It got to the point where I sat down my wife and I literally told her the following: “Terri, I’m going to show you what happened to us today.”
I got some paper and scissors and made up $34,000 in fake money, and boom, I threw the pile of fake money into the fireplace and watched the flames consume it.
“This is what we lost yesterday, this is what we lost the day before, what we’re going to lose tomorrow, and keep losing every single day,” I told her. “We have to get the union together and let them know what the hell is going on.”
I called Don Fehr, executive director of the Major League Baseball Players Association, and I made it crystal clear to him: “Listen, I want you to organize a meeting immediately with every single fucking major league player and agent, and anybody else who has anything to do with this fucking strike. I want to voice some concerns I have about what’s going on, and, to be clear, I’ve talked to numerous players, and they have the same concerns.”
Almost every big-league player was there for the next union meeting. Fehr knew I wanted the lockout to end. A whole lot of other players wanted it to end, too, but they just didn’t have the balls to stand up and say something.
Fehr was afraid of what I was going to say. “I don’t know,” he said.
“What do you mean, ‘I don’t know’? How about this? You work for me, motherfucker. I’m your fucking boss.”
Meaning, I pay you, so organize the meeting and let me speak.
I showed up in Orlando, the site he picked for everyone to meet. There were perhaps as many as five hundred players and agents in attendance.
Fehr called me up to the podium and addressed the audience, “Lenny Dykstra wants to say a few words.”
I looked out toward my fellow players and spoke my mind. “Let me be clear: first and foremost, I am not here to try to talk any of you into crossing the picket line. I would never cross the picket line. It’s about staying unified, but the whole reason I called this meeting was to drive home the point that we can’t continue down this path. We have to get this settled.”
Some of the players started yelling shit at me, others were talking among themselves. All in all, they were making it difficult for me to be heard. My boy and best friend, Dave Hollins, was in the front row wearing a muscle shirt. He stood up, with that extremely prominent head of his, and screamed, “Shut the fuck up and let the man speak!”
Like E. F. Hutton, when Head talks, people listen! You could have heard a pin drop. No one wanted to have anything to do with Hollins. He put the fear of God in people.
After Hollins silenced the crowd, they actually started listening.
“Fuck this,” I said. “I’m losing $34,000 a day. I don’t know about you, but how many of you motherfuckers enjoy waking up every morning knowing you’re going to take it in the fucking ass?” I explained that most of us have a small earning window and that none of us could really afford to make that window even smaller.
“Remember,” I said, “that money’s gone. It will never come back. The reason I’m speaking is not to break the union, not to cut and burn. We need to tell our union heads they work for us—we pay their salaries—and the bottom line is this: it’s time to get this thing settled.”
After I was done speaking, there must have been a hundred players who came up to me and expressed their appreciation, their relief, and the fact that they were worried, too.
The 1994 Major League Baseball season came to an abrupt halt on August 12, 1994, causing the cancellation of the remainder of the regular season, as well as the postseason. For the first time since 1904, the season did not conclude with a World Series winner. Ultimately, the strike didn’t end until 232 days later, on April 2, 1995, after 948 games had been cancelled. In addition to limiting most clubs to 113 games in 1994, every team’s season was reduced to 144 games in 1995. It was a disaster: the longest work stoppage in baseball history, one that would do irreparable damage to the national pastime.
21
PROMISED LAND
If we could sniff or swallow something that would, for five or six hours each day, abolish our solitude as individuals, atone us with our fellows in a glowing exaltation of affection and make life in all its aspects seem not only worth living, but divinely beautiful and significant, and if this heavenly, world-transfiguring drug were of such a kind that we could wake up next morning with a clear head and an undamaged constitution—then, it seems to me, all our problems . . . would be wholly solved and earth would become paradise.
—ALDOUS HUXLEY
When I walked away from the game it wasn’t as difficult as you might think, considering that I could no longer play the game of baseball the right way. In my world, you either do it right or you don’t do it. I was no longer physically capable of competing with the best baseball players in the world. I couldn’t perform at the same level for the fans who paid money to watch me play. The fans deserved more than that. It was my time. If you play long enough, there comes a point when your shit just doesn’t work as good as it once did. It’s called reality.
When you have to take a combination of drugs just to get on the field every day, that’s a problem, a big fucking problem.
My own time came a bit sooner than it should have for a couple reasons. I played the second half of my career in Philadelphia’s Veterans Stadium, which had AstroTurf. It was like playing on concrete on the street. This took a toll on my knees and my back. Factor in my lifestyle off the field: I partied like I was the lead singer of some rock ’n’ roll band. Nobody could burn the candle at both ends like me. Like everything else I do in life, I go big or I go home! So when it came to having fun after the games on the road, nobody did it better than me, or as often.
To put this in perspective: a full MLB season consists of 162 games, of which 81 are played on the road. It was like living two separate lives. The only difference with me was that living two separate lives wasn’t good enough, so I lived three or four.
