House of Nails

by Lenny Dykstra

  DEDICATION

  For Dorothy Van Kalsbeek, you define the words loyalty and trust and you mean more to me than all the stars in the sky that you love so much . . .

  TO AYN AND SAMUEL W. GAILEY,

  Thank you for sharing your passion for the power of words and helping me find the true heart of my story. Your talent, inspiration, and dedication are appreciated.

  TO DR. JIM BERMAN,

  When we first met, you were Dr. Berman. Quickly, you became Jim. Soon thereafter, you became a trusted friend. Then you became much more. You represent everything that is right in the world (and you know a hell of a lot about baseball). Without you, my true voice would not be heard in this book.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1 Freedom

  2 In the Shadow of Angels

  3 Climbing the Ladder

  4 Breaking into the Bigs

  5 Chasing the Pennant, 1986 NLCS: New York Mets vs. Houston Astros

  6 1986 World Series: New York Mets vs. Boston Red Sox

  7 Rednecks & Rifles

  8 1988 NLCS: New York Mets vs. Los Angeles Dodgers

  9 Play Me or Trade Me

  10 A Shot in the Butt

  11 The Politics of Steroids

  12 The Big Blind

  13 Brass Balls

  14 Charlie Sheen

  15 1993 NLCS: Philadelphia Phillies vs. Atlanta Braves

  16 1993 World Series: Philadelphia Phillies vs. Toronto Blue Jays

  17 Ambassador Lenny

  18 Car Wash King

  19 Robes & Room Service

  20 1994 MLB Strike: No More Kool-Aid for Me

  21 Promised Land

  22 Wheels Up

  23 Richards & Rehab

  24 Stock Market Guru

  25 Players Club

  26 Baseball Gods

  27 Beginning of the End

  28 I Fought the Law and the Law Won

  29 Detained

  30 In Custody

  31 In the Hole

  32 Legacy

  33 To Be or Not to Be Lenny

  Afterword: Whale Hunting with Lenny Dykstra

  Acknowledgments

  Index

  Photo Section

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  The professional sporting landscape has forever been littered with the carcasses of punctured heroes. Yet . . . no jock in modern lore has traveled a rise-and-fall path quite as jarring—and oddly riveting—as Lenny Dykstra.

  —JEFF PEARLMAN, MAXIM

  Growing up, my biggest fear was being average. I wanted to be rich; I wanted to be a millionaire. I get what I want, one way or another. So I became a millionaire—many times over, I might add.

  How? Hard fucking work!

  I knew at an early age I was different from the other kids. I knew I was going to play in the major leagues. In fact, I never doubted it.

  As a kid, I loved playing baseball, but I loved winning more. I went to school for one reason: because I had to in order to play baseball. I lived and breathed baseball. In high school, I never went to a dance, I never went to a party, I never even had a beer.

  I had one friend growing up. Why? Because I needed somebody to play catch with. Period.

  I made a decision my first year of high school to dedicate my life to baseball because I knew it was my one-way ticket out of the middle.

  The simple truth is that I was born in the middle. I had middle-class parents. We lived in a middle-class neighborhood. I had a brother ahead of me and another behind me. I hated being in the middle.

  I still hate the middle.

  Losing was not an option for me then and still isn’t today. When I made it to the big show, I loved pissing off the opposing team. Do you think it was a coincidence I was voted the most hated player in the league by opposing teams five years in a row? They hated me because I made their job hard. On the other hand, my teammates loved me. They wanted me in their foxhole.

  To be a star you have to have the ability to not give a fuck what others—especially your opponents—think about you. You have to be willing to take risks. You need brass balls, and you cannot be afraid to put it all on the line.

  Unfortunately for me, that attitude in life became a double-edged sword. It gave me a huge advantage on the field, but it was a serious liability off the field. Going all in can be a great quality if you use it the right way, in the appropriate situation, and, most important, if you know how to control it.

  This mentality took me from flying around the world in my own private jet to ending up in prison.

  I had it all—fame, fortune, family—and yet I risked it all and lost it all. Why? What really led me to lose everything?

  What was it that drove me to succeed and kept me wanting more and more, at the expense of everything of true value in my life?

  Leading a life of no regrets doesn’t mean living without making mistakes. I have made plenty of mistakes, and for the first time I will share them with you, the reader, and let you up close to my world, where no one has been before.

  I have been an outspoken, controversial figure wherever I have gone. My highs have been very high and my lows have been very low. I will take ownership of my shortcomings and bad decisions, but I’ll also be frank about the corruption by others that led to my imprisonment. The fact is, there are books, articles, and writers out there who have made me look like a hero or a criminal, but none of them know what really happened.

  The Bottom Line:

  • If you want my sports stats, you can look them up.

  • If you want to read bullshit about me, you can google it.

  • But if you want the truth, the real truth, then come to the source.

  I am Lenny Dykstra, and this is my story.

  1

  FREEDOM

  Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.

