In one of the more controversial statements of the 20th century, musician John Lennon infamously quipped that the Beatles were “more popular than Jesus.”

Whether this statement was true, one thing remains absolute: They didn’t have a thing on Kansas basketball. Anyone who was raised with it knows I’m not overstating the matter when I compare Jayhawk basketball to a religion. I’ve learned more about faith and the existence of God from a basketball game than I have from any sermon. And if the NCAA championship game revealed anything, it’s that, occasionally, praying works.

In the coming weeks and months, sports analysts all over the country will place the 2007-2008 Kansas Jayhawks under a microscope. What made them champions? Curiosity will pull us to the newsstands. We’ll all (myself included) pick up the new “Sports Illustrated” and “ESPN Magazine.” We’ll listen to the commentators on “SportsCenter.”

They’ll write about the impenetrable defense and the pesky guard play. They’ll write about the high-low offense and overpowering big men. They’ll write about the senior leadership and incredible balance.

Let me tell you what they won’t write about.

They won’t write about what KU basketball actually is because they don’t know. KU basketball is not one moment. It’s not one player or one coach. It’s not one team. It’s not Mario Chalmers or Bill Self. It’s not Danny Manning or Larry Brown. It’s not even Phog Allen or James Naismith.

Here’s what KU basketball is.

KU basketball is 40,000 people on Massachusetts Street. It’s getting out of your car a mile away and hearing the constant, collective cheer of the crowd. Police lined the sidewalks during the celebration, but I think even they would tell you they didn’t need to be there; 40,000 people within five blocks, and not one act of violence or vandalism: just one big, universal high five. It didn’t matter if you knew anybody.

KU basketball is my father, who, even in the worst of health, managed to come downstairs and watch a few minutes of the game. My father coached our elementary school basketball team to a perfect season (0-8!). But we didn’t care, because our team name was the Jayhawks, and my dad made sure we felt like them every game.

KU basketball is Carl Cline, who let me walk across the backyard and shoot hoops on his basketball goal before I even had enough strength to throw the ball above the rim. Carl Cline, who helped me make my very first jump shot by placing his hand under the basketball and giving it that extra boost it needed to make it off the backboard and through the net.

KU basketball is all the Generation Y kids who associate life experiences with Kansas basketball players. “Remember that time… I think Raef Lafrentz was a junior, and Joey’s dad accidentally shot himself in the leg on that hunting trip?” “Remember the year Collison and Hinrich were sophomores, we stayed up really late the night before we took our ACTs and played video games?”

KU basketball is Grandpa Waller, who put up my first basketball goal. Never one to be outdone, Grandpa actually buried the base of the goal in cement so it wouldn’t blow around in the wind. Grandpa Waller, who lives halfway around the world, but still makes sure to check the Kansas City Star Web site for Jayhawk updates.

KU basketball is the fans inside Allen Fieldhouse at the end of a game, the fans, who slowly chant, “Rock, Chalk, Jayhawk…KU.” Nobody ever storms the court at Allen Fieldhouse. Our star player doesn’t hop onto the scorer’s table and wave his jersey around his head. The crowd just chants, “Rock, Chalk, Jayhawk…KU.”

In 20 years, I’ll need a moment to remember who the starting five were on the 2008 team. I won’t need a moment to remember who I was with when we won it all. I won’t need a moment to remember who jumped into the air with me when Chalmers sank his three or who I hugged as Collins dribbled out the final seconds of the game. I won’t need a moment because as I watch the last remnants of my childhood fade away, I realize what is important.

KU basketball really has nothing to do with basketball. I’m not a college athlete. I’ll never coach a college basketball team. I’ll probably never be a college basketball commentator. I will be a husband. I will be a father. I will be a grandfather. I will love my family. I will believe in God. I learned these things in Allen Fieldhouse. I learned these things in the upper deck of Kemper Arena. I learned these things in a living room.

Excuse me if I don’t make it to church. I used up all my prayers in March.

Rock, Chalk, Jayhawk…Amen.

—Nathan Robert Carter, Shawnee junior in film.