When I stretched and stooped to save a loose basketball that was rolling perilously close to the sideline, you could almost hear my muscles creak and groan. My back tightened, my legs locked up and my arms refused to extend another millimeter. My body resembled an aircraft carrier trying to turn in the wind, slowly and stressfully.
My teammate, 20 years young in his late 40s, started laughing: “You gonna make it old man?’’
Before I could gather the ball, the thought flashed through my brain – “I need more flexibility.’’ Then my thoughts turned to the dastardly four-letter word: yoga.
Nope, I can’t return to the scene of the crime. I already was in the vicinity since I was in the gym at the local YMCA, but I never want to revisit the second-floor exercise studio. Five years later, the experience remained seared into my memory.
On the Friday before the Covid-19 pandemic began to unfold, I listened to a friend’s advice. “Yoga would be great for you. You’d be surprised how it can enhance your flexibility. It’ll help you on the basketball court and carry over to other sports too (golf!).’’
That’s where my ego kicked in. For a guy in his mid-60s, I was in pretty good shape. I played hoops two or three mornings per week and officiated basketball or lacrosse three, sometimes four, evenings per week. In the summer, I walked 18 holes of golf and carried my own clubs a couple of days per week. Yoga will be easy, I calculated.
I joined a beginners class and headed for the back row. I would just melt into the populace and be somewhat anonymous. However, the mirrors on the surrounding walls meant you could see everyone from any vantage point. I already was one of the few men and the biggest mammal in a class of 30. I didn’t wear any stretch pants or stretchy fabric to accentuate my form, just gym shorts and a basketball T-shirt. There was no hiding.
I unrolled my mat next to a woman with a ready smile who seemed to be about my age.
“This is my first time,’’ I softly warned her, “so if you see me doing something wrong, just let me know. I don’t want to disturb the regulars.’’
“Oh, you’ll be fine,’’ she whispered.
But I couldn’t leave it at that. Once I took off my sneakers, I had to explain my athletic regimen, how I was trying to gain more flexibility. Inside my head, I remained the guy who wanted to excel at everything. I reasoned this 60-minute gig would be effortless. My neighbor will be thinking, “This guy can handle anything.’’
The teacher began issuing instructions into her microphone, and within 15 minutes my smugness began to unravel. I was stretched out on the mat, twisting my hips and contorting my back. Geez, there was tension. Those muscles started to chirp.
That was the first time I spotted the clock on the wall. The hands seemed frozen. We were 20 minutes in and I could feel perspiration beading on my forehead. Sweating? I never imagined this would be that rigorous.
The instructor modeled something upright about Warrior. My only thought was that Genghis Khan was stabbing me in the back.
The clock was now in my head. Darn those hands. They’ve only moved about five minutes.
The leader talked soothingly into her headset about Downward Dog. Always appreciative of a one-liner, my mind raced to the character Norm (George Wendt) on Cheers: “It’s a dog-eat-dog world and I’m wearing Milk-Bone underwear.’’ It didn’t help.
We were 35 minutes in and the sweat was gathering on the back of my neck when the first crisis began. I felt gassy and was starting to taste lunch again. More mind games: “Great, I’m going to belch louder than Pumbaa from The Lion King. What will my neighbor think?’’
Moments later, I reached the critical juncture. My stomach gas decided it should exit from the opposite end. This got intense. I didn’t want to be the guy who sounded like a submarine klaxon, the schmo who could signal ships on Lake Ontario from 7 miles away, the nincompoop (poor choice of words) who was going to pass flatulence and disrupt the entire yoga class. If this was football game, the stadium sound system would be blaring Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.’’
Before my bowels could belch, the instructor directed us to lay back, cool down and meditate for the last five minutes. Phew, saved by the bell, and spared by my buttocks.
The best was yet to come. I turned to my neighbor with a preemptive apology: “I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.’’
She smiled. We chatted a bit. Crisis averted. I discovered she was the sister of a good friend at church. Thank God I didn’t commit a mortal sin.
Return to yoga? I won’t risk it again.
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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