Last summer, when Josh Hamilton wowed the world with a crazy display of fireworks at the home run derby, he became the feel-good story of the year. From the promise of greatness, he sunk to the depths of despair, and then eventually arose from the ashes to achieve the success that had always been expected of him.

And as a country, we ate it up. After all, who doesn’t love a good tale of redemption?  (Remember, the bible is by far the best-selling book of all time.)

However, with the recent news (courtesy of Deadspin) that Josh Hamilton fell off the wagon last winter, our story seems to have lost its fairytale ending. The “comments” sections of various articles written about Hamilton in recent days reflect a variety of responses to Josh’s fall from grace. Among them, there are those who feel betrayed, disappointed, like they’ve lost a hero.

The question is: why?

Josh never promised us that his struggles with drugs and alcohol were over. Anyone who’s at all familiar with addiction and alcoholism will tell you that it’s a promise he would have been a fool to make. To quote the literature from Alcoholics Anonymous, addiction is “cunning, baffling and powerful.”  It’s a life-long battle, and the worst possible mistake an addict can make is to assume that’s he won a final victory.

Over the years, I have heard heartbreaking stories of addiction. I once heard of a woman who was clean for fifteen years when she decided to have that glass of champagne at a cocktail party, a decision which – within a matter of months – would result in the complete destruction of the new life that she’d built.  I have heard stories of people who kept coming in and out and in and out of detox and AA, unable to put clean time together, devastating the people around them, seemingly earnest in their desire to stop, but somehow incapable, despite themselves. For some of these people, there would never be a reprieve. On the other hand, I know a guy who’s been to detox more time than he can count on both hands, a guy who everyone had more or less written off as dead by the end of his drug use. Somehow, for reasons incomprehensible to most of the world, that last time he checked himself in, something changed. That was eight years ago, and he’s still clean and sober.

Addiction is a tricky, unpredictable beast.  Those who take it on at all do so against great odds.  Those who take it on and win, are members of an incredibly small minority.

For all these reasons, Josh Hamilton still deserves our respect.

Last year, we thought Josh was a hero because he had seemingly emerged from his battle with addiction as the winner.  He made a comeback the likes of which one might only see in the movies.  He did so after years of cocaine use, during which he more or less threw away any promise of a future.  Josh’s accomplishments last year – highlighted of course by his ridiculous performance at the home run derby – are not rendered nil on account of one stupid mistake this past January.  The fact is that in order to be where he is today, he had to fight an extremely slanted battle against a merciless opponent.  Every day he fought that battle and won was a success. True, his relapse was unfortunate, but it merely highlights the reality that his struggle with addiction is one that will never really be over.

One could argue that it wasn’t Deadspin’s place to publish those photos to begin with, but that’s a moot point. Deadspin exists, and they exist in order to break just these kinds of stories.  Love it or hate it, Deadspin is the most heavily trafficked sports blog on the interwebs. It’s not going anywhere anytime soon.  So it isn’t really a question of whether Deadspin was wrong to run that story.  It’s a question of how much stock we’re going to put in it.

Josh wasn’t busted using performance enhancing drugs. (Clearly, as evidenced by his performance this year.)  His choices reflect – not a misguided attempt to improve himself – but rather an almost tragic instinct to destroy himself.  It’s a personal struggle – made less personal, of course by his willingness to share his story with us. However, we need to bear in mind that his choice to be open about his history was largely related to his desire to reach others who also battle with addiction. For all these reasons, I tend to buy it when Josh says that he is not so much a hypocrite as he is only human.

According to the story, Josh came forward immediately, talked to his wife, his team, told them what had happened right after it had happened. If this is true, he’s doing all the right things in order to get back on track.  We should leave him alone and let him.  Currently, Josh barely resembles the player we saw before the All-Star break in 2008. He’s posting terrible numbers, looks nothing like that beloved power hitter of yore.  This, after a remarkable performance at spring training.  However, after several weeks on the DL, he has not been able to find his stride.   (Though he’s shown some improvement in the last two series against the A’s and the Angels, going 9-for-25, including a three-run bomb.)

