YOGA

I have bad news.  After years of fighting for good, opposing all that is unjust, I have finally turned to the dark side, I have given up, I have been broken, literally, physically, and I have succumb to the evil spirits of the underworld, that’s right, Ladies and Geetles, I, King of All Jewish Baseball, began experimenting with the black magic commonly known as YOGA, or stretching and breathing, as I, in the name of accuracy, like to call it. I have officially outsourced my health and control of my own body to a beautiful twenty-four year old Israeli Yogi/Witchdoctor/Shaman named Roni.  Roni and I meet once a week on her rooftop studio under the crushing Middle Eastern sun, the finest honks and Hebrew of Yafo echoing up from the street to our spiritually elevated position above.  

We had our first session yesterday. I thought yoga was supposed to be relaxing.  But today I feel like I caught 18 innings. This could not be right.  The Gods of the Sun and the Moon are punishing me. Yoga is where bad people go to hide, I said, Yoga is not for me. I have my own superior spiritual practice, you know, it is called BASEBALL.  It takes place outdoors, under the sun that giveth life, in the dirt of the earth herself.  We breathe, we focus, we have rituals, we live in the present and block everything else out, in touch with our minds and our bodies.

But, it turns out, playing baseball 10 hours a day 7 days a week for 20 years is not good for you.  Who would have thunk it? So, in a final act of desperation, after trying all the classics– Haitian Voodoo, several elaborate Viking ceremonies involving animal sacrifice, and ancient Rastafarian twerking, as a last resort, I pray to the Eight Armed Serpent Goddess Yoga, Great Native Witch Methusala Shakshuka, to please, I beg of you, bless me with your smoking sage stick, give me health and prosperity.  I will do anything.  I will drink the blood of lambs, as you command.  I will wear a mask over my face as to not inhale and unintentionally harm or kill any holy microorganisms.  I will stop showering, promise.  Anything you say.  Just one or two more seasons under the sun.

Namaste.