House of Nails

by Lenny Dykstra

  Based on the audit, we filed a suit claiming embezzlement, fraud, breach of contract, and other claims. Lindsay in turn had the balls to sue me, demanding ownership of 25 percent of the car wash business. Well, we went to binding arbitration and the arbitrator buried his ass. He ruled that my so-called friend and business partner took more than $2 million from our business partnership without authority, owed more than $300,000 in unpaid loans, and falsified partnership books and records to enhance his own position. I was awarded $2.4 million in actual damages and another half a million in punitive damages.

  The arbitrator also threw Jones out of the business.

  I never saw a dime of the award.

  Like I told Lindsay the day I fired him, borrowing the line from Mickey Rourke’s character in the movie Body Heat, “Any time you try a decent crime, you got fifty ways you can fuck up. If you can think of twenty-five of them, then you’re a genius . . . and you ain’t no genius.”

  That was the end of Lindsay Jones.

  19

  ROBES & ROOM SERVICE

  Being with a woman all night never hurt no professional baseball player. It’s staying up all night looking for a woman that does him in.

  —CASEY STENGEL

  One of the many benefits of playing in Philadelphia was that it was close to Atlantic City, which meant it was close to the casinos. In gambling terms, I was considered a whale, meaning, someone who tees it up for big numbers at the tables. For example, when I was donating, or gambling (they’re the same thing in my case), I would bet $10,000 a hand in baccarat. The house knows if they can keep someone like me at the table long enough, I’ll lose much more than I win. How do you think they built all of those beautiful casinos? Enough said.

  With a single phone call, the casinos would often charter a private jet for me, put me up in their best suites, and even supply me with high-grade blow. Why? Because they knew that I was getting paid more than $500,000 a month, every month without fail, and at the end of the day they knew I would have a bad run, go on tilt, and drop a big fucking number. To help matters, I would always draw a big crowd to watch me play.

  Once, one of those watching was a well-known writer by the name of Bruce Buschel. Buschel went on to write a story about me that was originally published as “Lips Get Smacked” in the January 1993 issue of Philadelphia magazine (later included in The Best American Sports Writing 1994).

  I was pissed at the time, but in all honesty, I couldn’t have written it better myself. The only thing I found confusing was this guy’s infatuation with my lips. He was completely obsessed. Here’s what Buschel wrote:

  It’s Lenny F-ing Dykstra. What a mouth on this guy—not just the utterances that pass through it, but the actual physical mouth. Never closed, even when its owner is ruminative or silent, it is the control center for heavy traffic. Things go in (filtered tips of cigarettes and clear liquids and fingers, one or two at a time) and things come out (a stream of profanity and filtered tips and gusts of smoke and fingers and a tongue) . . .

  The croupier collects Dykstra’s three orange chips and passes the shoe—the card dispenser—to the far end of the table to the only other gambler, a bald, mild-mannered fellow . . .

  Lenny the Lips locates his rolling chair, extinguishes his cigarette, watches a brunette exchange his soiled ashtray for a fresh one, lights another Salem with a thin gold lighter and counts his orange wafers: twenty-one. He decides to slide three more onto the space marked banker and offers encouragement to his hairless compadre. “Let’s go, dude. You’re the fucking man. Show me something.” His voice carries like a high fly caught in a swift wind. As the cards skim along the baize, Dykstra releases his face to a series of ticks and twitches, freezing his gaping yap as if to address an endodontist.

  It remains stretched wide until he sees his cards. He likes what he sees. He takes a deep drag. He expels abruptly.

  “I love you, dude,” he says to the bald gambler, who nods meekly in acknowledgment. Dykstra compulsively smooths out his slender spire of chips; he keeps adding to the stack like a child testing how high his building blocks will climb before gravity intrudes . . .

  “We’re on a fucking roll, dude.”

  And so are we . . .