I don’t believe his struggles this year are related to his recent slip.  However, I think that we should allow him to focus his full attention on righting whatever’s gone wrong at the plate without the distraction of a mistake he made several months ago.  He’ll still be battling his addiction after we stop discussing it in the media, once the season is over and long after he’s retired from major league baseball.  However, at the moment, as sports fans, our primary focus should be Josh’s battle to raise his batting average and OBP.

After all, this is still baseball, and the Rangers are in a wild card race.

To put it like my friend Tim McCarver likely would: The wild card race is happening right now. Those pictures are from last January.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you insight from the newest member of the Struck Out Looking guest blogging team — Chris Mirabella. (Not to be confused with Chris Yamaoka, despite the fact that they’re both Chris, both work at fancy law firms, and both have foreign last names.)  Enjoy his piece, the first of many, we hope.

Round, psychologically satisfying statistics like 500 homeruns, 3,000 strikeouts, and 300 wins are the fixtures that keep plaques bolted to the walls in Cooperstown. Numbers help laymen and experts alike define the modern game and cement the legacies of players from the past. Sometimes it’s easy to get lost in the flurry. But on Saturday afternoon, as I watched CC Sabathia twirl a gem against the Red Sox while mired in a golf and burrito induced semi-coma, one number snapped me back to consciousness. It was subtle. It escaped the undocumented tenth circle of hell that is the inside of Joe Buck’s mouth, floated out into the ether, and wasn’t touched upon by even the most acute of Fox’s crack broadcast team (et tu, Ken Rosenthal?).

That number was 3 and it is the amount of sellouts the new Yankee Stadium has had this year — two of which were games in this series. Coming into this weekend, the neon, billion-dollar baby of George Steinbrenner had only sold out once, and that was for the first game in its history. What initially seemed to be a carnitas-induced hallucination suddenly began to ring true. Despite a first place team and a brand new park, it took a weekend influx of “Youk” chanting Red Sox fans to push stadium attendance to a respectable level and fill those empty legend box seats the Yankee front office ill-advisedly decided to place in the camera’s view right behind home plate.

Average stadium attendance is hovering around 45,000 — the lowest total since 2003 and down 8,000 tickets from last year in what is, admittedly, a stadium with a lesser capacity. But according to ESPN’s attendance tracker, even after these games, the Yankees will be on pace to sell their worst per-game average since 2004 at 87%. This year that ranks them behind, among others, the Sawks, the Brewers and the Mets (yes, those 51-59 Mets). There is a lot of disgraceful behavior to chide the nearest Red Sox fan for (Fever Pitch, pink “B” hats, etc.). But the fact they’ve sold out all of their home games for years — and continue to do so — while we’ve sold out three and attendance plummets is truly sad, and not the fault of anyone but the front office. Yet they still pretend to care. “How may I help you?” the Yankees ask me as I stroll about their stadium. “Try making games more affordable!” I shout in reply… this interaction of course being predicated on the fallacy that I could afford to go to games in the first place. Embarrassingly high ticket prices have become as unique to the Yankee fan’s condition as Johnny Damon home runs that just barely scrape over the right-center field wall.

But who can stay mad at the ones you love? Even as I write this Damon has launched one such home run to tie the fourth game of the series with two outs in the 8th. Teixeira just sent a “Tex message” (note to Sterling — retire this catchphrase immediately, its awful) into the right field stands to put them ahead. Tack on a few insurance runs from Nick Swisher and suddenly the AL east lead has gone from 2 ½ game to 6 1/2. Sometimes the numbers are all that matter.

Last night, in the first home game at the Stadium since the death of Thurman Munson, Jorge Posada paid tribute to the old Bombers’ captain.  How? He fixed a small number 15 to his catcher’s mask in honor of Munson.

According to Jorge, “I just wanted to give a little tribute.  Thurman is special to me. It’s one night; hopefully I don’t get fined for that. I just wanted to let everyone know I was thinking about it.”

File that one under “Adorable.”

If Posada was looking to pay tribute to Munson, his fourth inning three-run shot in last night’s 13-6 — wait for it, wait for it — VICTORY against the Chowdas didn’t hurt either.

It wasn’t exactly what you’d call a pretty victory.  Joba struggled — walking seven and pitching from behind all night.  However, as previously established, at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how you play the game, it’s if you win or lose.

 Take is from someone who knows.

File that one under “Abomination.”

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Winning against the Chowdas matters.

No, as Derek Jeter will be quick to point out, it doesn’t count more if we win these games than it does if we win against, say, the Royals.  Moreover, while they may pose our greatest threat for the division, we don’t necessarily need to beat them in order to remain ahead in the standings. (Though our current 2 and ½ game lead is dependent on our ability to do so.)

However, at a certain point, it’s a matter of pride.

Derek Jeter may not care about bragging rights, but Derek Jeter also makes tens of millions of dollars a year to do what he loves for a living.  For the rest of us plebs, the bragging rights are all we have to hold onto.

I could talk about how nice it would be to sweep this series, to win this series, hell, even to tie this series. However, given our current track record against the Chowdas for 2009, let’s just start with a game and take it from there.

Tonight’s match-up is Chamberlain vs. Smoltz.  Chamberlain is 7-2 for the season with a 3.58 ERA. Smoltz is 2-4 with a 7.12 ERA. Smoltz has been, well, struggling – to put it sympathetically.  Joba has only been getting better. (Don’t get Tim McCarver started on the Yanks’ plans to limit his innings for the seasons. According to Tim, “I could go on for a half day about it.”  He means it, too. Tim McCarver is a very literal person.) Moreover, we go into the series with the very momentum that the Chowdas are so sorely lacking after two crash and burn games against the Devs. Translation: If not tonight, then — good Lord — tell me when.

While I don’t doubt our ability to make it to the postseason whether or not we make good this coming weekend, it’s inevitable that the Chowdas will be around to haunt us come October. I, for one, would like to meet them in the fall with the assurance of at least a couple Ws under our belt.

Not to mention the fact that I have these misguided cousins who cheer for Boston, and my ability to keep in contact with them hinges on how the Bombers make out during this series. And I like my cousins. After all, blood is thicker than mud.

But not quite as thick as chowda.

With every new stadium, you’re always going to have your share of unforeseen complications. Like, with Yankee Stadium, there’s that whole “wind” issue.  The one that ended up being more about measurements than wind.

In the case of Citi Field, there’s the rotunda – a place where the spacetime continuum does not exist and which may also be a portal for Napalese Sherpas and cats alike.

Apparently, we’ve unlocked yet another mystery about the aforementioned rotunda – a dark mystery.  No, this is no Lake House whose powers exist to bring together young lovers whose only misfortune was being born in the wrong time and place.  This is a portal in possession of the power of Voodoo. (whodo?)

That’s right, Voodoo.

I have but one piece of evidence: the Mets DL for the 2009 season.  Anyone got any ideas about how such a thing might have happened besides the existence of a dark portal endowed with the power of Voodoo?

The Rotunda, true to its dark nature, has focused its attention on the better players in the lineup – Reyes, Delgado, Beltran.  On of the latest team members to fall victim to this powerful portal is none other than Luis Castillo.  While Castillo’s is hardly a name synonymous with excellence, there’s no denying that an oft-criticized Castillo has done fairly well for himself this season. His batting average is up .297 from last season’s paltry .245, and he’s become one of the team’s most reliable set-up men in the wake of all the injuries.  So it’s actually not so surprising that the Rotunda would make Castillo its most recent target. Yes, Luis Castillo went down, and in a most inglorious manner at that.  He was walking. Into the dugout. Boom. Sprained ankle. Day-to-day. It would only have been weirder if it had been a freak gasoline fight accident.

This is an unlucky break for Castillo, who after an offseason of pounding from fans and talk radio hosts alike, finally had a little something to feel good about.

To make matters worse, Jon Niese and a fresh-off-the-DL Gary Sheffield were pulled from today’s game, both with hamstring injuries.

It’s a tough call, but I’m kind of glad our was the stadium where they had the measurement issues rather than the one with the spacetime continuum Voodoo problem.  It’s a shame, too, because it’s a problem that might easily have been solved by spending twice as much money on their stadium.  I mean, that’s what we did anyway, and the spacetime continuum seems to function just fine in the Bronx.

