This is a wish that the Loyola-Chicago University basketball team charges right through the NCAA tournament’s Final Four weekend and wins the national title. It is a keep-the-fingers-crossed hope that the decided underdog has its day. A belief, in fact, that such an unlikely result might come to pass.

It is not, however, a prayer. It is not—and this is a bit tricky for someone who spent eight years in Catholic school—an endorsement of tournament superstar Sister Jean’s plea for divine intervention on behalf of Loyola. For all the charm in the country’s discovery of Sister Jean Dolores-Schmidt, the 98-year-old team chaplain and sometime scout, I confess to a discomfort in hearing her admission on one of many TV appearances that she prays for a win, and that “we have God on our side.”

My first participation in organized sports was as a sixth-grade Little Leaguer, and one of the first admonitions from our gangly, soft-spoken coach, Mr. Buck, was that there would be no supplications that the Almighty come to the aid of our team. (And, by extension, work against our opponent.)

Victory and personal stardom hardly are against my religion. But I am reminded of a CNN essay a few years ago which asked, “When did God become a sports fan?” It cited the increasing number of baseball players pointing to the heavens after hitting home runs, NFL players praying in the end zone after scoring, victorious jocks in various sports thanking The Lord for helping them make winning plays.

The article quoted William J. Baker, author of “Playing with God,” making the point that such gestures amounted to “an athlete using a moment to sell a product, like soap.” By publicly thanking God for victory it was, in effect, calling more attention to the athlete than to his faith. Such conflating of godliness with athletic success brought, at one point, a letter to the editor in a British newspaper with the headline, “Leave me out of your petty games.—Love, God.”

A couple of years ago, the Public Religion Research Institute did a study that found 53 percent of Americans and 56 of sports fans believed God rewards faithful athletes with “good health and success.” And that more than a quarter of Americans and sports fans say God determines the outcomes of specific games. Which seems to equate defeat with somehow already being on the road to hell.

The Sister Jean story, with all its sidebars and spinoffs flooding the televised, digital and print coverage of the tournament, is lovely for the way it has emphasized community—she’s hearing from former students, former players, nuns from her order. The fuss reminds of how we identify with our school or associates, and it reflects the fairly unavoidable presence of big sports events in our society. In a visit to the retirement home of Sister Jean’s order in Dubuque, Iowa, New York Times columnist Juliet Macur was told by one of the nuns how she was encouraged to think, “How many young people would usually be interacting with a 98-year-old like this?”

But, too, another nun noted the “irony in this [that] we often like to talk about peace and justice and living in the margins and helping other people. And, of course, Jean Dolores did all of that earlier in her career. But now the camera isn’t on peace and justice. It’s on Jean Dolores.”

It’s on winning basketball games, and a tournament that will bring the NCAA $8.8 billion in television-rights money over eight years. It’s on how Loyola is cashing in on Sister Jean’s sudden celebrity by marketing Sister Jean T-shirts, socks and bobblehead dolls.

“At the end of the game,” Sister Jean said, “we want to be sure that when the buzzer goes off that the numbers indicate that we get the big W.”

Perhaps that’s just a variation of hope—from her lips to God’s ears. But, as a prayer, it could be seen as trivializing faith and religion. It could be hinting that God will confer success on the more moral team, and that may not be staying in one’s lane when it comes to sports.

How about this: Root for Loyola if you prefer. I will. But if those lads don’t win, it’s a shame. Not a damn shame.