  Watching Lenny Dykstra gamble is like having an orchestra seat at a one-character David Mamet tragicomic psychodrama. You are appalled and delighted by the language and the largesse, the exposed and tortured soul. You enjoy the ride. You know it will end badly.

  Gambling is all about ego and the three p’s: power, partying, and pussy. But not necessarily in that order.

  If you think about gambling, and you are honest with yourself, nothing about it makes sense. When you win, you kind of say to yourself, Cool, just throw that in with the rest. Meaning, you don’t appreciate it, because if you have that kind of ammo to burn, what’s the fucking difference? On the other hand, when you lose, it’s the fucking worst. Furthermore, the stress I used to put myself through has probably taken years off my life, and for what? To donate? To torture myself?

  With that said, at the time I was making so much fucking money, it didn’t fucking matter . . . So I thought.

  One thing I will admit: when it comes to gambling, I have found that high rollers make for some really interesting friends.

  One particular example of this was Roger King, owner of King World. Roger discovered Oprah Winfrey, put Dr. Phil on the map, and entertained millions and millions of Americans with Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune.

  The first time I met Roger was in Las Vegas. I was partying at Caesar’s Palace when I decided to go sit down at the high-roller baccarat tables. Flanking me on my left and right were some friends who, let’s just say, were easy on the eyes. I called the pit boss over and told him to give me a quarter million dollars’ worth of chips.

  Minutes after I told the pit boss how much I wanted in chips, Roger stood up and demanded $1 million in cash.

  See, Roger didn’t like it when he wasn’t the center of attention. While the casino was in the process of putting together his money, Roger turned to me.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  When I answered politely, “Lenny Dykstra,” he replied with an entirely new tone of respect, “I can’t believe I am sitting at a baccarat table with Nails.”

  I stood up to shake his hand, and he almost crushed my fucking fingers. A former boxer, Roger stood six foot four and had a commanding presence, to say the very least.

  Even though I had no idea who he was at the time, we ended up in his suite drinking later that night. Roger was rude, obnoxious, and loud—he was my kind of guy.

  In addition to gambling, Roger loved the powder. He also loved pussy. And he was a fucking billionaire. Hanging out with him came easy. If we weren’t partying at a casino, he’d often show up at my parties at the Peninsula hotel in Beverly Hills when we were in LA playing the Dodgers.

  On one particular Saturday night, my teammates and I were hitting it hard, even though we had a one o’clock game the following day. Roger was a degenerate gambler, so when he saw all of us partying and still going strong at four A.M., he got an idea.

  We all suited up and played the game the next day, and we won after I laced a double down the right field line in the top of the ninth to drive in what would be the winning run.

  After the game, my cell phone rang. It was Roger.

  “You motherfucker!” he shouted.

  I was completely caught off guard. “What? What did I do?”

  “I’ll tell you what you did,” he said. “You cost me five hundred thousand fucking dollars.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, thoroughly confused.

  “You and your teammates were partying until four in the fucking morning, and I figured there was no way you guys could fucking win. So I bet $500,000 on the Dodgers. And you had to be the motherfucker that got the game-winning hit?”

  “You should know better than to bet against me, bro,” I said. “Who do you think you are dealing with?”
I continued, rubbing it in, “Never bet against Nails.”

  We both laughed, as he didn’t give a shit about the money. Roger King was the man.

  Roger suffered a stroke on December 7, 2007, and died the next day. He was only sixty-three years old. Too damn young to die. I loved the guy and truly miss him.

  When I was with the Mets in spring training in 1989, I met Mike Croswell. Croz, as I called him, became my personal assistant and handled all my travel. I will give him credit for being organized and on time. If a person wanted to hang with me and experience life at the highest level, there were a few simple rules: you must be on time and prepared, but the fastest way to get eliminated from living life like a rock star was if there was any body odor or bad breath. That called for an immediate execution (meaning, they were no longer on the team).