There’s a universal truth that applies to just about all large sporting arenas, which is that anything a woman carries that isn’t a backpack is generally acknowledged to be a purse. I’m pretty sure the rule is that if you’re a woman and it goes over your shoulder, it’s a purse. In fact, it has always been my theory that a woman could probably take a backpack, put both straps over one arm, say it’s a purse and get away with it.

See, for whatever reason, backpacks – no matter how small or how empty – are not allowed inside of most sporting arenas.  Purses, conversely -no matter how large or overstuffed – generally are.  I think that men are afraid of them, afraid of what fate they might meet should they try to challenge a woman’s right to be carrying it.

Consequently, I’ve never paid much mind to the kind of bag I did or didn’t bring to a sporting event. Last Friday’s game at the stadium was no exception, and I attempted to walk enter the park holding this bag.  Let’s leave aside the fact that it’s covered in adorable kittens — I’m pretty sure that most people who come to crowded stadiums to inflict harm on innocent people don’t carry bags with kittens on them. The bottom line is that, according to the rules as they are and always have been, this bag is purse. How do we know this? Because I was carrying it over my shoulder and I’m a woman. So imagine my surprise when I was stopped entering the stadium and informed that my purse was not, in fact, a purse, but a bag. Moreover, it was too big to bring to carry into the game.

I tried reasoning with the guard — I opened the purse and let him look inside so that he could see that its sole contents were a cell phone and a wallet.  (I will own that I brought an unnecessarily large purse for what I was carrying, but that’s how it happens sometimes.)  I folded it up until it was about an eighth its original size and said, “Look, I can carry this thing in with one hand.”  The guard was unmoved.

I figured that no one’s beyond reason, and I tried to persuade him to let me put the bag inside my friend’s bag. He looked at me and responded coldly, “No bags in bags.”

I said, “Excuse me?”  I figured I had to have misheard him since the thing it sounded like he said was so impossibly stupid.

He repeated himself, somewhat annoyed, “No bags in bags. It’s a policy.”

Oh, ok.  It’s a policy. And one that makes sense. If my bag was a detonating device that was programmed to go off when it made contact with another bag.

(As my friend Jane commented, one should never underestimate the power of the old empty kitten purse bomb.)

I had a brief conversation with the guy about what exactly I was meant to do short of throw away my kitten purse and walk in with my wallet and cell phone in my hand.  My options were less than satisfactory. I was either supposed to run back to the car I hadn’t driven to the game and put it in there or pay $7 to check it the bowling alley across the street.

I went with option C) Walk two gates down, fold up my empty kitten purse bomb, stick it under my arm and proceed into the stadium without a problem.

In the meantime, my friends had gotten ahead of me, and had no idea what might have happened to detain me for so long. Jane started to walk outside of the stadium to see what had happened. She was apparently stopped and informed that all exits are final. Jane tried to explain that she didn’t want to “exit.” She simply wanted to walk five feet to make sure to find her friend and that she would gladly stay within viewing distance.  Like the “No Bags in Bags” rule, the “All Exits Final” policy was evidently hard and fast.

Jane was already none to pleased since she had been forced to throw away a perfectly good bottle of water, having opened it and taken a sip. (At this she declared that she officially liked the old stadium better than the new one.)

We finally all made it in, empty kitten purse bomb and less one bottle of water, and found each other at the seats. I have been to the stadium a number of times this year, but this time things felt decidedly more fascist.  It seemed to be the consensus.

Midway through our discussion, the man in this photo ordered a beer from a vendor. This wouldn’t be notable but for the fact that this man was asked to show ID.  Presumably, along with the strict “All Exits Final” policy and “No Bags in Bags” rule, there’s a hard, it’s been written that beer vendors should ask anyone ordering alcohol for identification.  Fine.  Fair enough.  But wouldn’t logic dictate that unless this man shares DNA with Benjamin Button, you’re only going to humiliate yourself by asking him for his ID? I’m sorry, but when a man that old starts getting asked for ID, I don’t know what you call that besides fascism.

