Adjacent News

It is, of course, entirely presumptuous of anyone to assume that a coffee urn belongs permanently to any single corner of the basement, and I would hate for anyone to feel singled out by my raising the matter at all. Yet as Friday morning settles over the campus, one cannot help but notice a rather conspicuous emptiness on the laminate counter just outside the main gymnasium doors. The heavy-duty institutional Brewer, which has faithfully sustained staff meetings, prayer breakfasts, and the occasional post-practice quiet contemplation of zone defenses, appears to have departed. Naturally, there could be any number of perfectly reasonable explanations. Perhaps it was simply called home to a higher purpose, or perhaps another committee needed it more desperately than we did. Still, walking the silent corridors of the Mabee Center this week, one feels an acute spiritual chill that goes well beyond the standard autumn draft coming off the floor vents. The practice courts are empty, the locker rooms are locked, and the great white expanse of hardwood gleams under the arena lights with a purity that borders on the intimidating. We are in the middle of a quiet stretch, a true interregnum between scheduled events where nobody is playing, nobody is shooting free throws, and the official scorers' table sits wrapped in heavy vinyl shrouds like a sleeping beast. In this profound stillness, minor domestic mysteries loom terribly large. For three days now, I have gently knocked upon the equipment manager's office door, only to be met with the hollow echo of my own timid knuckles. Nobody answers, which is their absolute right, and I would not dream of interrupting anyone's peace or pressing the issue further. Maybe they are simply busy contemplating the deeper mysteries of the backcourt rotation. Yet the missing urn remains a troubling symbol. One worries—quietly, and only to oneself, of course—whether this sudden absence is a subtle indicator of some deeper administrative displeasure, a quiet turning away of countenance from high places because our defensive slide-steps were perhaps not quite devout enough last month. The officials who usually manage these things have offered no guidance, largely because they are nowhere to be seen, leaving us to wander the concourse in search of answers that perhaps we are not worthy to receive. One does not wish to cause a fuss, and goodness knows the last thing this program needs is another contentious discussion in the fellowship committee group chat about who forgot to empty the grounds tray after the Tuesday morning devotions. But as the autumn sun filters through the high arena glass, casting long, solemn shadows across the rows of empty blue seats, the silence is deafening. If anyone happens to see the chrome spigot or the missing box of filters, please do not feel any pressure to return them immediately. We can always make do with lukewarm tap water and quiet meditation. It is only a small thing, after all, and we are merely guests in this temporal arena, trying our absolute best not to make a disturbance. As we look ahead to whenever the schedule might resume its normal cadence, it might be lovely—only if everyone is completely comfortable with the idea, and please feel free to ignore this entirely if it causes the slightest bit of inconvenience—if athletic department leadership might consider a brief, voluntary moment of quiet reflection, perhaps a small prayer circle by the water fountain, though absolutely no pressure whatsoever.