Beyond Belief (27 page)
In a big-league clubhouse, every player has a mailbox on the wall. It’s a big grid, with each box about four inches by six inches, open at the end. After a week in Surprise, Arizona, spring training home of the Texas Rangers, I was confused. There were two letters in my slot. I’m not trying to brag, but I wasn’t used to having just two letters in my slot.
In Cincinnati, I couldn’t keep up with the letters. I read most of them and then had them sent to my parents’ house in North Carolina, where my momma read them and organized them for me to respond. Many of them were just people seeking autographs, but a good number of the letters I received were heartfelt, passionate notes from people who either appreciated my story or were seeking help with their own or a loved one’s addiction problems. I liked to read them, especially when I was in a contemplative mood, to remind myself how many people I’ve been able to reach with my story.
It always made me feel good to open up a letter from someone who drew inspiration from my recovery. If things weren’t going well for me at the plate I’d often open a few letters and remember what is really important, and why I believe I was serving a higher calling by regaining my ability and desire to play baseball. But anyway, after two weeks with the Rangers there were two lonely letters in the slot. I wasn’t insulted, but it didn’t seem right. Did people know I’d been traded? Was my slot in Cincinnati still full?
I decided to ask the clubbie. I tried to be cool about it, so I grabbed the two or three letters out of my slot and said, “Geez, I guess everybody’s forgotten about me.”
He looked at me like I was stupid. When he realized I wasn’t kidding, he raised his eyebrows and laughed.
“Really?” he said. “You think they’ve forgotten about you?”
With that, he pointed to the ceiling.
I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed, but sitting on the shelf high above the mail slots there were large mail crates. There were four of them, and the one with the most mail flowing over the sides was marked hamilton.
“Oh, man — there they are,” I said.
Now I did feel stupid.
“Yeah,” he said. “There’s the mail for the forgotten man.”
A new team meant new interest. I got together with the Rangers’ media-relations staff to plan a spring training press conference that would make it easier on everyone. Instead of having to tell my story every day, I preferred to do it once for all the local media and anybody else who might have interest. That way, the television stations could get everything they needed on tape, for use now and in the future.
Of course, I knew it wouldn’t work out that way, because I wouldn’t turn anyone down who arrived at my locker asking me to discuss my story. So many national reporters travel through spring training, and even though it can become a chore to rehash every aspect of my downfall and recovery, I do it for a couple of reasons. First, as I’ve said, it really serves as therapy for me to stand up in front of a group of people and tell my story. It reinforces the decision to stay clean and sober, and as I’m talking I imagine all those people out there — those who have had addiction problems and those who haven’t, kids and parents alike — who might be helped by hearing what I’ve gone through and how I’ve changed my life.
Second, I’m an employee of the team and part of my job is to talk to the media to reach the fans to tell them about our team.
The press conference was routine, with all the usual questions about the types of drugs I used, coupled with the quizzical looks on their faces. I’d recognize that look anywhere, the look that asks the question, “How in the world could you have done that to yourself ?”
Some of the reporters, typically and understandably, wanted to know the salacious details of my drug use. Not only which drugs, but how often and how much. Their strategy is to push till I push back, maybe as a sort of test, but I haven’t pushed back yet. I’m fine with the scrutiny; it comes with the territory.
But at some point during the press conference, I looked to the back of the room, past the reporters in their seats and the television cameras on their tripods, to see three people sitting in folding chairs. In street clothes, there were three of my new teammates — second baseman Ian Kinsler, shortstop Michael Young, and third baseman Hank Blalock.
These were the three faces of the franchise, leaders on the field and in the clubhouse. At some point, the reporters noticed them as well, and one of them asked me a series of questions.
“Josh, how many of these press conferences would you say you’ve done?”
“A lot.”
“Have you ever had teammates show up to support you?”
I was a little bit confused by the question. I said, “No,” kind of hesitantly, because that was the truth. With the Reds, I gave a press conference much like this one during spring training and I followed it by giving one at the beginning of every series on the road, to allow the local reporters to all ask their questions and get their stories before the first game.
With the Reds, none of my teammates had attended any of those sessions, but I never thought anything of it. I never expected them to sit there and listen to me tell my story for the millionth time.
And in this case, it never occurred to me that Ian, Michael, and Hank were there to support me. I just assumed they were having their own press conferences after mine, so when I saw them back there I figured they were waiting for me to hurry up and get it over with.
Once I heard the question and understood why they were there, I didn’t know what to say. I looked at them and felt tears welling up. This was a touching moment. I’d become accustomed to being somewhat of a loner in my life, set apart by the circumstances that forced me to set myself apart. But this felt like togetherness. This felt like a team. These guys were interested in hearing my story so they could better understand what I’ve gone through and the battle I still fight. More than anything, I was humbled by their presence.
I’ve always been self-conscious about my position. I never doubt my ability to play at this level, but the attention I’ve received because of my story has been both wonderful and troublesome. It had its downside in Cincinnati. I don’t want to be separate from my teammates, but my life has made some separation inevitable. I walk a fine line, and it nearly took my breath away to see the best and most established players on my new team show that kind of compassion and understanding.
The next week, after an afternoon workout, Kinsler asked me if I wanted to go get some dinner. Not a big deal, right? Well, it was the first time a teammate had ever asked me to do something away from the ballpark since I had come to the big leagues.
The guys in Cincinnati were probably afraid that I would say no, or that I couldn’t go somewhere alcohol was served. Maybe it was because Johnny was always around, or maybe they didn’t want to invite me somewhere and then feel like they couldn’t order a beer in my presence.
Kinsler and I started hanging out. His spring training condo was right below mine, and he roomed with his wife and first baseman Jason Botts. We would wind down after a day of practice by playing Halo 3 or watching a hunting show on television.
