I’m a lifelong Yankee fan. So is my dad. So was his. Growing up in my American Buddhist family, my papa’s meditation shrine was a bit unusual: it featured a young brown-haired Elvis on top; then the Iron Horse, the quiet, modest, fearsome Lou Gehrig; then some schlub named the Buddha.

But when the Yankees fired Torre, I thought that was it. If ever there was a man, heart and soul, who was delivered to the Bronx Bombers via God’s Own Central Casting, it was Joe Torre. The man’s got all the Shambhala dignities: meek, perky, outrageous, inscrutable. He’s kind, he’s strong, he’s fair. A year ago, I watched an hour long press conference where he discussed leaving the Yanks and nearly cried—and frankly I don’t really follow sports much anymore (too much work, trying to save the world/pay my mortgage).

So while I can’t buy a cheery blue and white Dodgers cap, I do wish him the very best with his new team—not that he needs it. The Dodgers, unlike the new regime at the Yanks, were honored to pay him the big bucks, and more importantly treat him with respect—so he returned the favor by leading the injury-ridden Dodgers to the playoffs. When was the last time the Dodgers were in and the Yankees were out? The Yanks are regretting being !@#$%^&s now, I hope. 

Alright, enough pre-coffee clumsy writing, here’s the Video of Joe doing yoga, downing wheatgrass, as promised:

First, the outtakes: