Joltin'.

I'm finally digging into the type of book I've long been wanting to read, a biography of Joe DiMaggio (The Hero's Life by Richard Ben Cramer), and I thought I'd give a little opinion — in part to chronicle the 500-page book for posterity, and in part to convince the people who may have once followed my blog that I am not, indeed, dead.

I'm about halfway through so far, and the picture of Joe is a sad one. Along the mantra of "Don't be motivated by fear; be motivated by hope," he hangs a failing grade from even his youth. The man is so driven by not making mistakes, not falling short with money, not succumbing to others' expectations, not letting anything out of his grasp, that much of his life appears to be that of a caged man.

Joe's career choice and most of how he lives after that come from this fear, but of course with a man as talented as Joe DiMaggio, the fear is but an ugly speck in his aura of defiance. Even though he may have lived most of his years scared of running out of cash or not being perfect, he transformed that fear into performance with such skill that most people watching just found him amazing.

That seems to be the larger tale for most great athletes: Demons so dark that the star is driven to push harder, jump higher, hit longer, be better, win more than anyone around. We laud them, follow them, and try to emulate them ... most times not knowing that their otherworldliness is not so much a heavenly bent as it is shadows of pain, failure, or exclusion pushing a man.

The fans who remember Joe recall a man locked in, devoted to winning. He stood solid in the batter's box, and in his quiet and strength he always had the right focus to be a superior hitter. He scrutinized and planned from the outfield, doing the large bits of work ahead of time to see where a hitter was going so his legs could easily handle the rest. He relentlessly kept his brain on winning, winning, winning, and styled his regimens and attitudes around that goal, and the glory that came with achieving it.

Would Joe have been this Joe if not for the World Series bonuses he was chasing? What if he wasn't pushing each year for a better salary? What if he didn't feel the need to be known as better than Ted Williams? Would Joe have ever even pursued baseball if he didn't think it could pay him well?

Where would those fly balls have gone if he wasn't obsessed with being the perfect outfielder? How about the batting crowns, MVP awards, and championship rings — or the legs shredded from ferocious sliding, the failed marriages, and his otherwise loveless and injured life?

Do you have to court the darkness of pride, fear, and hunger to be truly great?

Jerry West's book, West by West, seems to think so. Kobe Bryant's trophy case vs. LeBron James' happy zone backs up the thesis. Tiger Woods' altered landscape suggests that genius needs its ingredients just right — and on its own terms.

Can you be a winner without the killer instinct? And are the great ones' greatest talents really just their ability to keep their demons dancing on a row long enough that they can harness the bitterness, rage, and shortcomings into one giant burst of awesome?

Hope it's worth it, fellas.