Yoga and Longevity On The Court
Paul Eckstein
Wayward jock – it’s a technical term describing me. I grew up playing games on the streets of New York City. The quiet tree-lined cul de sac outside my Brooklyn apartment was a natural arena for the alternating games of stickball, football, roller hockey, basketball, handball and catch that I played daily. Over time, I graduated from street clothes to uniforms, from arguing with playmates to referees, and answered to coaches yelling at me to run plays instead of mom yelling at me to come in for dinner. I’ll never forget when my games turned into sports: hitting a shot at the buzzer to win a peewee league basketball game led to a euphoric celebration by my twelve-year-old teammates and bleacher clearing by overly excited cheering parents. Suddenly the stakes were high and practice was dedicated discipline.
Basketball and football were teenage obsessions. I had a continual devotion to that sweet spot in time when everything slows down, all you can hear is your heartbeat and no one can stop you from going to the hoop and slamming it; or grabbing that spinning pigskin out of the sky as you leap to the moon and land in the end zone. I felt that nothing in life could ever taste as delicious as that temporal sweet spot. Although I enjoyed the hype of a jock’s life, I was always drawn to the simple pure spirit of sport. Playing on the streets and in the parks for fun was a joyfully freeing addiction in my life. No coaches barking plays, just the vibe and rhythm of your teammates. No referees, just your word and honor. No scouts to impress, just the pure motivation to compete and be victorious. And the pursuit continued well into manhood.
One problem, it catches up with you. Cement is not kind to the joints. Neither are bone-jarring blocks, or elbows to the chin that make everything go white or fingers snapping backwards jammed by the ball. Years of dedicated sweat lead to the discovery of God’s little design flaws; it’s easy to postulate that the knees, ankles, hips, and sacrum may not have been conceived with football in mind.
The number thirty hit and it was no longer advisable to play football or basketball two days in a row if I wanted to move up off the couch on day three. And the recovery took so much longer; acupuncture, massage or natural mineral baths only masked the inevitable pain and aches. The snap, crackle, pop! of my ankles on cold wet mornings would flash me back to the dunk I slammed home on that guy from Boston College before I landed on his foot experiencing unimaginable hot waves of pain shooting up my leg. I have relived the hit I took freshman year from that all-league safety through electric lower back pain during many furniture moving projects.
Then it happened. I started to get slow and the burst of youth began to ooze out of my muscles. Now those who I previously would have laughed at could run by me, now those shorter and with more heft could out jump me. But I persevered, and relied more on my brain than my brawn, more on my experience than my raw talent. I no longer outworked my competition; I had to out-think them. But as the big four-oh approached it became clear that I could no longer hang with those kids fresh out of college eager to prove that they were “the man.” My slow step was just too slow. I became the hack: the guy who fouled instead of kept up. Then at a pick-up game at the local YMCA, I was the last player chosen. Could I actually be the worst player on the court? Was it time to put down childish things? It dawned on me that I might be over the hill at the age of forty. I hung up my cleats and high tops and retired from recreational sports. Depressed, I contemplated golf. It was a personal tragedy – the idea that I could never find that sweet spot in time again nearly broke my spirit.
Yoga may have not encapsulated the sweet spot in time born of testing physical prowess in competition, but its practice is constantly sweet. It blossomed in me like a quiet dawn.
Then I went to a yoga class. I wish I could say I read about the amazing physical and spiritual effects of yoga practice and decided to check it out. But like many guys, a girl I was trying to impress pulled me into my first class. And also like many unaware single men, before walking into a studio, I had no idea that the yoga babe is the ultimate and what a good idea it is to spend an hour-and-a-half in a room breathing and sweating with these beautiful women. Time and years continued, I married a yoga teacher, stopped caring more about asana than girlies and yoga became a habit.
I learned to breathe into my tight hips and muscles, to enjoy the sensual intensity and even pain of a good stretch instead of the adrenaline-fueled explosive jolt of brutal contact. Eventually I conquered gravity. Instead of hurling myself through the air after balls, I learned to let blood flow the opposite way while upside-down on my head. I had the particularly glorious experience of deep strength and stretch bliss in warrior two, my hands up and open, reveling in the fire of my breath and the tingling running throughout my body. Yoga may have not encapsulated the sweet spot in time born of testing physical prowess in competition, but its practice is constantly sweet. It blossomed in me like a quiet dawn.
After a few years of steady practice I was given the most glorious gift a guy in his forties can get: renewed youth. The magic of yoga had extraordinary effects on my body. The aches and pains dissipated and a new-found flexibility and sense of freedom allowed me to reshape my awareness of my own movements. My ankles no longer sounded like bowls of Rice Krispies in the morning, a peaceful silence usurped the snap, crackle, pop! I could re-arrange furniture without worry, grab up my wife without fear of falling over or jog through the neighborhood without requiring a post-run date with bags of ice. I had deep strength, strength that comes from building inside to out, not the jock’s way from the outside working in.
After being away from games for a few years, I awoke one morning sure of what I had to do. With confidence in my heart and awareness in my limbs, I decided it was time to again search for that sweet spot in time. I arrived on the cement battlefield feeling a joy only a kid knows on the first day of summer league with an endless sea of games ahead of him. When the bouncing ball came my way, I joined a game populated by at least two former competitive college players and many young men with attitude. I wanted to scream and giggle as I ran up and down the court.
The magic of yoga had extraordinary effects on my body. The aches and pains dissipated and a new-found flexibility and sense of freedom allowed me to reshape my awareness of my own movements.
Then it happened, midway through my second game, everything got quiet, there was a thump thump in my ears and my opponent’s movements slowed. I caught a pass on the wing, bounced the ball between my legs and went to the hoop. I saw the rim opening like arms in a huge welcoming hug and I leapt. One of the college dudes leapt with me and the imminent impact was intense. I was subsequently knocked to the ground with a grunt. My lithe and aware body took the heat and adjusted. I rolled to a stop with only the slightest bruise instead of needing paramedics. And while prone I saw the ball thud off the backboard, dance on the rim, then drop through. My heart soared.
I played three full court games in a row that day. Heaven could only hope to be this good!
I slept that night awaiting the real test, the ultimate judgment – the morning after.
My first thought waking to the grey and hazy West Coast morning was: Would rising cause trauma? When I swung my legs to the ground; the blood went to all my different parts without any pulsing, throbbing…or even fear. I stood and leaned over, shook my legs, arms and twisted my upper body from side to side. No sharp lightning bolts, no morose heat, no dizziness…no pain! I stood and immediately did a sun salutation and thanked God for the miracle that is yoga.
So if you’re ever cruising past a basketball court or football field in LA and see a guy who looks way past his prime cavorting with athletes much younger, stop and watch for any exuberance in that old man, take a minute to see if he can still go to the hoop, or if he can still go long. And if he does and makes the “and one” or dives for the touchdown go up to him and ask how he does it, most likely he’ll say, “Do yoga, stuff don’t break.”
Paul Eckstein is a writer, director and producer who lives in Venice, California. He’s been published a little and you may have seen stuff he wrote on TV and in movies. Besides his jumpshot and how open his hips are he’s most proud of his one-year-old son Sebastian. Paul thanks the love of his life and teacher Hala Khouri for keeping his life and practice juicy. Check Hala out at: halakhouri.com for classes and wisdom.
By Paul Eckstein