  Croz didn’t have a life. He pretty much failed at everything he did, and that’s why he lived for my phone calls. When I would say, Croz, pick a country, any country. I need to get the fuck out of here, I could feel the excitement on the other end of the phone. I have to admit, when it came to traveling and hotels, Croz knew his shit.

  During the season, for road games, Croz would fly into the city we would be playing in and book suites at the best hotel. Croz helped me discover how to live a life of luxury, like the top 1 percent. I picked up one of my favorite sayings from Croz: “Robes and room service.” There are few things better than checking into a swanky suite, putting on a plush bathrobe, and calling down to room service.

  On one road trip when we were playing the Expos, I was staying at the Ritz-Carlton in Montreal, a very European, big-league hotel. At eight in the morning of a day game, as I walked by the restaurant, Fregosi and the coaches were having breakfast, and they could tell that I was just getting in after pulling another all-nighter. I could see by the way Fregosi was staring at me. He always kept a close eye on me to see what I was up to. At that particular time in the season, I was playing really well, and Fregosi was giving me some leash. The fact was, I was performing—literally—on and off the field. And as far as management goes, if you produce for them, you can do whatever the fuck you want.

  Like I said, every time we played in Los Angeles, I would take out pretty much the whole fucking floor at the Peninsula, sometimes the Four Seasons, both in Beverly Hills. I needed space for my entourage, and I needed three or four rooms for the prizewinners at the end of the night, when the party would wind down.

  When I say I threw a party at the Peninsula hotel, I’m talking about a real party. I would pay about $50,000 to a party organizer by the name of Gary Walters, and he would line up the best guests. Gary could line up more pussy than God. He had access to celebrities, too, like Jack Nicholson, Mickey Rourke, and Johnny Depp, to name just a few. Gary is also the son of Norby Walters, who was accused of signing college football players to an agency contract and paying them money while they were still in college.

  I remember at one particular party, Wilt Chamberlain was in attendance. This was about the time when the story came out about Wilt hitting pay dirt with twenty thousand women. Twenty thousand . . . that’s the size of a small city. Wilt was sitting at a table, and his knees—I swear to God—were up to his chin.

  I said, “Wilt, man, I don’t care about all the women, I just want to know one thing: how in the fuck did you score one hundred points in a game?”

  “I was the best” was Wilt’s simple answer.

  Wilt was cool. And I’m sure the guy had to be hung like a swamp mule, but there’s no way he fucked twenty thousand women. There are people in the world who actually know how to do math, and I’m one of them. Average it out—it’s not humanly possible.

  I also had the opportunity to experience a night of excess with Michael Jordan. The catch was that Michael didn’t even know we had hung out together until the next morning.

  There was a famous golf tournament every year in Reno, Nevada, and it was nationally televised by one of the major networks. It was a serious fucking tournament in which the winner pocketed a cool $100,000. Better than a sharp stick in the eye, right? This tournament was for the world’s elite entertainers, whether they were an actor, a football player, a Major League Baseball player, or an NBA star. I was invited to play every year, but I felt my game wasn’t good enough so I never participated. But one year I worked really hard on my golf game and was playing well enough, so I decided that I would go tee it up with the big boys.

  The night before the first round of the tournament was set to start, I wanted to be sharp. I had an early tee time and wanted to be rested. I went to bed, and in the room next to me, I could hear a dude and his girl fucking like I have never heard any two people fuck before. If I had to hear her scream one more time, “Oh my God, I’m going to come! Oh my God, I’m going to come,” I was going to hang myself. She took the term screamer to a whole new level. The closer she got, the louder this bitch would get. She was fucking killing me. Then, finally, I think the human factor kicked in, and I heard no more noise. Just as I was about to fall asleep, these two start going at it again. It was like they got their second wind or something, because this bitch got louder and louder to the point where I remember lying in bed asking myself, How is it humanly possible to fuck for that long?

