Conversions.

Now that the University of Kentucky's men's basketball team, the Wildcats, is defending its national title (and still eligible for the NCAA tournament), it is time to reflect on the profound correlation between Roman Catholicism and college basketball. I am a true believer.

I was received into the church a few years ago when UK was on probation for recruiting violations. In my penitence, I realized then that the Catholic liturgical calendar recapitulates the NCAA schedule. The first Sunday of Advent, the beginning of the church year, falls on the annual UK-Indiana matchup CBS always bills as the beginning of something big; the regular-season conference games after Epiphany coincide with Ordinary Time; the grueling, life-or-death tournaments get fought out during the most austere hours of Lent; and the chosen Final Four rise with our Lord around Easter. This couldn't be mere coincidence. For me, this parallel is a compelling apology for Christianity by an updated argument from design.

But of course my heart had already been prepared for the "one, holy, catholic, and apostolic" faith: I just had to recall the religious struggles of my father for clear radio and television reception to follow his beloved 'Cats.

It was the 1960s in northern Kentucky. We lived at the foot of a curving hill that God had placed between us and the air waves from both Louisville and Cincinnati to test the depth of our commitment. Invariably, on a wickedly cold night around Ash Wednesday, WHAS would come in so poorly on our electric Sears tube that my father would have to go outside and use his car transistor - to listen to a mere conference game!

He'd freeze out there by himself, risking frostbite and carbon-monoxide poisoning, warmed by no more than a pack of Winstons and the heater set on low lest it drown out the crooning play-by-play of Cawood Ledford. Inside, I could follow the course of the game by listening to how the little Ford Fairline six-cylinder idled. If it whined high, I knew the 'Cats were on a ten-point run; if it revved down, the squad's outside shooting had gone cold. And if once in a blue moon tires squealed and the car tore off, I knew that, for one night at least, the order of the universe had been upset. The 'Cats had blown a big lead or choked at the end, and my poor old man was off to Dutch Eddie's Saloon to drown his sorrows and the 'Cats' disgrace.

Occasionally, when by providence Channel 7 out of Dayton was carrying UK versus Duke or Marquette, my father would head up over the hill to its northeast side and my grandfather's house. With an hour's worth of fiddling, ten yards of aluminum foil, and a few prayers, he could make his father-in-law's thirteen-inch circa 1954 Motorola black-and-white pick up the wispiest shadow of the game.

"The picture ain't going to hold," I'd say with the impatience of a doubtful adolescent.

"Have faith," he'd whisper gently.

The lights were dimmed, the telephone was off the hook, and the three of us leaned forward on our knees. If the 'Cats stole the ball, I'd whoop out an "Alleluia," the picture would explode into a blizzard of static, and my father would shush me quiet with a glare, go rub the aluminum foil, baby the Motorola, and will that game back into being.

Since the games we hijacked were frequently far along in the tournament, too often we'd only get to see Kentucky lose. But those annual death experiences informed my soul two decades before my conversion. Christians await a Second Coming; a UK fan knows what it means to wait for certain glory. 1975, 1984, 1992, 1993, 1995: all losses, by a few points, by a few seconds, or by a total breakdown. But finally came last year's Eastertide bonanza.

Even though my father finally has a national title under his belt and reliable cable reception at home, his game face still hasn't changed. It's still pale when UK is behind and all feverish when the 'Cats get hot. It's the face of a man who will die a little if his team loses - a face stricken with fear and ready to resort to prayer, the face of a parent sitting up with a sick child.

I can't explain it. I don't know what could turn a no-nonsense tobacco farmer into a silly sports fan, or his atheist son into a Roman Catholic. I can't explain why a Kentucky cousin of mine shattered his television with an unopened six-pack in reaction to a coaching blunder, or why I still let out a whoop when a UK game comes over my short-wave radio. All I know is that the same mysterious foolishness blows the dying embers of love and need and belief; and they can never be entirely ridiculous.

Ken Colston teaches Latin, French, and English at the Thomas Jefferson School in Saint Louis, Missouri. He also coaches girls' basketball.