New Life At The Plate

Dave Sheinin's

story: The Devil and the Son of God are waging war from opposite corners of Josh Hamilton's body.

As he guides his Chevy Tahoe out of the driveway of his rental house and onto Interstate 75, for a 45-minute drive that just so happens to weave through a minefield of ugly memories, Hamilton, the Cincinnati Reds' newest outfielder, rests his once-prized left arm on the door, and suddenly the Devil's menacing face appears, etched in dark ink into the skin in the crook of Hamilton's elbow.

As the truck speeds north on a chilly morning toward Clearwater, where Hamilton will spend another day working out in preparation for the best and possibly last opportunity of his baseball career, the tattoo devil peers out the windshield. Below the freeway sit some of the very tattoo parlors and crack houses where Hamilton years ago defiled his body and squandered his enormous potential. A few miles ahead, in St. Petersburg, the big league stadium where Hamilton was supposed to have been a star rises from the horizon to mock him.

The tattoo devil, having long ago survived a bloody, failed attempt at removal, stares intently, gently prodding Hamilton to pull over and have some wild, wicked fun. Like in the old days.