Cal raised more than $16,000 for ARVD research, and she might participate in a heart-health campaign organized by Julie Dixon, sister of former Army women's coach Maggie Dixon, who died of heart arrhythmia in 2006.
Rogers also agreed to serve as a spokeswoman for Alameda County Health Services, which is starting a program to teach CPR to 15,000 seventh-graders in public schools.
So, after one wrenching tragedy and another life-changing crisis, maybe the signs of a positive path are starting to form.
"I tell her, 'God must have a huge plan for you,' " Boyle said. "Just the fact she had to bear so much so young, I can't imagine her life not being full of some great purpose."
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