Beyond Belief by Josh Hamilton, Tim Keown

to a place I never could have imagined, where nothing else in life mattered as much as that drug.
    Because I didn’t stop drinking and doing cocaine. The buzz of that drug lingered. I did not go out the next day and use, and I didn’t allow it to rule my life until much later. But it did stay with me. Two days later I used, and using became a recreational thing from that point forward. Every other night, maybe two nights in a row — hey, I had money and time and opportunity. Why not? There was no one around to stop me.
    The events of that first adventure with the guys from the tattoo shop led to more. Being around these guys made it easier to forget about baseball and easier to keep from doing the things I needed to do to get my head and body right to get back to playing the game.
    I drifted further and further from being the person I needed to be. I became a case study of my theory of people, places, and things. Now that I can see my own gradual deterioration with a clear eye, I speak to groups about this: If you hang out with a group of people in a certain place, you’re bound to end up doing the things they do.
    I can’t count the number of times someone said, either in the media or to someone in my family, “If it could happen to Josh Hamilton, it could happen to anybody.”
    That doesn’t make it better, and it certainly isn’t an excuse. Nobody pushed me or forced me. I walked out of the tattoo shop with Kevin and Bill. I walked into the strip club. I leaned over the mirror and inhaled the cocaine into my system.
    But I believe if it could happen to me it could happen to anybody. I believe I am a good person who made bad choices. I believe I am living testimony to the power of addiction.
    I’m the cautionary tale. I accept that.

CHAPTER SIX
    ONE OF THE LAST TATTOOS I got is on my right calf. I chose this one myself, but I don’t know why. There was no rhyme or reason behind the choice, any more than any of the others.
    It’s a picture of Jesus’s face superimposed over a cross. He’s on the same leg with the demon with no eyes.
    When I look at myself now, I see what I couldn’t see then. This was spiritual warfare, taking place subconsciously on my body.
    The soulless demon.
    The face of Jesus.
    The battle had begun.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    TWO WEEKS to the day after I used cocaine for the first time, a member of the Devil Rays’ Employee Assistance Program told me the team wanted me to see a sports psychologist.
    “Okay,” I said. “Why?”
    “The team’s concerned about your injuries, and we’d like you to talk to someone about them,” he said. “Everyone just wants to make sure you’re okay. This’ll be good, just someone to talk to.”
    Two years of injuries had taken their toll on me. The back problem that started with the accident, the quad, now the back again . . . yeah, I was frustrated. The team was frustrated, too. I assume there was a meeting among the top brass and the familiar subjects were discussed: whether I was really hurt, whether I really wanted to play, whether the problem was in my head and not my back.
    The first step to a solution, according to them, was a psychologist.
    The psychologist was employed by the team. I was a little hesitant to go see him, but once I started talking to him I found I liked him. We spoke about my injuries, and what it felt like to know you can play at a higher level than your body will allow. We talked about expectations — my own as well as the team’s — and he caught on pretty quickly to the idea that I’m my own worst critic.
    He listened and I talked. It was pleasant enough, but I wasn’t entirely sure how it was going to make my back feel better to talk to him about it. As the conversation started to die down, we both sat there awkwardly until he finally asked, “Well, is there anything else bothering you? Anything else you want to talk about?”
    I could have said no, shook his hand and left the office. It would have been that easy. Instead,