Great column by Tim Cowlishaw today that warrants a few minutes of your time. It’s about Josh Hamilton. But it’s also about Tim Cowlishaw. The crux:
I watched the Cowboys lose to the Eagles, 44-6, last December from my room at Parkland Hospital after suffering a fractured skull of undetermined origin. When Josh says he’s foggy on the details of his drinking in Arizona, I’m right there with him in the fog. How I got into an ambulance to go to Parkland will remain one of my life’s little mysteries.
It takes guts to put it out there. Kudos to Cowlishaw.
This brings up a side question in my mind. Maybe this doesn’t apply so to Cowlishaw, who, even though he has his picture in the paper every week, must enjoy a certain amount of anonymity, but it certainly applies to Josh Hamilton. Hamilton is an easily recognizable fellow. What bartender or waiter serves him a drink? Okay, let’s say the guy decides to rip a few lines of coke. A dealer is going to deal. Drugs are illegal. You wouldn’t expect a dealer to have a huge conscience. But how does Josh Hamilton get served in a Tempe, Arizona, bar? Who does that to him?
