My cyberfriend Douglas Young left a good comment about yesterday’s post:

So immersed in the community of the Braves, listening to announcers, reading the stats (facts), and being engulfed in the culture, you adopted a set of convictions because of the experience altogether. It makes perfect sense!

The similarities may be easy to spot, but let’s go over them just to make sure. Often, people who don’t embrace the convictions or beliefs of the Christian faith find themselves hanging around lots of Christian people, listening to Christian speakers, reading the Bible for themselves and learning the Christian culture. Then — gradually — over time they find themselves rooting for the Christian story to be true. Eventually, they may become convinced that it is, in fact, true.

They may not be able to point to a definitive moment when they first believed. They may not even be aware of their newly formed beliefs at first. They may not want to admit these beliefs at first, but — like it or not — that’s what they believe now!

And I say all of that to say this: We do not choose our beliefs; more often than not, it seems almost as if our beliefs choose us. People who work with students often say it this way: sometimes you have to belong before you can believe. We might go further and say that some people must belong in order to believe.

And now we find ourselves back at our original question, which is whether Christianity is more a matter of conviction or a matter of commitment. It would seem from what we’re saying here that commitment comes first and conviction comes as a byproduct.

But enough about what I think. What do you think? Does this whole “faith and baseball” analogy stand up? And, if so, what are the practical ramifications of thinking about faith development along these lines?

Of course, I am prone to saying that everything is at least a little like baseball, but this time I really mean it. Faith can be like a particular aspect of baseball that I’d like to talk about today: being a fan.

When I was growing up in southern California, I rooted for the Dodgers. Yes, the Angels were closer to my house, but even at an early age I realized the the designated hitter was a corruption of the purity of the game. The National League team closest to my house was the Los Angeles Dodgers, and that was my team.

But then something happened when I was in high school. My parents moved me to the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia — home of the Braves. Now, it’s important to remember that this was before the Braves were good. They were terrible, in fact. And the Dodgers were good.

I, of course, went to old Fulton County Stadium every time the Dodgers came to town (which was frequent back then because both teams played in the same division). And I always rooted for the Dodgers. I was no fickle fan.

But something began to happen. See, more than I love any particular team, I’ve always loved the game. So, I’ve always loved watching the game, but I lived in Atlanta. The only teams I got to see were the Braves and whoever was playing the Braves. When I listened to the radio, who were they talking about? The Braves. When I read the Sports Page, who were they writing about? The Braves.

I was submerged in the Braves culture, and — gradually — I came to learn a great deal about the team, about the owner, about the manager, about the players. I knew their names and where they’d gone to school. I knew their batting average and their ERA. They weren’t such bad guys.

I decided that I could root for them as long as they weren’t playing my beloved Dodgers. That was the line I drew.

But one muggy September night in 1987, something really devastating happened. I went out to the stadium and sat in the bleachers like always. Back then you could smoke in the bleachers, and I had a really stinky, cheap cigar with me. I was one of about 50 people scattered here and there in the seats (I honestly just looked it up, and there were officially 14,090 people in attendance that night). The Dodgers were in town, and I was wearing my Dodger blue cap.

The Braves jumped to an early lead, but the Dodgers got six runs in the 4th inning. They added two more in the top of the 7th and were winning 8-4. I knew intellectually that I should be happy about this.

Except I wasn’t. I was trying to manufacture it, because the people near me were giving me a hard time for wearing the visiting team’s colors. But something inside me felt a little…I don’t know…off.

Then the Braves started a rally in the bottom of the 7th inning, and to my shock and horror, I felt a little twinge of excitement. I could not believe this! What was happening to me? The Braves kept chipping away at the lead, and the tighter the score became, the more excited I got.

By the end of the inning, they’d tied the score, and I found myself cheering them on with all the other bleacher bums. As the game stretched on into extra innings, I came to a startling realization: I had become a Braves fan. I’m not sure when or how it happened exactly. I can’t point you to a moment in time or an intentional choice. All I know is that I found myself rooting for the Braves. I really wanted them to win, even though it meant defeating the team I’d cheered for since I was young.

