It seemed like Anthony Alford could do anything, like he had nothing but good choices ahead of him. He had always excelled. He had always been the most talented athlete, the hometown hero. Some called him a natural—his nickname was “The Freak,” a tribute to his physical gifts—but those who knew him knew about the thousands of hours he had put into practice and work in the gym. He had faced adversity—not just the usual challenges an athlete faces on the field, but also everyday hardship.

He was on the verge of very big things.

And then he was on the verge of losing them all.

It was a schoolday morning, and he was just another teenager mixed up in something—something involving a gun, and not one that he’d touched or even seen. Just a gun that another kid was carrying. And then he was in a cruiser on the way to a police station, where he heard that he was being charged with crimes that could send him to jail for the best years of his adult life. He stood in front of the camera for a mug shot. He knew he was innocent, but had to have some doubt that a jury in Hattiesburg, Miss., would see it that way.

He had always been respectful and tried to lead a quiet, decent life. Now his name would be out in the media, and those who didn’t know him would think he was a thug.

He had never lacked confidence in any game he played, in any other aspect of life. Now he was scared. “Something like that changes you,” says Alford, taking off his baseball cap and wiping sweat from his brow. “It has to. You realize it can go away, just like that.”

As Alford sits in front of his stall in the Toronto Blue Jays’ spring-training clubhouse after a morning workout and reflects on that time, his voice is a raised whisper that could be drowned out by a running shower. His words are slowly, deliberately put together—it sounds like he’s talking about a time long ago and far away. Only when you look at the calendar and count back do you realize that all of this happened barely three years ago.