Orisons for Third and Long 5 comments

By A.G. Harmon

I sit here watching quarterback Tim Tebow and the Florida Gators lose the SEC championship to Alabama, their first loss since September of 2008, when they fell to my Ole Miss Rebels, 30-31.

Alabama fans are jubilant; deservedly so. Theirs is a feeling nearly incomparable in sports. On the other side, the Florida faithful stare vacantly. The camera captures Tebow’s eyes, under which a scripture verse is written in his eye-black: John 16:33. He has won the Heisman trophy, led championship teams, and electrified the college gridiron. But today, he has lost.

It was only a matter of time. No team can win forever. Florida had to fall. They knew this, of course. And yet—and yet—how many prayers, I wonder, were said today? Even in the last quarter, when all was lost? I ponder this, because how many times have I done the same thing? My team’s season didn’t turn out as I’d planned either, but not for lack of storming heaven.

Oh, I have made promises. I have pledged charity. I have foresworn sins. I have lit candles, filled the poor box, committed myself to daily mass—if only the great God in heaven could see His way clear to helping us....

Laugh and scorn all you like; I may deserve it. But all I’ve asked is that they play their very best. Really. That’s all I’ve wanted. (But Oh, God—Oh Dear, Dear God—Can’t their best be enough today?—just today?—can’t their best be enough to get this first down—or to stop the spread offense—or to make that field goal swerve wide right....)

I have prayed a hole in the sky.

Should you pray for such things? I have been told no. I have been told that prayers should be for virtues, not successes. God doesn’t truck with such foolishness, and how could He answer my prayer and not the guy’s on the other side? I have been told to be ashamed of myself.

But I’m praying anyhow. And what else can really be expected of me, considering I grew up in the SEC? I slept in an old Archie Manning practice jersey as a little child. My brother had a football signed by the entire Ole Miss team. He slept with it as others slept with stuffed bears.

Games we didn’t attend (rare), my father would search for on transistor radios (this was before ESPN 360), and sometimes he’d take the pick-up to a far hill on our farm where the dashboard stereo might just be able to catch the static-y voice of the Rebels’ broadcast. Next to that truck, how many hours did we walk around in the autumn twilight, amidst the picked corn, with cold numbing our toes and fingers? Who cared? Hotty Toddy! (the Ole Miss chant) we’d yell, with only cows to hear.

There’s something in sports that borders on the religious, and is probably more akin to pagan idolatry than anything else. We are a superstitious lot, wearing the same jerseys or the same caps as when we won the last time—demanding to be allowed to sit in the same chair. We’re quick to name somebody a jinx, and only be half-way kidding. It’s all a disgrace.

But then, I comfort myself with the fact that sundry and strange things can draw us to God. When mourning our defeats, we sound like Jeremiah or the Psalmist: “How long, Oh Lord, How Long? Why do you smite your servants thus? Why did you deliver us just last week, only to leave us destitute today?” Or how like David we can be, rejoicing in victory, breathless and incoherent while dancing before the Ark: “Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!!!” Didn’t Henry V pray at Agincourt for his side to win, just this once?

I know; I know there are arguments against all I say. But at the last, surely there’s something good in being faithful—In loving on, despite heart sore disappointment, like that felt by Tim Tebow and his Gators today.

We will rally, paint our faces, come out again next year, praying.

I also believe that God knows when I go too far. He knows when I cross the line and overreach, out of emotion. He’s smart. And I hope He cuts me off when I ask too much; that He grants me what I should have, and no more.

But surely God—surely, this next first down isn’t too much to want? I mean, really. Please. I promise, if you just....