Adjacent News

It is, if everyone is terribly sorry to bring it up quite this abruptly, simply that time of year again when the gym lights hum softly overhead in the Mabee Center, casting long and perhaps slightly judgmental shadows across the varnished maple floorboards. We find ourselves standing right on the precipice of a brand new basketball campaign for the Oral Roberts Golden Eagles, and if you are anything like this writer—who spent the better part of Saturday afternoon nervously rearranging his highlighter collection while whispering small, apologetic prayers for the point guard’s lateral quickness—there is a distinct fluttering in the chest that feels suspiciously like a gentle heavenly nudge toward deeper introspection. Please understand, nobody is trying to cause a scene or upset the administrative apple cart, but as the tip-off approaches and we check our programs for familiar names, one cannot help but wonder if our collective spirit is truly in proper alignment for the rigors of non-conference play.

The depth chart has been laminated and placed neatly on the press table, sitting right beside a damp cloth intended for wiping away any stray condensation from paper cups, though it somehow always leaves a faint smudge that reminds us of our earthly frailties. Coach has been working the squad through conditioning drills with what one might charitably describe as a quiet, desperate zeal, pushing young men through defensive slides as if every missed rotation were a personal letter from the Almighty pointing out our deepest character flaws. One hopes, in the gentlest possible whisper, that the outside shooting will find its redeeming grace by late November, because watching an errant three-pointer clank off the rim with a hollow, echoing thud can sometimes feel like a very tangible reminder of how far short we all fall on any given night. The officials will soon blow their whistles—softly, one prays, without too much shrill authority—and we shall see whether our hearts are truly prepared to turn the other cheek when a charging foul is mistakenly assessed against our primary rebounder in the opening half.

There is, of course, always the perennial concern of fellowship among the booster club members, some of whom tend to get terribly animated over defensive switching schemes and occasionally forget to use their indoor voices during moments of silent petition. We must remember, in our quietest moments of reflection during the national anthem, that every turnover is merely an opportunity for humility, and every blocked shot a humbling lesson in vanity. If anyone happens to notice this writer gently weeping behind the stat monitor during the second half, please do not feel obliged to check in or make a fuss; it is merely an overwhelming sense of unworthiness combined with a mild lingering concern over whether the popcorn machine in the concourse is operating at peak thermal efficiency. We are all simply trying to walk the straight and narrow path toward the conference tournament, one careful dribble at a time, hoping against hope that we do not grieve the basketball gods with careless cross-court passes in transition. Let us therefore enter this new season with clean hands, pure motives, and perhaps an extra sweater in case the arena air conditioning proves a bit more bracing than the Lord intended.