This carried into the regular season. I went to movies with Kinsler. Milton Bradley would call after we got back to the hotel after a night game on the road and plan breakfast the next morning.
The good vibes carried onto the field. We started the season poorly — at one point we were 9–17 and it seemed our manager, Ron Washington, was going to lose his job — but we rebounded to get ourselves over .500. Our pitching was inconsistent, but our offense was the best in the majors. With Ian and Michael getting on base for me and Milton, we made it uncomfortable for every pitcher we faced. I led the league in RBIs from the beginning of the season, and I had so many — 95 at the All-Star break — that it became a joke between Milton and me. He hit behind me in the lineup and kept complaining, in a friendly way, that he couldn’t get any RBIs because by the time he got to the plate I’d already driven them in.
Starting in mid-May, I started climbing the ladder in the All-Star voting. The team pushed for Rangers fans to vote, and before long it developed its own momentum. By mid-June it was pretty clear I would be voted one of the three starting outfielders for the American League, and by the time voting closed I had passed Manny Ramirez of the Red Sox to become the leading vote-getter among American League outfielders. The other three guys at the top of our batting order — Ian, Michael, and Milton — also were named to the team.
I felt like part of the team in Cincinnati, and I believe God put me there for a reason to start my career in a baseball-crazed city. But from the moment Ian, Michael, and Hank sat down in the back of the room during my spring training press conference, I felt at home with the Rangers. It just felt right, like this, too, was meant to be.
I MADE A DECISION early in my recovery that I couldn’t rehabilitate my soul without complete honesty. My decisions were my decisions. The easiest path would have been to blame someone else, or blame circumstances, or blame fate. Had I done that, had I avoided responsibility and shifted blame, I wouldn’t be where I am today.
I went from being a can’t- miss prospect, a young man praised for my ability on the ballfield and my attitude off it, to being an aimless, nearly hopeless drug addict. I went from being an eighteen-year-old whose talent was worth $3.96 million to the Tampa Bay Devil Rays two days after I finished high school to being the kind of man who would hand over his wife’s wedding ring to a drug dealer for crack. I went from being a respectful young man who kissed his grandmother before every game to being the kind of man whose sole purpose in life was to acquire and use substances that would damage me and my relationships with the people I loved.
How did it happen? Easy question, tough answer. My journey to the depths of human depravity — to a place where a single- minded desire to alter my consciousness was my only goal — defies logic.
Equally illogical is my return journey, back to becoming a responsible man. I wake up every morning striving to be the best husband, father, and baseball player I can be that day. I take nothing for granted. In my life, one day at a time is not a cliché, it is a necessity.
None of this would have been possible without my relationship with Christ. I went through eight different drug treatment and rehabilitation clinics, but my personal resurrection did not come from a group session or a therapist’s couch. I know the twelve steps by heart, but my healing did not come from a strict adherence to those principles. Instead, my life changed from hopeless to hope-filled when I turned to God and asked for His help. I recognized my failings and, most important, my inability to heal myself.
I know not everybody believes the way I do, but I can only document my journey. I can only tell my story, and I believe there would be no story without faith. The ultimate destination for this journey would be vastly different without my faith in Jesus. What would that destination be? Given the path I was on, it’s hard to imagine I would be alive right now, much less alive and writing a book that I hope can educate and inspire. You might still be reading a book about Josh Hamilton if I had not turned my life over to Jesus Christ, but that book would be written by someone else, and it would most likely be a tragedy.
My story is three parts inspiration, one part warning.
I was humbled twice, once by addiction and again by recovery.
I’ll end with a story: In May 2007, after a night game during a homestand while I was a Red, Katie and the girls loaded into the truck in the players’ parking lot at Great American Ballpark. I was tired, we had just lost another game during a bad stretch, and all I wanted to do was get home and get some sleep.
Getting into the truck and leaving the ballpark are two different things, though. Win or lose, good game or bad, there’s always a group of fans standing outside the entrance to the parking lot, looking for autographs. I always try to stop and sign as many as is reasonable.
Signing my name is not a big deal, no matter how tired I am. You never know whose life you might touch, or whose might touch yours.
Among those waiting on this night was a boy of about nine or ten wearing a Reds cap and an imploring, hopeful look. None of this was in any way unusual, but when he came up to the side of the truck and handed me a baseball to sign, he said, “Josh, you’re my savior.”
I looked up from the signing to look at him. His eyes were big and honest, and he was so sincere I can still close my eyes and see them today.
“Well, thank you,” I said. “Do you know who my savior is?”
He thought for a minute. I could see the gears turning. Finally, he blurted out “Jesus Christ!” like he just came up with the answer to a test.
“That’s exactly right,” I said.
I slapped him five, signed for a few more people, and left the parking lot. The little boy stuck with me, though, and with Katie. There was something so heartfelt and passionate in his demeanor, something that was both innocent and pleading.
Maybe Katie and I understood there was something deeper at work in that little boy, that maybe he was sent to teach us another lesson on how God works through us. Our encounter with him touched me so much that I told it for a story in
ESPN The Magazine
about two months later. And shortly after that, I received a letter from the boy’s aunt; she had read the magazine article and wanted me to know a little more of the story.
The letter explained that the boy’s father was an alcoholic who had struggled repeatedly trying to get sober. The boy and his father were huge Reds fans, and the boy followed my story closely. The boy brought up my story with his dad, and they had discussed my recovery and what an inspiration it was to a lot of people.
According to the letter, the boy’s father told him he was going to use my example to try to get clean. They were working together, with the little boy telling his dad he could do if I could do it. At the time the letter was written, the boy’s dad had put together an impressive stretch of sobriety.