It sure as hell ain’t old stadium, I’ll tell you that.  But when Jorge hit that crazy home run to lead off the eighth and Mo decided to take a seat and stop warming up in the pen since he was no longer needed for the save, it felt like old times.

I recently received an e-mail from a friend with the subject heading, “tennis and swearing (not McEnroe by a long shot).”  It read:

Played tennis yesterday with family.  One guy on the next court shouted “Pujols!” every time he made a mistake

Coincidence, you say? I think not.  Well, possibly, but what are the odds that my soul mate lives in New Jersey? (The presumed location of the aforementioned tennis match.)  No, I’d like to think that you, my loyal readership, are taking my incomprehensibly adolescent sense of humor and bringing it into the world.

If perchance you aren’t, take a moment and visit the glossary. Bring some of its pearls into the world. As previously established, when you’re at a loss, it’s never inappropriate to say that someone’s got hands like tits.

Since 2007, waiting for Sergio Mitre to make a major league appearance as a starter has been a little bit like waiting for Godot. First there was the injury, then the 50 game suspension.  When last night’s start was delayed for half an hour by the rain, one started to wonder if Mitre would ever get his day on the mound.

But finally, the skies parted, and after 5 and 2/3 innings, during which he allowed four runs — three earned — and eight hits Mitre got that major league start he’d been so anxiously awaiting.  What’s more, he got the W on a 6-4 Yankees victory, bumping the Bombers firmly into first place.

The outing was solid — not exactly the performance of an ace — but solid.  It was the comeback, however, that was the really story here. Or, in a sense, it was the comeback that wasn’t a story.

Sergio Mitre, like Manny Ramirez, served a 50 day suspension for the use of banned substances. The most fundamental difference between the two suspensions, of course, being that Manny is Manny and Sergio is not.  In the coverage of yesterday’s game, Mitre’s suspension was more of an aside than anything else.  It was this total lack of emphasis on Mitre’s drug use and suspension that really got me thinking about Manny Ramirez and his return from exile.  Sure, like I said, Manny is Manny and we’re always going to care more about what he does than, say, almost anyone else.  But does that make him any less entitled to move on from a 50 day suspension than another player of lesser value

Some might argue, yes.  When you’re dealing with better players, there are other issues at stakes – records, hall of fame induction.  These are complicated and morally gray areas. I don’t deny that. If you think that the use of steroids is cheating, then it’s tricky, this question of how you deal with statistics accumulated during a period of time when a player was known to have been using performance-enhancing drugs.  This is an issue for Major League Baseball — and it’s one that seems to me to be separate from the issue at hand.  (By the way, good luck with all that.)

While I’m the last to defend the use of performance-enhancing drugs, it occurs to me that once a player comes back from a suspension, he should be allowed to move on with his career regardless of his level of superstardom.  No, I don’t applaud the behavior, but the point of the suspension is that it’s supposed to serve as a punishment.  It strikes me as hypocritical that just because some players are richer, more famous than others that they should get a larger dose of justice.  Fans cheered for Mitre when he left the mound last night, and no one cared.  So why not let them cheer for Ramirez or the next of the big name players to serve a suspension if they want to?

Sure, I don’t like Ramirez, but no one said it better than guest blogger Chris Yamaoka when he said that I can boo him simply because he’s a self-obsessed, narcissistic pain in the pujols. It doesn’t have to be about the steroids.  (Those weren’t Chris’s exact words.  I might be paraphrasing ever-so-slightly.)

If there’s something we ought to know about Hideki Matsui by now, it’s that he’s not one for breaking the rules. So when he hit his ninth inning walk-off home run off of Jim Johnson in last night’s 2-1 victory against the Orioles, he made sure to throw his helmet in the air.

Apparently, it’s the rules.

According to Hideki, who was speaking through a translator, “I was just going to step on home plate, just normally, but they told me to throw my helmet. So I threw my helmet…I’ve never done it before, so yeah, in that sense, yes, it’s a little uncomfortable, but I’d like to follow whatever the team’s rules are.”