  —NELSON MANDELA

  June 21, 2013, Federal Correctional Institution, Victorville, California

  Rise and shine, Dykstra. Get the fuck up.”

  It’s three-thirty in the morning, and I’m lying on my cot asleep—or at least what passes for sleep in prison—when two hulking uniformed corrections officers the size of NFL linemen, and just as charming, come crashing into my cell, all attitude and nightsticks. Evidently, this pair skipped courtesy class during their training because they’re shouting my name (Who else would be in here? I’m in solitary confinement) and banging their batons against the metal bars in the door of my cage.

  “You’re leaving,” the uglier of the two yelled.

  I know. Did they think I’d actually forget the day I’m finally getting sprung from Shawshank?

  “I’m going to be picked up at ten A.M.,” I mumbled.

  “No,” he said. “There’s been a change. You’re leaving now. Grab your shit.”

  I was groggy, but I got up and dressed quickly. Even with only a few hours left in custody, I knew better than to mess with these dudes. They don’t need much of a reason to make things painfully tough for you.

  I didn’t have much shit to grab—a couple of books and some personal items. I was going to take more, but I looked around and realized I didn’t want to remember anything from this joint. No personal mementos or souvenirs from the prison gift shop for me.

  “What’s going on?” I kept asking them.

  They wouldn’t tell me. Withholding this information gave them power over me. And that’s what these boys loved. Power.

  “Don’t worry about it. Let’s go, man. We have to get these papers signed. And your ride will be here.”

  “My ride?” I said, still confus
ed about why I was being driven somewhere away from the prison on the day I was supposed to get released from this hellhole. “What do you mean?”

  “We’ll tell you when we get there.”

  In exchange for filling out my release paperwork correctly, I was presented with some parting gifts: a prepaid debit card with five dollars on it and a ticket on a Greyhound bus back home to Los Angeles.

  Outside the prison gates, a no-nonsense-looking Federal Marshal motioned for me to get in his car. This had gone far enough. Keeping my mouth shut is not the way I’m wired.

  “What the fuck, man?” I shouted. “I already have someone picking me up. It’s all organized. It’s four in the fucking morning. What the hell is going on?”

  The Federal Marshal shrugged. He has one job: to drive released convicts from the prison to the local bus station and make sure said prisoners actually get on the bus.

  I was going off on this poor guy as he drove, screaming at him in the middle of the night over riding a damn Greyhound bus down to LA, when he finally pulled over and turned to me.

  “You want to know something?” he asked. “I’ve been doing this for over twenty years, and this is a first. I’ve never heard someone bitch and complain so much about getting out of prison. Do you understand? You are free! You’re out! You’re now a free man!”

  That’s when it hit me.

  Holy shit! I thought to myself. He’s right. I am out. It’s over. I’ve finally been released. No handcuffs, no shackles. Freedom!

  “You’re right, man. I am a free man,” I replied, and we both started laughing—the first time I could remember laughing since this living nightmare started four years earlier when I was arrested. Somehow I had lived through it all, and it was finally over.

  The feeling I had upon realizing I was free is hard to describe. It was surreal. Mainly because I knew I wasn’t a criminal and never once considered myself one, even when locked up.

  Don’t get me wrong, I was definitely relieved. I mean, who wouldn’t be happy to be free after spending the past two years of his life in a fucking cage? I was locked up twenty-four hours a day, every day, in a prison cell six by eight feet in size with steel walls and one solid door that locked from the outside. My cell was equipped with a steel bed that held what passed for a mattress (in actuality it was more like a gymnasium floor mat). I had a one-piece sink/toilet constructed of what appeared to be welded stainless steel. Let’s just say it was a long way from the robes and room service I was used to at the Ritz-Carlton.

  If you’re reading this, the question you must be asking yourself, and one I certainly asked myself, is “How did I get here?”

  Trust me, I had a lot of time to figure that out when I was locked up. For now, I’ll just say I made some mistakes. Some I am not proud of, and others I had no control over. But did I ever commit a crime that justified the United States of America taking away my freedom and locking me up with murderers for two years? Did I deserve to spend three years on probation? Was it fair that I had to pay $200,000 in restitution to the same people who I believe stole millions and millions of dollars from me? After you read all the facts in the chapters ahead, I will let you determine what you believe was fair and just.

  When I arrived in prison, the cold, hard reality set in. I realized that bitching about what I deserved was irrelevant. I quickly understood I had two choices: I could sit around and pout and blame everyone else for what happened, or I could learn from it so it would never happen again.

  With that said, I was determined not to be crippled by negativity. I had to take on a whole different mind-set—it was almost like I needed to check out of the lifestyle I had grown accustomed to and do what was necessary to survive.

  I always have had the ability to not dwell on the past, to live my life going forward. That’s why some say I was a good baseball player—meaning, in baseball, even if you are one of the best players in the league, you will still fail seven out of ten times as a hitter. If a player in the major leagues can hit .300, a team will pay him $20 million a year.