My fandom snuck up on me.

When Ken Griffey doubled home a run in the bottom of the 10th inning, the few people who had stayed for the duration jumped and screamed and clapped and high-fived each other. And I wanted to be part of that celebration. But I had that Dodger blue cap on my head. So, I congratulated the people around me, and I left — with my convictions shaken.

Now, let’s process this together, okay? How is this story of how I became a fan of the Atlanta Braves similar to faith?

A few hours ago my family returned from California. Jill and the girls have been out there for five weeks. I was out there for two, which is long enough to adjust to the time change. It’s nearly three in the morning, but my body thinks it’s just now midnight.

We got home just as the San Francisco Giants’ game against the Washington Nationals was starting, so I was watching intently as Barry Bonds strode to the plate and hit a double to the gap in his first trip to the plate. I was also watching when he came up again and lined a solid single. I was really glad to see the Nats actually pitch to him.

I was laying down with my three-year-old daughter when he came to the plate a third time. She’d wanted her mother to read her a story, but Jill was busy so I stepped in as a not-entirely-welcome second-stringer. It took some convincing, but Amelia eventually decided that she’d settle for me — since I was the only parent available. We talked for just a couple of minutes, and I could tell she was getting drowsy. By this time Barry was in the on-deck circle, but she was so close to falling asleep that I didn’t want to move for fear of waking her up. Her breathing was just starting to go deep, and she was so tired.

I could barely hear what was going on from the television downstairs. It got kind of quiet. Then it got really loud, and I knew what had happened. Jill said, “John, come quick!”

I remember a warm spring afternoon in 1981 when I got to see the debut of a chubby Mexican teenage phenom pitcher named Fernando Valenzuela. I remember where I was (Pepperdine Dorms) when I saw Kurt Gibson hit the homerun in the World Series in ‘88. I remember where I was (Dunwoody, GA) and who I was with (Rick Hazelip) when Dave Justice redeemed himself by hitting a solo shot against the Cleveland Indians in ‘95. I watched live on ESPN as Cal took his victory lap around Camden Yard. I remember watching Big Mac hit number 62 from a sports bar in Staunton, Virginia. I’ve seen my share of memorable baseball moments — some of them in person, most of them live on television.

But I had to settle for instant replay this time. And I’m okay with that.

Performance-enhancing drugs are part of the game. Let’s be grownups about that. To some extent, they always have been. Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle were getting more than vitamins in those injections! More than half of the guys who’ve been busted for using steroids have been pitchers. I’m not saying it’s right, and I’m not saying Barry’s clean. I don’t know anything about him for sure (except his noggin has gotten huge, and that ain’t normal), but I do know that if a hitter’s using, odds are the pitcher is, too. So, the field is pretty level as far as I can tell.

And 756 is a lot of homeruns.

I’ve never hit one in a Major League ballpark filled with tens of thousands of cheering fans. I don’t know what it feels like to round those bases and have Hank Aaron congratulate you on the Jumbo-tron.

But it can’t be much better than having your youngest daughter fall asleep on you.

Greetings from the land of beer and cheese. I’m in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I’ll be doing a parenting seminar for a church here and speaking for them at their two assemblies tomorrow morning.

There was no way I was going to get a ticket to the Final Four (which is in my hometown) today, so I figured it would be better to leave town. Beat the traffic and avoid the crowds!

I got three of the final four teams: Ohio State, Florida, UCLA. I missed on North Carolina; I even had them going to the finals.

I’ve still got UCLA winning it all, but Florida has me a little worried.

How about you? How did your brackets fare? And who is going to cut down the nets Monday night?

I got off to such a great start: I was 8 for 8 before the dinner break yesterday.

And then the wheels fell off….

First, Marquette lost to Michigan State. Then Duke got knocked off by VCU. Then BYU fell. Then Gonzaga.