I don’t know from rules when it comes to helmet-throwing and walk-off home runs. If there’s some kind of etiquette involved, I’m unaware of it.  We’ll likely have to refer to the unpublished diaries of Emily Post to help us solve that mystery. Regardless, only Hideki could turn an act that is meant to be an expression of whimsical, care-free excitement into a display of his respect for tradition.  Even though it made him uncomfortable.  Sort of like that time he dressed up like a pimp during Rookie hazing.  For Hideki, one’s duty to one’s team is not something to be scoffed at.

Hideki’s game-ending shot capped off what’s been an excellent month for him thus far. It was his fifth home run in July, as well his 14th RBI.  A nice turnaround given how much he’d been struggling in the former half of the season.  Going into the month, he was coming off of nine days of rest for his ailing knees, and apparently it was just what he doctor ordered.

Let’s hope so, anyway.  With a little less than half the season to go, Hideki’s is a bat we could use in our lineup – as long as it’s working effectively.

Last night’s victory — our fourth in a row — put us in a first place tie for the division.  Pettitte deserves some of the credit for this one as well – he pitched not only a solid one-run outing, but a long one at 7 and 1/3 innings. It’s been a while since we got one of those out of him — since his second start of the season to be exact. Hinske also deserves a tip of the helmet.  We can attribute out other run to his solo shot – his fourth home run in five games as a Bomber.  We don’t mind that.

Ultimately, however, it was Hideki’s night.  If you really want to feel good about life, watch the video highlight on mlb.com –  behold the majesty of the moment. And don’t be offended by Hideki’s Joba-like uncharacteristic display of emotion.  Remember, he did it for the rules.

For a variety of reasons, it can be easy to think of baseball players as something other than people.  We see them on the cover of Us Weekly, read about them in Page Six of the Post, know the details of their salary negotiations.  It can be easy let their celebrity eclipse their humanity.  Of course, at other times, it’s not so much their fame as their numerical values that interest us. We treat them as little more than a set of statistics that will determine the eventual failure or success of our teams, both real and fantasy.

However, at around this time of year, more than anything else they start to look a whole lot like commodities.  We think of them almost exclusively in terms of market worth, assessing their value as potential bargaining chips.

There are occasions, however, when it becomes impossible to forget the fact that while baseball is a business and the players are its main assets, they’re also individuals.  And when you’re a person, it can be a little bit sad to be moved around like an item on a chess board.  (Just to throw in another analogy.)

When the Braves and the Mets made the trade for Ryan Church and Jeff Francoeur, one couldn’t help get that feeling.  Perhaps it was because Francoeur was not just a player of the homegrown but also of the hometown variety.  The quintessential example of the local kid who had made good. Sadly, his would turn out to be a story of failed expectations.  He would never quite live up to the promise of that first big league appearance on July7, 2005 when he hit a three-run shot and was met with thundering applause by the crowd of fans who had been following him since his high school years. His last two seasons have been a major disappointment to his fans in Atlanta, characterized by time spent on the bench and in the minors. While he remains a figure fairly highly-regarded, you’d be hard-pressed to find a local writer who’s all that critical of the trade. Most agreed that it was time to see him go.

Still, it was a strangely-timed and sentimental series against the Mets this past weekend at Turner Field.  Francoeur was met with a warm reception by both fans and teammates alike.  This must have served as only small consolation for Francoeur.  Particularly after the Braves wiped the floor with his new team.  The Mets went 1-3 in the series, managing to win only Saturday’s game, a game in which Francoeur got two hits.  His current record with the Mets is 7-for-25 or.280 – up from .250 from his record for the Braves.  Hopefully, this is a sign of things to come.  I doubt there is anyone rooting against his resurgence.

Yesterday, Francoeur commented, “I’m looking forward to getting out of here. For me, I don’t think it’ll be that weird when I come back later in the year, just the fact that it’s right away after the break and not being gone long.” The Mets are currently scheduled to return to Atlanta in mid-September. One would imagine that if Francoeur does manage to turn his season around, more than time, that will ease the blow of return.

Francoeur himself said, “One team you’re never supposed to like, you’re on.”  What better way to make Atlantans regret his departure than to do right by the one team he was never supposed to like?

Take it from Joe Torre: Living well is the best revenge.