  Playing baseball at the highest level is all about damage control. As a player, you already know you’re going to fail 70 percent of the time, and that’s if you are one of the elite players. The reality is, at the end of the day, a player who has the ability to stay positive and not let the game get to him has a much better chance of making it to the big leagues, and then staying in the big leagues.

  Billy Beane, the celebrated general manager of the Oakland A’s who was my roommate and good friend while we were both in the minor leagues, explained it best in Michael Lewis’s best-selling book Moneyball. He realized that what made me successful at playing the game of baseball was my ability to instantly forget any failure and draw strength from every success. After playing and watching me day in and day out, Billy came to believe that I had no concept of failure.

  It was this mind-set that helped me make it to the major leagues, and I knew that if I was going to make it out of prison, I would need to apply the same thinking to get me through two years of living inside the gates of hell.

  Later, I would learn that the reason why the feds let me out in the middle of the night was because the warden didn’t want a media circus filming me—the famous former Major League Baseball All-Star and now felon—leaving prison. The press knew I was getting out on this day and so did the two filmmakers, Gil Netter and John Lee Hancock, who had signed on to make a movie about my life. Gil and John had arranged for a film crew to wait outside the prison to film me as I was being released at ten in the morning. But this wasn’t the warden’s first rodeo, and by making me leave unscheduled in the middle of the night, he ensured no media types of any kind would have any reason to hang out in front of his prison.

  The warden got his way. It was just me and the wind.

  I had no intention of taking the bus from the prison any longer than was necessary. Victorville Federal Prison is ninety miles northeast of Los Angeles at the edge of the Mojave Desert. At the bus station, at around five A.M., I was standing with the Federal Marshal whose job was to make sure I got on the bus. There was one other dude waiting at the bus stop; he was holding a cheap cell phone.

  “Hey, man,” I called out. “Can I use your phone? I’ll give you five bucks for one call.”

  He figured I was an ex-con and he was naturally wary of me.

  “I don’t know, man. You have to ask him,” he said, pointing to the Federal Marshal standing next to me.

  “He’s free,” the marshal said. “If he wants to give you five bucks for a phone call, and if you want to take it, then take it. I have no say.”

  I gave the dude my five-dollar gift card to use his phone and called my longtime assistant, Dorothy Van Kalsbeek, easily the most reliable person in my life, and explained the situation to her. She immediately switched gears and met me at the first stop. When I arrived at the San Bernardino Greyhound Station at six A.M. and got off the bus, she was there.

  As I sat on that Greyhound bus on the way to San Bernardino, I thought about how wonderful it was not to be locked up anymore. How fantastic it was to see beyond the walls of my cell. Although prison robbed me of precious time and dignity, the one thing it gifted me was clarity. Being forced out of the spotlight and the high-flying lifestyle I had placed myself in, I had plenty of time to do some serious soul-searching.

  As that bus rumbled down the empty desert highway, I found my mind wandering to where it all started, well before everything went south, back to when baseball was all I ever wanted and everything I thought I needed.

  2

  IN THE SHADOW OF ANGELS

  Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they’ve been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.

  —MUHAMMAD ALI

  Some people are born w
inners, while others aren’t so lucky. I truly believe that.

  I was born with the name Lenny Kyle Leswick. My grandfather, “Pistol Pete” Leswick, was a professional hockey player, born and raised in Canada. He was an All-Star in the 1930s in the American Hockey League, and my uncle Tony Leswick, my biological dad’s brother, starred in the NHL. He had another brother, Jack, the stud of the family, but he drowned saving a kid’s life, an accident that was very hard on the family. Still to this day, I have a fear of the ocean.

  My uncle Tony was known as “Tough Tony” and “Mighty Mouse,” because, like me, he was small but aggressive. “He’s tough as nails,” they said of old Tony about sixty years before I earned my famous nickname. Tony played for the New York Rangers, and he and the great Maurice “the Rocket” Richard of the Montreal Canadiens had one of the most intense feuds in hockey history. Tony also had a macho thing going with Detroit’s Gordie Howe, who was supposed to be the toughest player in the league at the time. After years of watching Uncle Tony beat the living crap out of their precious Howe, the Red Wings finally decided the best solution to the problem was to bring Tony to play for them. After they traded for him, Uncle Tony helped the Red Wings win three Stanley Cups in the three years he played in Detroit. He scored the winning goal in overtime in Game 7 against the Canadiens to win the Cup in 1954. Now there’s someone I’m proud to call family.

  My French-Canadian ancestry might explain why all throughout my MLB career, people told me I played baseball like a hockey player. If there had been a penalty box along the right field line, I have no doubt I would have spent my fair share of time in the sin bin.

  As for my biological father, the man they called Jerry Leswick, he left when I was about three years old. My only memory of the man is the time my mom threw a shoe across the room at him. I never heard from the man again until after I became a millionaire. He called and tried to get us to reunite, but I couldn’t get off the phone fast enough.