When we would play on the road, I started working smarter instead of harder. Meaning, instead of going out to a bar and dealing with all the noise, all the people dressed up in those bad costumes, and all the other bullshit that goes along with the bar scene, I took it to the next level. I would have one of my people on my payroll check in to the presidential suite at the best hotel in whatever city we happened to be playing in at that particular time. I was always ahead of the curve, so I came up with my own game plan, and it had nothing to do with baseball, if you know what I mean.
I paid my guys to make things easier so I wouldn’t waste any time. Their job was to line up the talent, so that when I would arrive in town, everything would be in place. What would follow was an immediate beeline over to the other hotel, where the talent was waiting. What you might find mind-boggling was that during the last five years of my career I never once stayed at the team hotel. Basically, I had my people on payroll bring the bar to my presidential suite, taking room service to a whole different level.
The bottom line: it didn’t take me long to figure out how the top 1 percent live.
In 1998, my baseball career was over; what wasn’t over was my addiction to Vicodin. It had gotten to the point where I just couldn’t get off the pain pills. I never felt good. I was sick all the time and always faced with the problem of having to get more pills.
Anyone who has experienced opiate withdrawal knows what I am talking about. Unless you have been there, it’s impossible to explain the pain. It’s indescribable. It’s almost like there is a fire inside of you that you will do anything to put out. It was a vicious cycle and a complete nightmare that began in 1991 after I wrapped my brand-new Mercedes SL around a tree and almost killed myself and my teammate Darren Daulton.
This was when I was introduced to opiates for the first time.
With that being said, I didn’t become physically dependent on pain pills until midway through the 1993 season. I was on a fucking mission to win games and get paid, and I didn’t give a fuck what I had to do o
r take to get on the field. I was playing every fucking night, no matter what! The results? During the 1993 season, nobody got on base more than Lenny Dykstra, and I set the record for most plate appearances in a season by a left-hander (773), a mark that still stands.
If you think about what you just read, taking into consideration that MLB began in 1871 with the founding of the National Association, that’s a pretty tall statement, even if I have to say so myself. This means I went to the plate more times that season than Babe Ruth; Lou Gehrig; Pete Rose, the all-time hit leader; and every other fucking player who had ever put on a baseball uniform in any season prior to 1993.
If that were a trivia question, what would be the odds on someone answering it correctly? How about zero! Nobody on the planet would know the answer. Similar to my life, nobody knows what really happened.
There would be days when I would wake up (more like come out of my coma) and be hurting so bad, I didn’t know how in the world I was going to tee it up that night at seven P.M.
There was only one way to get on the field on nights when I felt that bad. It was real simple: Out fucking drug it!
We all know that the human body is an amazing piece of equipment, but even it has limits. I don’t care who you are, or how smart you are, or how much money you make—at some point, and it’s different for everyone, if you are swallowing handfuls of pain pills every night there will be consequences.
I remember when it first started happening, I would wake up in the middle of the night sweating, and the next day I would feel what I described earlier: the fire was beginning to burn inside. My only option to put the fire out was to go back to the well. It got to the point where I actually became a walking pharmacy. I became my own chemist. I was taking so much shit, it’s amazing that I was able to perform at the highest level. What’s even more amazing is that I’m still aboveground. I’m serious, especially playing in places like Florida against the expansion Marlins, who joined the National League East in 1993. When you combine the South Florida fucking humidity with thirty Vicodin pills, there were times I really thought I was going to die on the field. I would say to myself, Breathe, Lenny, just breathe . . . don’t die on second base after hitting a double. Just calm down and breathe.
My whole life growing up, when I wanted something bad enough, I would find a way to get it or make it happen. That was until I became dependent on opiates. It was almost like I made a deal with the devil. I wanted to stop taking them in the worst way. I was just trying not to suffer, to stay out of withdrawal. I hated the fact that my life was being controlled by fucking pills.
Every time I tried to get off the opiates, I would feel so miserable that I could barely function. At least when you go north, with amphetamines or blow, yes, you still feel like shit and have no energy and feel depressed, but it wasn’t that unexplainable fire inside that made me want to crawl out of my own fucking skin like it was with opiates. For me, the pain was so excruciating, it was too much to overcome.
It got so bad, I knew that I couldn’t stop on my own. I desperately needed help. So I went on a mission to hunt down the best doctor in Philadelphia. This was a very delicate situation, not to mention scary, for the simple reason that I was afraid that if the Phillies found out I was swallowing thirty Vicodin pills a day, they might refuse to pay me. I was so scared, and so paranoid, that when I went to interview the four best doctors who specialized in addiction, I actually put on a disguise: a mustache, a wig, and an old man’s hat, and I told them my name was Todd Wilson.
The first three doctors I interviewed were not qualified for what I needed. I knew they didn’t get it. They didn’t understand baseball, and I needed a doctor who did. I was losing hope. Then the Vicodin gods intervened and brought me to the doctor who would literally save my life, Dr. Jim Berman.
