This article has been submitted by Andrew Chestnut.

The last time I watched a home run derby, the year was 1998, when presidents spoke in complete sentences, people still had AOL and CD players, and gasoline was still cheaper by volume than Russian beluga caviar. Back then, Ken Griffey Jr. was still wearing a Mariners uniform, and stuck 19 baseballs through controversially rarified air and out of Coors Field to win the contest.

Since then, the ordeal has completely failed to interest me. There are no stories or meanings behind the long bombs to make me care which 280 pound human specimen hits the most. It’s not like the winning guy gets to add five wins to his team’s overall record, or anything like that. To make matters worse, the guys at ESPN seem to be making the thing more and more gimmicky each year, evidently more concerned with capturing the attention of semi-fans flipping through channels than retaining the attention of real baseball fans. The derby reminds me a lot of Slamball.

So this year I returned to watching the derby to see this Josh Hamilton guy who apparently hits baseballs the way Mike Tyson used to hit people (hard). There was talk that he might be the first person to ever hit a ball out of Yankee Stadium.

When he first took the plate in round one, receiving pitches from his 71-year-old lifelong hitting coach, history was made. As you have probably heard by now, Hamilton broke the record for one round by hitting 28 balls out of the park—nine more than the total that had one won the contest ten years ago. At one point he hit 13 in a row, even one that traveled 518 feet. Hank Steinbrenner must have been watching this, salivating over his imminent free agency like Bruce Pearl at an Erin Andrews look-a-like contest.

It’s a truly spectacular, special thing when a person rides such a streak; when they catch fire. It is catching the perfect wave; trapping lightning in a bottle. I remember making 27 consecutive free throws when I was in third grade, and feeling like I had stolen fire from the gods. You are so locked in that confidence becomes certainty; probability transforms into fact. You are God within the simple reality that you will hit this next homerun, or shot, or beer pong cup, or whatever it is. The sensation is surreal and electrifying.

So to see Josh Hamilton capture this experience was exactly what the homerun derby has been missing. ESPN stuck themselves with the grim responsibility of making the event seem more exciting—to improve ratings—by incorporating useless stunts such as the golden ball and the car on the warning track. But sports should be compelling in and of themselves, without needing extrinsic factors that add superficial meaning, which seems to be what the derby does in the first place.

However, this year’s event was interesting in its own right, and it had nothing to do with Hamilton’s story of recovery. In a compulsive side note, one of my roommates, during the bomb-fest, mentioned that not only was Hamilton a perfect striker of baseballs, but also a good role model. I didn’t think much about the comment at the time, but now can’t seem to agree with this statement.

Not to take anything away from Hamilton. To escape from a nearly-fatal addiction to heroin and wind up crushing balls into the thermosphere at the House That Ruth Built is as incredible of a feat as everyone agrees it is. I just wouldn’t call him a role model. When I think of that term, I envision someone you would tell a kid to replicate. But to replicate Josh Hamilton would first require you to seriously screw up. Would you tell a kid to go get massively in debt, or commit a felony, or get addicted to heroin, and then turn his or her life around? No. Would you choose to do that? Hopefully not. Hamilton’s saga is undeniably inspirational, especially for someone mired in addiction, depression, or anything awful. Mainly what I’m saying is that I look to him as a triumphant recoverer, but not as a role model.

ANYWAY, neither of those elements are even the most intriguing thing that Josh Hamilton did. More specifically, it’s what he didn’t do. Even more specifically, it’s the fact that after that record-breaking first round, just when he seemed and probably felt unbeatable, he lost. His victory was a foregone conclusion. He needed a mere six for the title, and at the rate he was going, he probably could have done that with a wiffle bat. But he pulled a Big Brown and hit just three. And… Justin Morneau is the homerun champion? Huh?

The ending was so anticlimactic it is almost funny. But actually, it is confusing. How does something that inexorable and momentous suddenly collapse just before the end? We should know by now, because this has been happening recently in the sports world. Tom Brady would tell you it happens when your offensive line is more penetrable than the U.S.-Mexico border1. Big Brown would tell you it happens when your hoof gets cracked2. The ‘07 Colorado Rockies would blame it on an eight-day layoff, and they would probably relate to Hamilton’s break down closer than anyone, because they too dealt with the loss of rhythm.

The worst thing that could have possibly happened to Hamilton’s swing was stepping away from the plate for a few minutes and having to reflect on what he just did. After I missed my first out of 27 free throws as a kid—a shot which barely rimmed out, I might add—I couldn’t string together three in a row to save my life. I simply wasn’t the God of Free Throws anymore. When he sat, Hamilton lost the ephemeral sensation of omnipotence that had carried his first 28 bombs into the nether-regions of Yankee Stadium, and when that happens, it’s impossible to get back. And that is what makes it so special; it really is catching lightning in a bottle.

1Though probably not in those words.
2Though probably not in any words.

This article has been submitted by Andrew Chestnut.