“Here’s a peek into my insanity,” Charlie Sheen tells me one afternoon in February. “People say, ‘What are you thinking?’ and here’s the truth. It’s generally a quote from ‘Apocalypse Now’ or ‘Jaws.’” It’s Sheen’s fourteenth day of sobriety (this time around), and he’s calling from a baseball diamond on the west side of Los Angeles. Batting practice is like therapy for the former star athlete, people who know him say, and he’s spent the past few hours hitting balls with his friend Tony Todd, whom he met in Little League when they were 8 years old. This has been “the best day ever,” says Sheen, 45. His voice is relaxed and fluid. He sounds like he’s on the mend. But when I say as much, he’s quick to correct me. “We’re past ‘on the mend,’ ” he says. “We’re not dealing with normal DNA here, you know what I’m saying? All those other sissies and amateurs, they can take their fucking time.”

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