Yoga or Nothing

Yesterday evening I watched the whole season 1 on Netflix. Those who know me, they are not surprised.

If one further gets to know, it was a documentary, set up in the “achingly beautiful land” * of Arizona, witnessing the struggles and achievements in the world of the Navajo Nation, then one knows that I was helplessly mesmerised and beyond the reach of logic, timetable, anything for a couple of hours.

“Basketball or Nothing” is a fascinating tale about the young high school team and their coach Mendoza. The school’s athletic director Shaun Martin**, who is an ultramarathon runner himself constantly puts an emphasis on “why”. He wants children to become better human beings, while coach Mendoza measures his success by them not committing suicide while on his team.

Kareem Abdul-Jabbar used to be his assistant coach. There is so much wisdom, patience and love radiating from his presence.

“There’s no limit to what we can accomplish if we don’t care who gets the credit,” he told his teenage team.

I will not talk more about season 1, you simply have to watch it.

Rezball and its hoop dreams packed in the Fleabag-sized six episodes at 30 minutes each will inspire you, purify you, enchant you.

What does it have to do with yoga? Everything. Shaun Martin says he runs to celebrate life, to pray and to learn. I would say that yoga means the same for me.

I feel strangely connected to or magnetised by Native American and Indian cultures.

While living in California, I was regularly approached by the members of different nations, who were asking me which tribe I was from. To my and their astonishment, I would mention “Balkan tribe”.

In London, my best friends were from Indian families, born in Africa.

Not sure what that exactly means, yet nevertheless, the culture I was born into has many aspects of what we can see in the “Basketball or Nothing” - extraordinary pride, resilience, self-destruction and substance abuse, violence, remarkable athletism.

As far back as Shaun can remember, he and his brothers were woken by his dad at 5 a.m. to run eastward in celebration of the birth of a new day with father the sky, mother the earth, and the holy sun–a traditional Navajo ritual.

I would wake up to the smell of coffee, and our parents running away from us, to their jobs. We were often left alone, allowed to have “bijela kava” or latte with “pohani kruh” or french toast/Bombay toast.

*https://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/01/sports/basketball/navajo-nation-raul-mendoza-arizona.html

**https://trailrunnermag.com/people/the-why.html