On a summer night in 2008, a left-handed batter won over the crowd at Yankee Stadium.
With mighty swing after mighty swing, the slugger sent baseballs flying deep into the bleachers. Some threatened to leave the stadium altogether. It was a sight to behold.
This man wasn’t wearing the pinstriped uniform of the hometown New York Yankees. And the bold AMERICAN across his chest did little to hide his status as the budding star of a league rival — the Texas Rangers.
But that mattered little to the New York masses.
As Josh Hamilton shattered the record for first-round tallies in the Home Run Derby, a chant cascaded from the stands.
HAM-IL-TON! HAM-IL-TON!
Hamilton didn’t win the derby on that summer evening. But he certainly won the night.
Not just because of his power prowess. But because of his story.
Hamilton, you see, had been a top baseball prospect a decade earlier. As a teenager, he’d appeared on magazine covers and was touted as the future of the game.
But after sustaining injuries in a car crash, Hamilton turned to alcohol and cocaine. And he soon became addicted to both.
The substance abuse sent his career spiraling. And he quickly found himself booted out of baseball.
Hamilton ultimately made his way back from this nadir, getting clean and returning to the sport. The journey eventually took him big leagues for the first time. Then found his way into the hearts of the New York faithful on that magical night at Yankee Stadium.
Hamilton followed that up by winning a batting title and a Most Valuable Player award. He powered the Rangers to their first two World Series appearances.
That mighty potential had been realized. Hamilton’s redemption seemed complete.
It wasn’t.
Hamilton relapsed, and everything fell apart. He started struggling at the plate and in the field. He took potshots at the Texas fans while departing for a division rival. And his marriage disintegrated.
It was a sad ending to a promising story.
The poison hook had the last word.
I was once a fan of Josh Hamilton.
I was in the stands that night he won over New York. And I proudly sported a Texas Rangers t-shirt with his name and number on the back for years.
But when things went south, I soured on him.
I was deeply hurt by Hamilton calling out fans like me. And I was frustrated with his inability to kick addiction.
So, I cut bait. I gave those T-shirts to Goodwill. And when Hamilton returned to Texas to close out his career, I refused to cheer for him.
This all might seem heartless. But given all I’d been through at that time, it made perfect sense.
Not long before Hamilton’s second fall from grace, I had tried to help some alcoholic friends. I’d bent over backward to keep them from hurting themselves or others. But when their demons returned, I was left holding the bag.
I ultimately cut ties with these friends, recognizing that my abandonment could lead to dire circumstances. It hurt my soul knowing that my choice increased the odds of a drunk driving crash or some other tragedy. But I had to protect myself.
This ordeal led me to form a dim view of addiction. I saw it as a lack of mental fortitude, rather than a powerful disease.
I hadn’t been in my erstwhile friends’ shoes, let alone Josh Hamilton’s. Yet, I felt that I had.
You see, I had picked up my own bad habits over the years. Nothing as illicit as drug abuse or alcoholism. But still nothing that would be considered healthy.
Month after month, year after year, I let these bad habits fester. Instead of doing what was sensible, I settled for what was comfortable.
At some point, I saw the light. I realized that better habits would yield better outcomes. And I sprang into action.
One by one, I kicked my bad habits. I learned to treat old tendencies as the enemy. And I fought like hell to keep from falling back into them.
I succeeded, over and over. And my life improved as a result.
This accomplishment was noteworthy. But it made me overly judgmental.
I believed that if I could overcome my vices through sheer will, others could just as easily conquer their demons.
How wrong I was.
When I returned to competitive running after a long hiatus, other runners would often ask me the same question.
What brought you back? Was it the runner’s high?
I had heard about the runner’s high before. But I wasn’t lacing up my shoes to capture any endorphin-fueled euphoria.
So, I replied truthfully. Running was a task, not a calling for me. It helped me stay in shape and I’d shown some prowess at it. There was nothing more drawing me in.
Yet, as the months passed, my relationship with running began to change. I was hitting the streets more often, and for longer mileage. Not by grudging obligation, but by willful compulsion.
I knew I was taking on more than my body could handle. But I found it impossible to stop.
What happened next was utterly predictable. An injury forced a full shutdown, and a marathon withdrawal. I was devastated and lost, unsure of how to start my day without pounding the pavement.
I poured my despair into injury rehab, determined to come back with a vengeance. But once I was cleared to run again, I did too much, too fast. I got hurt again, with this newest injury requiring surgery. I was on the sidelines for months.
As I worked my way back from the brink, I remained dedicated. But one day, during a grueling physical therapy session, I paused to ask myself a simple question.
Why?
Why was I putting myself through hell for a sport that had broken my heart, and my body, twice?
What kept drawing me back to running, against every ounce of common sense?
As the answer dawned on me, I turned pale as a ghost.
It was addiction.
I was addicted to running. Its poison hook had an impermeable grip on my soul.
I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. The act of running – as frequently as possible and as long as I could – was an involuntary compulsion
I’d keep thrusting myself into the fire, no matter how badly it burned.
This revelation shook me to my core. I realized that I was no better than those I’d cast off. Despite all my false bravado, I never really knew them at all.
Shame on me.
I still haven’t forgiven Josh Hamilton.
The man who lost his baseball career to addiction — twice — would later plead guilty for savagely beating his daughter. And that’s something I can’t abide by, demons or not.
Still, I wish I’d shown him a bit more grace back when he was playing ball and trying desperately to stay clean. I wish I’d done the same with those friends I turned my back on.
Their compulsions were certainly more unsavory than my running habit. But they deserved better than harsh judgment as they grappled with it.
The poison hook of addiction is insidious. It’s a powerful riptide we have little chance of swimming away from. The best we can do is try and keep our heads above water.
I recognize that now. And I’m committed to be better. To give those afflicted with addiction a second look. To provide more support, without prejudice.
May we all.