  At this point, the sun was beginning to come up, which gave me hope that those two were finally done. I was convinced that the chick next door would not be able to physically walk out of there after the pounding she endured.

  I took a shower, put on my best golf outfit, and got ready to go down to the restaurant and eat breakfast. So as I’m walking out of my room, at the same time the door to the room beside me opens up and out strolls Michael Jordan with a big fucking grin plastered on his face. We shared a look and I got him to bust a gut when I said, “And I thought you were my idol on the basketball court!”

  Jack Nicholson is one of those people who happens to be cool without trying to be cool. He came to quite a few of my parties over the years and he would always ask, “Where is old Nails?” Classic, fucking classic! One time, he even brought me the jacket that he actually wore on the set when he was filming A Few Good Men.

  I would bring him on the field at Dodger Stadium for batting practice, and Jack would often bring his son, who at the time was about eight years old. Jack would always point to second base and say, “Son, you see out there? That’s the position your old man used to play.”

  When I was trying to close the deal with a chick, sometimes I would pull out my cell phone and call Jack to help me close. Hey, a dog has to eat, so I was willing to pull out all the stops.

  My boy Jack would get on the speakerphone, and in that fucking classic gravelly voice of his, he would ask, “How is old Nails?”

  No chick said no after a call from Jack. Best. Wingman. Ever.

  20

  1994 MLB STRIKE: NO MORE KOOL-AID FOR ME

  The big lesson in life, baby, is never be scared of anyone or anything.

  —FRANK SINATRA

  In 1993, I was playing for a contract. I was on a mission to get paid real money. I played almost every day, 161 out of 162 games. I had a phenomenal year, posting numbers that led the league in several categories. Moreover, I helped lead the Phillies to the World Series that year. That season, I led the entire National League with 194 hits, 637 at-bats, 143 runs scored, 129 bases on balls, and 325 times on base. In any other year, I am the National League MVP.

  However, 1993 was a good year for Barry Bonds as well. He hit .336 with 129 runs scored, 46 homers, 38 doubles, 4 triples, 123 RBI, 29 stolen bases, a .458 on-base percentage, and a 1.136 OPS. Although Barry’s team didn’t win anything that year, he garnered his third National League MVP title in four years. I was second with 267 total votes (including 4 first-place votes).

  I had a monster season in 1993 due to the coalescence of several factors: I was of the perfect age, I was playing to get paid, and I had my good “vitamins.”

  The 1993 season was a hell of a ride. I needed to
produce, and I did, in a huge way, which translated into a $30 million contract. I was finally going to make real money.

  In 1994, I played in only 84 games in a season cut short when the owners locked out the players. The owners tried to break the union, and they were so hell-bent on doing it, there was no World Series that year.

  During the strike of 1994, I was losing $34,000 each and every day—not every month or every week, but every single day. The lockout progressed to the point where it was negatively impacting large numbers of people, players who had families to support, myself included. Despite the financial pain the union was inflicting upon us, their intention was that we had to think long-term. That was great for the future players but completely sucked for those in the here and now. The current players at that time were expected to take a bullet for those who would come after us with no questions asked. Obviously, what they failed to take into consideration was that the window to earn for a professional baseball player is smaller than in virtually any other profession. Therefore, when you go months and months without being paid, it creates a significant reduction in your lifetime earnings. Understandably, the public has difficulty relating to professional athletes who comparatively make large sums of money. However, when you are on the receiving end of getting zero every day, it has a negative impact on you and your family, regardless of what your income is.

  Another way to look at it is to consider the amount of time you can be proficient at your job. Undeniably, the skills of professional baseball players dwindle rather quickly, with most players only able to play until their early to mid-thirties. And those are the lucky ones! On the other hand, doctors, lawyers, accountants, businessmen, salesmen, and most other professionals do not have the dramatic erosion of skills that curtail their careers. In fact, it is customary for most people to maintain their skills so they can continue to work into their sixties, seventies, or even eighties!