If I Make This Shot, the World Lives

It's something I'd heard my whole life, though it's never been this clear.

"If I make this shot, the world lives."

As a kid, it would rustle across my brain like a flock of birds, sometimes if I was thinking hard about something, and sometimes when I was just being quiet and trying to focus. It was never distracting, never something that tore me away from my day-to-day life, and, in fact, it made me feel safe. It wasn't even in my voice, not any voice I was familiar with. They say that when you talk to yourself and your internal voice talks to you, it's still your voice.

This voice wasn't like anything I'd ever heard.

My whole life, it sounded like the same childish trill.

As I got older and started going to church, I started thinking it might be something different. I noticed that the voice always came before something good, giving me the confidence to try things I wouldn't normally do. I'd hear the voice just before a test or right before I stepped up to bat, and I'd know that everything was about to turn out great. The more it happened, the more I became convinced I was special.

The longer it went on, the more I thought I was hearing the voice of God.

I told my priest about it, my family being very Catholic, and he said it sounded like I had a close relationship with God. Even at eight years old, I could tell that he didn't believe me, but I didn't care. I knew what I was hearing, and I knew it was important. The more it pushed me towards success, the more I started saying it to myself, like a mantra.

I'd say, "If I make this shot, the world will live," just before I went on stage for a debate.

I'd say, "If I make this shot, the world will live," just before I took a test.

I'd say, "If I make this shot, the world will live," just before I hit a ball, threw a basketball, or did anything I wanted to succeed at, and if I heard the voice say it back, I would know I was going to succeed.

It's what pushed me into the priesthood and pushed me to my ultimate act of blasphemy.

That's not the right word, but it's the best I can think of.

It had been thirty years since I'd first heard the voice, and I was now a young priest with a flock of my own. I had built a reputation with the other priests for writing sermons that kept parishioners in their seats and having a lot of luck regarding matters with the Diocese. I had gotten through the ranks faster than most, doing very well on my tests of catechism and church doctrine. At this rate, I was on my way to becoming one of the youngest bishops in my area. I'd never told anyone about the voices, thinking it was similar to the way people in the bible had heard the voice of God once upon a time. I knew it wasn't okay for me to think of myself as a prophet, but, whatever the reason, I was still certain it was the voice of God.

I should have been pleased, but I found myself thinking more and more about the nature of the phrase. I'd hear it before sermons sometimes and know that today's reflections on the Lord's word would be particularly captivating. I still said it to myself before doing almost anything, and I realized it had become a kind of lucky charm to me. Things would go well, and I would attribute it to the mantra. But why did I make this leap? Because it had always been? I needed to be sure.

So I started doing research.

Luckily, or unluckily, the Catholic church has a lot of resources for those looking to study the nature of religion. There was a lot of information on prophets, others who had communicated with God and his messengers, but my own situation was unique. I heard the same phrase again and again, and if it was the voice of God, then it was a first for such repetition. God told his prophets and chosen mouthpieces what he wanted them to do. Go to Nineveh, free the Hebrews, sacrifice your son, whatever he was asking people to do, he was always very specific.

"If I make this shot, the world will live" was not particularly specific, though.

I don't want any of you reading to think I didn't go into this from only a position of faith. I started by having a check-up with Doctor Redmond, my family physician. He ran a series of tests to determine if I had any underlying conditions, perhaps a tumor or some undiagnosed schizophrenia. It would have been easier if it was just something I could chalk up to external stimuli, but Doctor Redmond told me I was healthy as a horse when the results came back. "EKG, EEG, X-ray, physical, ct scan, heck, you even passed the cardiac battery with flying colors. I hope the Vatican has deep pockets because I'd imagine you just broke your health care budget for the year."

I thanked him, figuring the Church could foot the bill for my upcoming research.

With the tests showing I was in the right state of mind with a sound body, I started studying ways to instigate a more receptive state. There were several accounts of priests fasting and praying so they could speak with God, and while the idea of starving myself didn't appeal to me, it seemed to be the best way to find out more about the voice. It had never changed through the years, still sounding young and with the first rumbles of depth, and I wanted to know if the phrase had some deeper meaning.

The Lord works in mysterious ways, but if he had some job for me, I needed to disseminate his meaning.