The Madness has officially begun.

I’ve got UCLA winning the whole thing. Hey, I grew up in Southern California; we rooted for USC football and UCLA basketball.

Who do you have winning it all this year?

I’m heading to the airport in a few minutes — doing a parenting seminar this weekend in Cleveland, OH.

I haven’t traveled since the second weekend in December! It’s been great sitting around the house, but I’m ready to get back to work! And, boy, am I going to hit the ground running. I’m in Cleveland this weekend. Then I go to Amarillo, TX. Then I go to Santa Rosa, CA. I have President’s Day Weekend off. Then, I speak at a church here in the Atlanta area two Sundays in a row. Then back out to California. I’m going to Milwaukee (land of beer and cheese) and Hanover, PA (land of potato chips).

I sure would appreciate your prayers for me and my family. I think we’re all a little out of practice with my travel schedule having been dormant for nearly seven weeks. Pray for my wife, especially, if you would. She gets to stay home with the girls after what’s been a really emotionally draining week.

I’m a little anxious about this weekend. I’m presenting some new material in this seminar, and that always wigs me out a little. Oh, and it’s supposed to snow the entire time I’m there.

Okay…without further interruption…your Friday Sports Question is: Who will win the Super Bowl?

(I know we did this one a couple of weeks ago, but I think Dusty Rush and Lisa Lee are the only ones with a dog still in the fight.)

Who is going to win: Colts or Bears?

I believe the position of Quarterback is the most important position in all of sports. You might disagree with that, but I can’t imagine another single position that has as much impact on a team.

Once again, the AFC Championship game comes down to the New England Patriots vs. the Indianapolis Colts. That, of course, means Tom Brady vs. Peyton Manning — arguably two of the top 10 QBs of all time, and that brings us to today’s question:

If you could take one QB to build your franchise (and I’m talking of all-time), who would it be?

I’m going way out on a limb here and picking the Super Bowl teams…drumroll please:

Baltimore vs. Philadelphia

I know. Everyone’s saying San Diego vs. New Orleans, but I’m not convinced yet. Don’t get me wrong. I would absolutely love to see New Orleans in the Super Bowl (except that I think the AFC will absolutely destroy whatever team the NFC sends). And I love the San Diego Chargers. I’ve loved both of these teams since I was a kid.

But I’m a maverick. I’m not always right about stuff like this (I did pick Ohio State to win the other night). Still, that’s my pick, and I’m sticking with it.

Who do you think it’ll be?

And who do you think will win?

It’s been really serious on the blog lately (and so few of you have jumped into the comments), so I thought we could all enjoy something a little more lighthearted. Like the return of “The Friday Sports Question”.

Today’s question is this: Who will win Monday night? Florida or Ohio State?

Bonus question: If Florida wins, does Boise State deserve consideration as National Champions?

I went to Pepperdine University, home of The Waves. If you look now, you’ll see that the mascot is Poseidon, the Greek god of the sea. He is muscular and intimidating with his pointy trident and flowing beard.

When I attended, the mascot was a guy named Willie the Wave. He looked like someone had covered Gumby in blue shag carpet. It’s hard to be menacing when your mascot is Willie the Wave.

“Oh no! Here come the waves! And they’re led by that rogue Willie!” 

But Pepperdine is far from the only place with a less-than-terrifying mascot. My friend Elizabeth Sandstrom attended the University of Delaware — home of the Fighting Blue Hens.

The University of Louisville are the Cardinals, but Stanford University is The Cardinal — as in the color. Come to think of it, how scary is a Crimson Tide?

Bulldogs. Tigers. Eagles. Wolverines. Spartans. Those are strong mascots.

Ducks? Buckeyes? Cornhuskers? Those are kind of weak.

I’m not saying the schools are weak; I’m just saying it’s got to be hard to sound scary yelling, “Tear them apart, Hoosiers!”

What gets your vote for silliest mascot?