« April 2006 | Main | July 2006 »
May 22, 2006
David Keil Photos
Here are a few wee pics of David Keil's visit to the studio where I help out. He's here for a couple of weeks doing Mysore Practice (see earlier posts) and advanced anatomy (see posts to come!).
Here David is at the start of a practice demo which literally silenced the room!!
Some hands on anatomy for the students
Class run through on chaturanga and down dog.
Posted by graeme at 8:51 PM | Comments (0)
May 12, 2006
Mutterings (Final Part)
But before anyone could gasp or applaud the ball was back in the air and off down the other end of the square he went. This time I decided to count. 7. He only managed 7. Perhaps this guy wasn’t infallible after all. Maybe the interruption of the first spill had broken his concentration. Maybe I was just looking at it the wrong way. He picked the ball up and off he went, this time with the same success I’d been present to for the past half an hour. It didn’t matter that the ball had dropped, but rather, it was more important that he picked himself up and started all over again in the pursuit of excellence.
The previous evening I had just returned from my first ever weekend Yoga retreat. My yoga instructor there for the Ashtanga sessions; her colleague running the Flow Yoga (something I always find myself calling yoga flow for some reason) and Chi ball sessions; and Tai Chi, Chi Gung and Shiatsu thrown in for good measure. Topped off with sessions discussing seasonal living, face reading and deep relaxation it had been a very hectic weekend. I was disturbed. Some of the sessions hadn’t sat too well with me. My build it winter, burn it summer, 5 nights a week every week full on CV/gym sessions at 180 degrees to what I had seen and heard portrayed in front of me. Yet the one thing I had come away with was I needed to change something, I needed to change me.
Then there’s the elbow attached to the guy with the ball at the end of his foot. Years of continued practice, no doubt. Friends mocking him as his first attempts floundered in the mid 50s. Yet he must have been encouraged. His first century, the first complete 15 minute unbroken run. “You’re pure dead brilliant". I dunno, I’m sure they all happened in some shape or form.
Was each trick a different Asana he had to master? Each session a workout practice where each of these flowed together in succession. Time after time after time until the effort required was surmounted leaving his mind free to reflect on greater things during each session. Had I wondered about him today as others would have about some ancient yogi sitting all pretzelled up under a tree in days gone by?
I wonder more and more these days where the Yogis of yesteryear would choose to ponder the Universe if they were in the West today. George Square doesn’t seem so bad a choice if you ask me.
Then a kid out with his dad started circling nearby. Maybe it was a decent enough excuse to stop but our guy stopped and passed him the ball. At first the words were purely directed towards getting the ball back to him. “Higher", ‘For my head", but slowly they revolved towards the boy. “Use the front of your foot", “Get your balance right first". Even the dad got in on the act. Finally enough was enough and the king came down to his court. Turns out he was touring round local places highlighting to kids what could be achieved. Impossible obstacle courses were erected then juggled over to everyone’s amazement. “It’s all for the kids", I overhead. Giving as well as entertaining. The diet coke t-shirt – shirt of fashion, or sponsorship deal. Well I know which one I’d like to think it was.
So here I am. The keepie-uppie elbow man has gone but the impression remains. If a man can dedicate himself to learning the dedication and discipline to keep a ball in the air can another confront the same trials of learning his own? Maybe I’ll only be able to keep the ball in the air for less than 10 seconds but there’s inspiration to be had in the most unlikely of places.
Posted by graeme at 9:41 AM | Comments (0)
May 11, 2006
Mutterings - 2
“You’re just a show off, man". Shouted a passing drunk, but our man was oblivious to the call or apparently didn’t care. Then I saw he was wearing a rather antiquated walkman, not the CD variety but ye-oldie fashioned tape variety. It must have been the expensive headphones that misled me to believe this was the latest IPod design. I wondered what the music of choice was for the keepie-up king that this guy was rapidly becoming. It certainly wasn’t distracting his concentration.