I told my aides what I meant to do, giving them special instructions not to bother me but to check on me periodically. If they found me passed out or unconscious, they had instructions to offer aid. If I was hurting myself, worse than depriving myself of sleep and food, they were to call the hospital and have me admitted. As long as I was still praying or meditating and not doing myself any harm, they would leave me to it. I planned to conduct my little experiment from Sunday night to Saturday night of the following week, and on the following Sunday, I would come to mass with something to talk about in my weekly sermon.

I had no idea how prophetic that statement would be.

And so, after mass on Sunday night, I locked myself in my study, ate my last meal for the week, and began to read. I started at the beginning, reading of creation and of the garden, and as the hours stretched on, I started reading aloud to keep myself awake. The first night was the hardest. My body cried out for sleep as my stomach grumbled for lack of food. By the time Brother Joseph came to check on me the next morning, I was past the worst of it and still reciting from the Book of Numbers. He left me water, asking me how I felt before leaving me to it.

This was the height of my excitement for the project. I had only been awake for about a day, and my zeal was still high. I had heard the words three or four times throughout the night, and they had been clearer than I'd ever heard them. Sometimes the words were muffled, sounding like a kid's tin can phone, but that night the words were crisp and clear. I read for the rest of the day, hearing them two more times, and as night settled in again, I felt tired but filled with hope and God's love.

By day three, some of my enthusiasm was starting to slip.

I'd heard the words a few more times, twice perhaps, but I was starting to feel the effects of sleep deprivation. My stomach was also in a knot, and my head was swimming as my blood sugar fluctuated wildly. I had read stories about men fasting for weeks at a time and couldn't imagine another day of this. The only thing that kept me going was the knowledge that the few times I'd heard it, the voice had been clear as a bell.

Thursday night found me doing laps in my study when I finally got my answers.

I had finished the bible Wednesday night and had moved on to Contemplations of Dogma by Cardinal Mansfield. I had thought about praying, but I was tempted to sleep if I wasn't walking. I had been awake for four days now, and my desire to rest was almost as invasive as my desire to eat. I was dizzy as I read, the words running together, and as a stomach cramp hit me, I saw the book tumble from my hands as I doubled over. I thought I might throw up the water I had drank a few hours ago, but instead, I continued forward and fell to the floor. I landed next to the book, my world going black, and I wasn't sure I was going to wake up.

Knowing what I know now, it might have been kinder if I hadn't.

"If I make this shot, the world lives."

I could hear the words as if someone were whispering them into my ear.

I opened my eyes and was suddenly aware of floating. I was hovering over the shoulder of a young giant, his face that of a high school or college student. He was writing an essay, his pencil scritching on the page as he toiled away at his work. He would stop and erase something before starting again, and as I moved closer, I could see that he had a small stack of finished papers beside him on the desk. How long he'd been working on this essay was anyone's guess, but with an angry growl, I watched him crumble up the page before turning in his chair and facing me.

"If I make this shot, the world lives."

With a smooth and practiced arc, I watched him toss the paper into the nearby garbage pail before returning to his work, his pencil scratching away as he wrote.

I was speechless. What was I seeing here? Was this God? It couldn't be, could it? As he furrowed his brow, I saw that this essay wasn't the only thing on his desk. There was a manuscript, too, the title page proclaiming it to be "Golden Fields." I began to understand why I had heard him say the mantra so many times. I assumed it was a part of his process, and the throwing away of ideas was as much a part of it as the writing itself. If I were to read that manuscript, I wondered, would I find a priest in it? Perhaps one who hears voices? Was this man my creator? My God? The architect of everything I knew and loved?

I came to in the emergency room, Brother Marcus having found me seizing on the floor and called an ambulance.

Now I lie here, contemplating what I saw.

Was it real? Did I actually see this being, or was it something my mind created? As I sit here, I can still hear the words from time to time, but I don't say them anymore. The Church has given me a short leave of absence, but I don't know if I can ever go back to my old life. How can I preach of God and glory while I know in my heart that we exist because of a single being and his ability to throw a paper ball into a hoop? It makes me realize how insubstantial we are, how little we matter, but that's not the worst thing that has occurred as I lay here.

As I sit and listen to the listless beep of the machines, I find my mind circling back to the same question again and again.

If he should miss his next shot, would we ever know?

If he missed his next shot, would we continue to live or simply snuff out into nothingness?