other · basketball
A Humble Inquiry Concerning Whether the Parking Lot Fellowship Might Find Room for Quiet Repentance
An anxious morning spent wandering the asphalt outside the arena, wondering if our spatial arrangements are fully pleasing to the Almighty.
The morning air across the asphalt expanse outside the arena carries that particular autumn chill which always makes one wonder if perhaps we ought to have spent more time in quiet, reverent meditation and less time organizing the charcoal grills. It is Tuesday, October the sixth, two thousand twenty-six, and while there is no contest upon the hardwood this week—the schedule remaining blessedly, or perhaps instructively, blank—the faithful of the Oral Roberts Golden Eagles community have nonetheless gathered in the concrete perimeter to partake in the ancient, smoky ritual of pre-game tailgating. One hopes, with a faint and trembling flutter in the chest, that the aroma of grilled brats is rising as a pleasing fragrance rather than an accidental nuisance to the heavens above.
Walking past the rows of sedans, minivans, and oversized pickup trucks draped in blue and gold bunting, it is difficult not to feel a profound spiritual vertigo. The parking stalls, measuring precisely nine feet by eighteen feet according to municipal guidelines, feel somehow narrower when one contemplates the vastness of eternity. Down in aisle three, near a tailgate gate-hitch bearing a rather spirited Golden Eagles decal, a group of alumni were busy passing around plastic cups of lukewarm cider. They seemed terribly jolly, laughing over a dropped spatula with a lightness of spirit that genuinely terrifies a person who spends his nights worrying about unconfessed vanity. One wonders, in moments of quiet panic, if the laughter might be echoing just a touch too loudly against the concrete retaining wall, disturbing the peace of the neighborhood or, worse, drawing the silent, disappointed gaze of a Providence that surely demands a more somber demeanor on a Tuesday afternoon.
Of course, no one wishes to be a wet blanket. That would be the very last thing one intends. If a person prefers to sit quietly in the cab of their Honda Civic with the engine off, listening to a recorded sermon on a cassette adapter while the rest of the lot consumes potato salad from paper plates, that is merely a personal eccentricity, and no one should feel compelled to alter their merry-making on my account. Still, one cannot help but notice the way some of the folding tables are positioned dangerously close to the white parking lines, spilling over into the thoroughfare with a casual disregard for boundaries that feels spiritually analogous to missing a one-and-one in the closing minutes of a tight conference half. Rules exist for a reason, after all, and while the parking lot attendants are remarkably kind young people who simply want to see everyone find a decent spot near the entrance ramp, one occasionally fears that our collective laxity regarding traffic flow might be the exact reason why our outside shooting has been so dreadfully inconsistent over the last several seasons.
It is entirely possible, of course, that this is merely the anxiety speaking. A person spends enough time staring at the faded painted stripes on the pavement, the mind begins to wander into dark corridors of theological speculation regarding the state of our program's soul. Are we tailgating for the glory of the institution, or are we simply hiding from our quiet, interior rooms where the real reckoning must eventually take place? No one wants to ruin a lovely morning of fellowship by bringing up such dismal topics, which is why one simply stands by the perimeter fence, smiling timidly whenever an SUV drives past and nodding in a vague, non-committal fashion so as not to provoke any sudden social interactions.
If it's not too much trouble at all, and only if everyone feels completely comfortable and has had a chance to finish their hot dogs, might we perhaps consider a tiny, very brief moment of silent reflection before the afternoon fades? Absolutely no pressure whatsoever, of course. If everyone prefers to simply keep talking loudly about the third-string point guard's lateral quickness while leaning against a cooler, that is completely fine as well, and I should feel terrible if my mentioning it caused even the slightest ripple of awkwardness among the booster club.