The Darkside of the Diamond

The Fragile Rise of a Star - Josh Hamilton

I’ve been thinking about Josh Hamilton lately. His name came to me as I was digging deeper into this “Darkside of the Diamond” series, not because of scandal in the typical tabloid sense, but because his story is deeply human. Painfully human.

Hamilton didn’t cheat the game like some do. He didn’t shave points or gamble on outcomes. His failures weren’t calculated or malicious. They were the kind that come from being lost. From being overwhelmed. From being too human in a world that demands perfection.

And that’s why I think it’s important to talk about him.

Josh Hamilton was a can't-miss prospect. First overall pick in the 1999 draft. Scouts drooled over his bat speed, his range in the outfield, the ease with which he played the game. He had that smooth, raw talent that makes people say, “He’s different.” And he was.

But talent doesn’t insulate you from pain.

A car accident in 2001 started the slide. Injuries kept him off the field, and downtime mixed with access to money and a lack of structure became the perfect storm. He turned to alcohol. Then drugs. Then darkness. The kind you don’t always come back from.

Between 2003 and 2005, Hamilton wasn't just missing games, he was missing. Multiple failed drug tests. Suspended from baseball. No one knew if he'd ever play again.

I think about what I was doing during those years. I remember hearing about Hamilton’s situation and feeling sad, not angry, not judgmental, just sad. Because you could tell this wasn't a story about selfishness. This was a story about someone in pain who didn’t know how to stop hurting.

Then, the comeback. And what a comeback it was.

After years in rehab and recovery, the Cincinnati Reds gave him a chance in 2007. He made the team and immediately started turning heads. The bat was still quick. The talent had survived the storm.

But it was Texas where the legend really grew.

That 2008 Home Run Derby at Yankee Stadium? Still one of the most jaw-dropping performances I’ve ever seen. 28 bombs in the first round. It was like he was being lifted by something greater, like baseball had finally become his church. And for a little while, it seemed like the demons were behind him.

In 2010, he won the MVP. He was the face of the Rangers' World Series runs. And he did it all while wearing his sobriety on his sleeve. He didn’t hide from it. He spoke about it often, gave credit to his faith and family. He looked like a man who had made peace with his past.

Here’s the part of the story people don’t like to talk about.

Relapse.

Hamilton slipped. More than once. And every time, the world reacted like the redemption had been erased. Like the previous chapters didn’t count.

But that’s not how it works.

Addiction isn’t a switch you flip. It’s a constant negotiation with your shadow. It’s ever present; you are only given a daily reprieve. And for Hamilton, that battle never ended. He relapsed in 2009. Again in 2012. And in 2015, he self-reported a cocaine and alcohol incident to MLB. The Angels weren’t supportive. The league didn’t suspend him, but the relationship was fractured. He was traded back to Texas, but injuries piled up, and his playing days quietly faded away.

I remember seeing those headlines and thinking, “Man, don’t kick the guy. Not now.” We ask these athletes to be heroes, but when they show us they’re human, we don't always know what to do with that.

In 2019, things got worse. Hamilton was arrested for allegedly assaulting his daughter. In 2022, he pleaded guilty to unlawful restraint. He avoided jail, but the damage to his legacy was done.

And now, Hamilton’s name barely comes up. The guy who once made Yankee Stadium erupt is now mostly a footnote. A reminder. A warning. An uncomfortable truth about what happens when our heroes fall.

So why tell it?

Because baseball isn’t just about walk-offs and WAR stats. It’s about people. And sometimes those people are broken.

Josh Hamilton’s story matters because it’s not clean. It doesn’t wrap up with a bow. But in that mess, there’s meaning.

I talk so much about character in this game, about hustle, grit, leadership but what about vulnerability? What about accountability? What about facing the fact that someone can be both deeply flawed and deeply gifted?

Hamilton made mistakes. Big ones. But he also showed us something rare, a raw, public attempt at redemption. And while he didn’t stick the landing, he fought for it.

That matters to me.

When I’m at a game with my camera, I don’t shoot the players. I shoot the people in the stands. The ones holding their kids. The ones keeping score in notebooks. The ones who wore #32 jerseys during Hamilton’s peak because they believed in second chances.

I think of those fans when I think of Josh.

And I wonder, do we still believe in second chances? Or are we only comfortable with comebacks when they follow a script?

Hamilton’s story is one I’ll revisit again and again not for the scandal, but for the humanity. He reminds me that the game is bigger than box scores. That every player carries a world we don’t see. That integrity isn't just about never messing up, it's about what you do when you do.

This is the kind of story that made me start Darkside of the Diamond. Not to shame. But to show. To question. To remember.

And maybe, to understand.