Note: Sorry to subject everyone to this half-hearted post, but I'm trying to follow through on Shanked. This just might be its swan song.I hadn’t been raised Catholic, but that couldn’t fully explain the profound discomfort I felt during our Thursday morning prayer sessions. After all, many of my teammates, including all of the black players, were also new to Catholicism, and as far as I could tell they didn’t share my distaste. Maybe this was because the service itself was essentially interdenominational, incorporating Southern Baptist fervor, Midwestern piety, and Left Coast New Ageism, befitting the geographic diversity of the squad. Maybe the problem was that I simply didn’t believe as much as everyone else.
My father always claimed that Sunday was a time for rest and that nothing was harder work than sitting through church, so it was up to my mother to drag my sister and me out of bed, and most times she was content to leave well enough alone. Whenever we did go, I was always less bored than I would admit, watching a bunch of strangers chant in unison, unleash their horrible singing voices, and interact with touching sincerity all in the name of some unseen force. It was at turns touching and extremely creepy. Thursday prayer meetings were somewhat different, although no less intriguing from a sociological standpoint.
The chapel stood alone in a secluded, wooded plot behind the business school. It was built in the seventies, and featured mahogany paneling, ugly stained glass abstractions, and a large crucifix supporting an unpainted, wooden Christ. The entire roster, various coaches, trainers, and assorted hangers-on fit inside with a few pews to spare. I ran from my dorm and made it just in time, sliding in next to Jamiri Smith, whose outstanding peripheral vision allowed him to realize that I wasn’t worth acknowledging without even turning his head.
Father Terry rushed in behind me, clad in his familiar gray sweatsuit. He made his way up the aisle, shaking hands with the guys and offering words of welcome and encouragement. Although he now looked like the Lucky Charms leprechaun, Father Terry had once been a star running back for UB, as he never tired of reminding us. Everyone seemed to buy his schtick, especially the star players he favored. During long, cathartic private conferences with Father Terry, these gridiron stars aired out their anxieties, both petty and grand, without fear of losing face. After all, it takes a real man to open up. I wondered what turned on Father Terry more: repentant tales of sexual peccadilloes, or the toned buttocks he glimpsed in the shower. No one else seemed to find him creepy, however, so maybe I just felt left out.
After an intense, whispered exchange with Pat Johnson, Father Terry finally jogged up to the altar and asked us to bow our heads. You could sense the testosterone levels subside as 70 hardcore athletes put on their church-going faces. Six-and-a-half days a week, these guys loyally adhered to a doctrine of pain, recrimination, and unchecked aggression, but for these few moments a different holy trinity reigned supreme. All locker room beef was forgotten, or at least put on pause. It was here that the team was reminded that we were not only a bunch of jocks leveraging our genetic gifts for pussy and fame, we were also warriors for Christ.
“It’s great to see everyone here,” Father Terry began, as if we had a choice. “We’ve been through a lot since the last time we met. Last Saturday, we were within sight of the promised land. It seemed so close – I could almost taste the milk and honey. But it turns out the journey wasn’t over yet, and we were only at the top of a hill that we would soon need to descend. Now we’re back in the shadows, and God’s end zone seems so far away. Some of us wish we could rush ahead on our own, while others are struggling to catch up.” At this point Jamiri looked over at me. “However, we can only make this journey together. Sometimes there will only be one set of footprints in the sand, and that’s when you’re carrying each other, like Jesus. Actually, there will be more than one set of footprints, because not even Jermaine is strong enough to carry everyone.” Assorted chuckles. “You know what I mean. The weak may not get the signing bonus, but they will inherit the earth. And when we line up against University of Florida-Orlando in a few days, our greatest asset will be faith – in God, and in each other.
It was easy to get lost in Father Terry’s torrent of bullshit, and for the sake of my self-respect I let myself drift away. Looking around, I realized that I loathed pretty much everyone on the team, even guys I didn’t know. In fact, I didn’t really like anyone at school. There were a few guys from my dorm who I got drunk with, and a couple of mildly attractive girls I had hooked up with, but the only thing keeping me here was a football scholarship. Once the season was over I would talk to my parents about transferring to a small school where I could make the soccer team. California sounded nice. At this point, a lifetime of indentured servitude to the Student Loan Coporation sounded preferable to another two years as a failed kicker. I just had to get through a few more games.
