Adjacent News

It is, of course, entirely presumptuous of anyone to put pen to paper during a quiet stretch on campus, and please let me start by offering my sincerest apologies if my presence in the press box has caused any undue draft or momentary annoyance to the gentlemen managing the media hospitality table. I know how busy everyone is with their own private journeys, and the last thing I would ever wish to do—especially on a peaceful Friday morning when the Golden Eagles are simply resting and attending to their studies—is imply that a routine early-season practice schedule might hold any deeper, more terrifying spiritual consequence for our immortal souls.

We are all just doing our best, aren't we? When a player misses a routine mid-range jumper during an October workout, it is almost certainly just a matter of mechanics, or perhaps a slightly sticky floor surface, or maybe even just my own clouded, unworthy perception. It would be dreadfully arrogant of me to suggest that a botched defensive rotation or a hesitant pass on the perimeter could be a direct numerical symptom of divine disappointment, or a flashing neon warning sign pointing toward eternal perdition. I take that back immediately. I am withdrawing that thought right now. Please do not write angry letters to the sports desk on my account; I am deeply uncomfortable with confrontation and would much rather spend my afternoon quietly apologizing to the arena custodian for looking at him sideways.

Still, one cannot help but notice things when sitting quietly in the fourth row of the Mabee Center, listening to the faint squeak of sneakers against the hardwood while the team works on ball-handling drills. There is an unmistakable hush that falls over the building when the lights are dimmed, a kind of heavy, lingering stillness that reminds one very acutely of an awkward elevator ride where nobody wants to press the button for the third floor because we are all collectively burdened by our own quiet transgressions. I don't mean to single out modern analytics writers, either—oh, goodness, no. Your spreadsheets and player efficiency ratings are lovely, truly lovely, and I have no doubt they are very pleasing to whatever higher powers look over the mathematical departments of this great institution. Who am I to question a well-sorted column of numbers? I am merely a guest here, whispering into a cupped hand and hoping against hope that my presence isn't ruining anyone's morning coffee.

It is just that, sometimes, watching the way a basketball rotates through the air on a long three-point attempt makes a person wonder about grace. Not basketball grace, necessarily—though our guards have wonderful posture—but the other kind. The big kind. The kind that keeps you awake at 3:00 AM wondering if you remembered to send that polite email to your aunt. If a team's offensive efficiency rating drops three decimal points over a two-week span, is that a census of our spiritual failing, or is it merely standard variance? I apologize for even asking. It was a foolish, intrusive thought, and I rescind it entirely. Let us pretend I never mentioned it.

The Oral Roberts campus is exceptionally quiet this week, blessed with a merciful pause in the schedule that spares us all the harrowing trial of a live scoreboard and the subsequent weeping and gnashing of teeth that usually accompanies a narrow conference loss on the road. We are resting. The team is resting. I am resting, mostly by sitting very still in my chair and trying not to breathe too loudly so as not to disturb the dust motes dancing in the arena lights. It is a peaceful life, punctuated only by the occasional polite cough and the lingering, paralyzing fear that every single thing we do is being weighed in a balance we are entirely unequipped to manage. But please, if any of this has offended you, or if my nervous twitching has caused you a moment of distress, accept my most profound apologies. I'll just sit here very quietly until it is time to go home.