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Gridiron to Grace
A journey from the National Football League to yoga
By John Patrick Sullivan

My life has had two bodies; one formed by Yoga, the other by professional football. The first memories of the Yoga body are in a church basement in Atlanta, Georgia, some twenty years ago. There was a little cardboard sign on the door that read, “Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not get bent out of shape.” I liked that: not getting “bent out of shape” would be a small miracle for this ex-NFL linebacker. Inside, incense aromas filled the small space, where a half-dozen relaxed, middle-aged folks of all sizes and shapes gathered in a circle. The teacher introduced herself to the class and told us she was substituting for the regular teacher, who was away on a Yoga retreat. Her name was Joy and she gently led us through poses that took on the forms of dogs, cats, cobras and swans. I was in down-facing dog when all of a sudden my mind slowed down, my breath deepened, and everything felt more spacious, giving me a feeling of peace. Yoga had found me. How could such simple, slow stretches be so relaxing and make me feel so much more present? I walked out that church hall into the crisp evening air, feeling this was the first day of a new life.

My other body had been shaped since the age of 12 by our next door neighbor, Joe Deppipo. He was a tough guy from Brooklyn who moved out to the suburbs to get a better quality of life for his family. He volunteered to be the head coach of the St. Rose of Lima Panthers pee-wee football team. Joe became a substitute dad who bonded whole-heartedly with his players. He would pick us up in his old Chevy and after practice take us home. My real dad was a New York cop who was somewhat overwhelmed with five kids at home. He spent a lot of time watching TV and smoking cigars when he was not on the job. Joe was there for us.

Autumn Sundays are long days for football players. We would go to church as a team wearing our red game jerseys, parading down the aisle to sit in the first two pews reserved for the team. After mass, it was off to the International House of Pancakes for breakfast, the best part of the pre-game ritual. Game face on, the locker room was quiet—you could hear the butterflies in the air. Kickoff was just a whistle away.

My last game playing for Joe ended my career on a high note. Holy Cross, our Catholic archrivals, were ahead by three. With a few seconds left on the clock our quarterback desperately heaved the ball, a real “hail Mary” pass that landed in my hands. Touchdowns, game over, Panthers win by three! Cheerleaders sang out my name and kisses flew from the sisters. I was the hero for a day, addicted to the football high. For the next fifteen years I chased this Holy Grail, engaged in the unattainable quest of repeating that experience, the oneness brought by touchdowns.

St. John’s the Baptist High School was the next stop, where the University of Illinois found me and offered me a scholarship with all the trimmings. The fighting Illini gave me many gifts. Three that stand out in my memories: knee surgery; a chance to break my idol Dick Butkus’s tackling record; and my first love, Bonnie Matheson.

After the Chicago Bears picked me as their sixth-round draft choice, life seemed to be right on course. But there was pain in a preseason game against the Jets: early in the fourth quarter when rookies get a chance to show their stuff, I was mistakenly tackled and injured by my own team mate! Hobbling off the field I felt like a small truck had run me over. This was not a good sign. The next day I was diagnosed with hip pointer. Since rookie linebackers don’t get the luxury to lie around in bed and heal, it was time to say good-bye to Chicago and hello to the New York Jets.
Luckily, the Jets had been scouting that preseason game and saved me a spot on their roster.

Mighty Sully (my pee-wee football nickname), the returning hero, playing for the team I grew up watching as a kid—I still remember those crisp autumn days of my youth at Shea Stadium, eating hot dogs, watching Joe Namath quarterback his team, and riding the subway home with dad.

My third training camp with the Jets opened and I was optimistic about the upcoming season. Two weeks into camp on a bright early Monday morning, a knock came on my dorm room door and a voice from the hallway saying, “Coach wants to see you in the office, bring your playbook.” Some day every pro football player will hear those dreaded words. It’s code for The End. The playing field has just changed again and now the game is called “life without football.”

The football honeymoon was over and there was nothing anyone could do about it. The pain and suffering was an invisible opponent that I wasn’t prepared to do battle with. My male role models inspired me to be a man by not showing emotions—especially coaches because they’re afraid nobody will show up for practice on Monday. I now realize my abrupt departure from the NFL was the life force sending me a message. I hadn’t acknowledged the abuse and injuries that for years had plagued my body. Although my ego had been destroyed, my body had been saved for the next incarnation.
Wandering the streets of New York, dragons came out at night, fueling my void with darkness. Taking jobs in some of the trendiest waterholes in town, bartending and being a part-time bouncer, my life felt “bent out of shape.”
With some luck of the Irish on my side, I was offered a position with the Guinness brewery in Atlanta, Georgia. There I could reinvent myself, make a fresh start, take a Yoga class. Atlanta began the peeling away of my ex-football player mask. Linebacker John was dissolving into the fire and from the ashes, the Yogic serpent was starting to awaken.

Twenty years later the Yoga path is still unfolding within me. The road has been bumpy, but I am grateful for this ancient wisdom for helping guide me back to my truth. The slow deflation of the ego is a daily practice that takes patience and compassion.

I have the opportunity to study and practice Yoga with a community of friends and family who share the vision of the body as a sacred vessel for the soul, the mind as the birth place of wisdom, the heart as the seat of transcendental self. We explore body sensations moment-to-moment, as we move with mindfulness, equanimity, and breath.

Today, I am extremely grateful to all the people in the world who have brought the ancient science of Yoga into America. At the World Parliament of Religion in Chicago in 1893, Swami Vivekanda introduced Yoga to America. Krishnamacharya is the man who brought Hatha Yoga out of the caves of Tibet and taught the most advanced Yogis alive today. And thanks to Joy, for that first class in Atlanta, which started me on the Yogi’s path of discrimination, separating the merely temporal from the eternal.

John Patrick Sullivan discovered Yoga and meditation 20 years ago after injuries ended his career as a linebacker with the New York Jets. He uses Yoga as the foundation for creating a new model in sports and physical fitness by cultivating mindfulness in movement. He is co-author of the international best seller Complete Stretching, co-produced the video Basic Yoga, and is the residential Yoga director at La Casa de Maria in Santa Barbara, CA. and teachers workshops throughout Europe and the U.S. Contact John at La Casa de Maria, 801 Ladera Lane, Santa Barbara, CA. 93108. Email: jps@zentones.com;
web: zentones.com.