Dr. Berman treated me on a regular basis beginning in 1994, and I continued seeing him until December 1999, when I moved to California. Dr. Berman is triple smart, and the best communicator I have ever met. He truly has a special gift. Considering the people he treats could virtually form their own think tank or run countries, he’s also extremely humble. He doesn’t seek attention; in fact, he prefers being a ghost. This allows him to protect the anonymity of his patients, which is of the utmost importance to him. The bottom line is that everyone in his treatment groups are members of the team and are treated as such. He would take a bullet for any of them. And they would not hesitate to take a bullet for him.
He knew how to explain things to me in a way I could understand and relate to without putting the fear of God in me. He would use baseball analogies, or examples of things that happen in everyday life, to teach me about opiates. Most important, he always treated me like a human being: he never passed judgment. Unlike most doctors who use language that makes you feel stupid, Dr. Berman allowed me to arrive at my own conclusions, based on information he provided, that made me feel smart.
I knew I had to trust someone when I was down and out. I trusted Dr. Berman, and he continually proved that he was worthy of my trust. We developed a relationship that was far beyond the usual doctor-patient one. Although I was not the most compliant patient, Dr. Berman was like my Mr. Wolfe from Pulp Fiction; he was a master at cleaning up my messes. Furthermore, he clearly appreciated and understood my need for total confidentiality. He told me at our first meeting, “Nobody will ever know you were here, unless you tell them.” That statement has proved true to this day. He would even meet me at my house or other locations so I didn’t have to go to his office. I just wish I would have followed his advice sooner.
Dr. Berman explained to me why I felt so bad from a physical standpoint in the most basic terms: “Vicodin, or any opiate for that matter, can be the best drug in the world if used correctly, but at the same time, it can be the worst drug in the world when abused.” He explained how our endorphins work, that they are the feel-good chemicals naturally manufactured in our brain when our body experiences pain or stress. He basically defined them as the natural opiates of the body. He went on to say that when you take opiates, it creates artificial endorphins in the brain. That’s why, when I first started taking them, I would feel invincible: they would boost my energy, take away my pain, give me an amazing high, and make me feel like everything was going to be all right, even if I had a bad night on the baseball field.
Playing professional baseball is a grueling, rigorous schedule. We played almost every night for six months straight. The game of baseball is also much more physical than it appears, especially the way I played. By the end of the 1993 season, the best season of my career, I played in every game except one, which was the night after we clinched the National League East division title in Pittsburgh. I went five for five on that memorable night.
Unfortunately, my body was beginning to break down. I was always in pain. I would watch my teammates drink fifteen beers to take away their pain after a game, but I just couldn’t drink like that. Especially being a leadoff hitter: the team needed me on top of my game every night. I needed a solution, and I needed it fast, as it was getting worse and worse every night. I remember saying to myself, There has got to be an easier way to take away the pain than drinking fifteen beers after each game.
It finally hit me. All I had to do was take one of those pills the nurses would give me for pain when I was in the hospital after I was in that horrible car wreck. I would take one Vicodin, have one drink, and feel great. I remember saying to myself, I reinvented the wheel. I found the secret recipe to take away my pain, and I would show up at the ballpark the next day ready to rock! No hangover, no nothing. I really thought that I was invincible; the drugs worked that good.
I learned from Dr. Berman that over time, opiates trick the brain into stopping the production of your natural endorphins. This is when the drug, which you thought was your best friend, turns on you and leaves you with no other option but to take more and more pills.
It just becomes a matter of time until you cross that imaginary line, and then
you’re fucked. You try to capture that euphoric feeling you received when you first started taking the pills. You try again and again, but to no avail. I knew this, but I continued chasing that feeling, or that high, over and over and over.
The only difference between Vicodin and heroin is that if you want to go five miles an hour, you take Vicodin. If you want to go a hundred miles an hour, you take heroin. It’s just a matter of how fast you want to get there. No matter what, at some point anyone who abuses opiates realizes that they are in the same car, going down the same road, with the same destination: a dead fucking end! There are no exits on this road; you can’t just turn around because you don’t like the way you feel.
Remember, what goes up must come down.
I tried so many times to get off the pain pills, but whatever I did, it never worked. Dr. Berman tried everything, including treating my pain with methadone, which worked well for the pain. I didn’t like how it made me feel, though, so I wanted off. Dr. Berman explained to me that I would have to taper the methadone slowly. This proved to be nearly impossible. This was before the FDA approved Suboxone, which contains buprenorphine, in the United States, in late 2002. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t get off. Dr. Berman tried everything, but when I would get to the end of the detox by tapering down, the pain was too much. I hate opiates!
In 1998, I finally said to Dr. Berman, “Listen, man, I can’t take this anymore. I can’t let this fucking pill control my life anymore. There’s got to be something else, and I don’t give a fuck what it is.”
“There is something else, but I don’t believe it is readily available in the United States. In fact, the procedure is quite new, so we don’t have a whole lot of data yet,” he said.
House of Nails Page 15