A crowd of passing tourists had spotted the entertainment on display. All dressed in red blazers and squawking away in some language I couldn’t quite make out. But they were certainly impressed. Some took pictures, others video clips. I’m sure if they had the courage some would’ve asked for an autograph, and the king would probably obliged, ball perched on his head, or bent over in a reverend bow, ball balance between shoulder blades on his back.
Then I started to see some patterns appear in his work. He wasn’t flicking the ball from the tops of his feet but rather was knocking the ball first off his shins and thus into the air. He always trapped a high punt with his right leg, never the left, and obviously preferred his right foot to his left. Headers always came in groups of 3, balances cycling between the top of his head, his shoulders and what I considered to be his newest tricks that he did very infrequently; or probably when he thought most people believed there wasn’t much more he could pull out of the hat.
“Your just different class, big man", from a passing senior, perhaps reminiscing his own attempts to beat his world record of the high 30s. Our man had been going solidly for about half an hour by this time.
Then he did something unusual. He stopped with the ball on the back of his neck and proceeded to do a finger tip push up. Not all the way down, but certainly good enough to qualify. ‘Go on yersel, big man’ right enough.
A bus full of tourists on the city centre tour whizzed passed snapping away at the surrounding buildings completely missing the exhibition piece on show. Even the girls were noticing now.
I can’t imagine how long this guy had been practising for. How had he felt when he passed his first hundred? How did he quantify his sessions, how many tricks he could do, how long he could keep the ball up, surely he wasn’t counting the number of times he touched the ball.
“Hand ball, ref". That was me this time, but into myself. One kick had bounced up unexpectedly and hit him squarely on the left hand. Would that count? It certainly didn’t seem to slow him down any.
By now I’d seen him adjust the volume on his walkman, put his hands in his pockets then juggle the ball with is hands behind his back. Seems the guy had even found a cure for keepie-uppie elbow too!
Then I started to think if what he was doing was anything different to what I am setting for myself. He must have at some point dedicated himself to learning to do this stuff, undertook some basic training, extended home practice and perhaps the odd summer camp or two. Did it evolve out of some other experiences with football, perhaps a fledgling career brought short by a vicious tackle. Was it his way of gaining some form of recovery? No matter, he’d stuck to his guns however he reached this point. His dedication was inspirational to say the least. Could I manage to pursue my own goals with the same level to the same degree or would I simply drop the ball at the first hurdle.
Then the ball hit the ground.
...
Posted by graeme at 8:25 AM | Comments (0)
May 9, 2006
Mutterings (Part1)
Keepy-Uppie elbow is what I call it. The strange angle that you keep your elbow sticking out at when trying to keep a football off the floor for as long as possible. Not the most elegant of positions to keep your limbs pointing but a necessary one all the same.
I saw it this afternoon in George Square. My first impression was of some track suited Ned kicking a red, white and blue football around the benched off arena at the Counting House end of the square. Yet this guy was different. The white T-Shirt he wore was emblazoned on the back with the logo “U do it"; his tracksuit bottoms loosely covering the tops of what looked like a somewhat expensive pair of super-gutties; and the ball looked bigger than the 5-panel brick I had grown up with. Either that or it was blown up so much with air that it was almost fit to burst.
No-one seemed to be noticing him. Atleast that’s how it seemed. Then, after watching him for about two minutes I realised what had drawn my attention to him. This guy was good. Very, very good. Not only was he keeping the ball off the ground but doing so with a great deal of showmanship. Right foot, left foot, header, header, higher header, punt, trap on right knee, drop to knee the lot. He even managed to balance the ball on the top of his head then the back of his neck, something I had tried to master myself many moons gone by. Then he dropped to his knees, his head glistening in the sun with the sweat growing on his forehead. Then he was off, running up and down the square the ball attached to his feet with some invisible elastic band. Occasionally he would look up to check his bearings, or to check the odd girl swanning past on their way back from their lunch break. At one point I even thought he was going to pass to an unsuspecting passer by but shimmed, turned and off he went in another direction.
(Continued tomorrow)
Posted by graeme at 1:36 PM | Comments (0)