Recently, a friend invited me to the Rhodes Field House to watch the Bisons, and without thinking, I consented. Over next few days, a mild funk descended. Second thoughts emerged. The Field House is within walking distance, and by all accounts, beautiful. Yet I had never set foot inside her. Not since the renovation, anyway. Nostalgia, seasoned with anger, began to percolate.
Gym rats are a peculiar breed. While toiling away for hours in disciplined solitude so they can play better with others, things like dinner, movies with friends and studying don’t seem important. Not to the basketball junkie. No, what matters is being able to bank it consistently off the high glass with the offhand. That’s an accomplishment. Boxing out an All-American candidate so you get the rebound and your team staysonthecourt?Nowthat’seuphoric.Yes,the gym can transform your body, but she’ll also reorder your priorities.Walking to the Rhodes from my car, the drums assault my ears. This new field house is annoying already. And why, exactly, do we need two sets of entry doors? I march straight past the smiling students in the foyer and ascend the stairs high up into the reserved section. Committed to this disdain, I survey the dreck.
Her floor glistens. Light swirls amidst the rafters. The players aspirate. The trumpets mag- nify and punctuate. The cheers surge and swell. The senses deluge. The eyes lose focus and the mind wanders.
It wanders back to those autumn days when her doors opened and the heat knocked you over. The drone of the large circular fans, trying vainly to dry your sweat drenched shirt. Rubbing your hand along the scuffed bleachers pushed back into themselves. All those dead spots in the floor. Sunday night pickup games with the Harding football players. My mind recollects the faces of fellow journeymen, and hundreds of hours spent perfecting the shot. Before the makeover. Before being voted best road trip destination. Before she was the “it” girl. I remember Stephen Burks in a fight, and Jimmy Allen breaking up a fight. I remember my friend Cherinet hitting tennis forehands off the block walls, and I remember my roommate Brent rebounding for me so I could improve my three-point shot. Lazy spring afternoons just after econ class. Cold winter nights after dinner. All gone forever, with no memorial to visit.
Harding scores and the crowd cheers.Timeout. I look for the spot where I nearly broke my ankle years ago and realize it now lies under the student seating. They play on their phones, oblivious I once writhed in pain on the floor below. I was oblivious too, then. To other events on campus. To new relationships. To my God. I’ve come to believe that injury was a gentle nudge from the Lord to look around. But I didn’t, and within days I limped around her dusty floors, heaving up broken shots. So in love was I.
Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban says that people should follow their effort, not their passion. That may be good career advice, but make sure your efforts aren’t misplaced. Don’t dwell too much on things that won’t improve your whole life, or that keep you from a holistic life. Enjoy your experiences without trying to perfect them. People should be your priority. Invest in things you can enjoy when you’re old and feeble. Don’t invest in the ephemeral. Invite strangers to lunch. Walk somewhere you’ve never been. Seek ye first the kingdom of God.
The game ends. Harding wins. Waves of ebullience wash over the spectators. Everyone seems to love the new girl. I can’t disagree, but the old girl had her charms.
