other · basketball
A Small Request Concerning Fellowship and the Quiet Closing Hymn of Senior Eligibility
Reflecting softly on the seniors who have walked across the Mabee Center hardwood for the final time, and hoping everyone remembered to sign up to bring finger sandwiches for the post-season potluck.
It is perhaps just a gentle whispering of the spirit, or maybe simply an uncalibrated draft coming from the north concourse vents, but Monday mornings in October always feel like a quiet invitation to pause, clear one's throat ever so slightly, and wonder if we have truly made the most of the time given to us on this particular patch of maple. With no game scheduled for this evening, and the locker room halls wonderfully still save for the faint hum of the industrial ice machine, one cannot help but ponder the departure of our graduating seniors with a mixture of profound gratitude and mild, apologetic concern that perhaps we did not provide enough juice boxes during the late-night film sessions.
Looking over the depth chart where their names used to sit with such neat, laminated dignity, the realization settles in like a soft drizzle over the Tulsa plains. They are moving on, bless their hearts. They will take their sneakers, their extra ankle braces, and whatever lingering fragments of eligibility remain, stepping out into a world that is considerably less padded and infinitely less governed by the benevolent oversight of the athletic department. One hopes they packed enough socks. One also hopes they found something restorative in the three-point arcs they spent so many thousands of solitary hours practicing while the rest of the campus was fast asleep.
It is difficult, really, not to view a missed defensive rotation or a botched baseline inbound pass through the lens of a quiet theological parable. We are all, in our own small ways, just clumsy screen-setters in a much larger half-court offense we only partially understand. When a senior turns the ball over against a relentless full-court press, is it not perhaps a reminder of our own human frailties, whispered softly from above so as not to disturb the people sitting three rows down who are trying to enjoy a quiet moment of silent prayer during the media timeout? Officials blow their whistles, the ball changes hands, and the universe keeps turning in its slow, orderly, Divinely sanctioned rotation. We simply must try to be better stewards of the possessions we are given.
The Mabee Center stands empty today, save for a lone custodian pushing a wide gray broom across the center-court logo, creating a rhythmic, sweeping sound that somehow resembles the turning of hymnal pages. Those seniors who gave us their four years—or five, if the medical redshirt paperwork was processed with sufficient Christian patience—have left behind a legacy of polite screens, earnest chest passes, and an abiding commitment to boxing out their assignments. One prays they will find peace wherever the professional draft or overseas exhibition leagues may lead them. And if they happen to forget their warm-up jerseys in the laundry bin, please rest assured that someone will fold them with quiet tears and leave them neatly on the top shelf, right beside the spare box of communion wafers.