I would be lying if I said that prison didn’t break my spirit to a certain degree. But I didn’t let it break me completely. I found a way to survive. Prior to the nightmare of prison, fear was an emotion I rarely experienced or chose to acknowledge. Now fear creeps into my thoughts more than I prefer.
I have fulfilled my court-ordered five hundred hours of community service and completed the three years of probation that my sentence dictated. So the penalty phase is over, but the penalties persist. Undoubtedly, the greatest penalty of all has to be living with what I did to my family. Realistically, I will never be able to completely atone for the damage I have inflicted. I can, however, step up to the plate for my family by becoming a productive member of society again.
Obviously, money is an integral component when it comes to helping us live and provide for our families. The more money we have, the more we can provide for them. Sometimes we get intoxicated with money and it becomes just another drug. We are seduced by the high it provides, and it convinces us that we must generate more in order to maintain what we have. When the love of money becomes the driving force in your life, you compromise yourself and those around you with the misconception that “you were doing it for them.”
The reality is that you are doing it for the money, usually unknowingly. Regardless, when you have been where I just came from, you realize you did a lot of things that you now regret.
I would like to believe I am taking ownership of my misdeeds and I’m in the process of changing for the better. When Luke turned eighteen, I received a call from the MLB players’ pension guy, who asked, “Where do you want your money sent?”
“What do you mean?” I responded. “It goes to my ex-wife every month.”
He replied, “Yeah, but the divorce agreement states that when your youngest son, Luke, turns eighteen, it reverts back to you. By law, it is yours for the rest of your life. We will need you to fill out our paperwork so we know where you want us to have your money sent by direct deposit on the last day of every month. We’re talking about six thousand dollars a month, free and clear, for the rest of your life.”
I thought about it, then told him, “Give me fifteen minutes and I will call you back.”
Since pieces of my body are splattered all over the National League, I did earn the money, and I sure could use $6,000 a month, every month, without fail, for the rest of my life.
After some serious soul-searching, I called back the man who handled our MLB pension and said, “Send me over the agreement with the papers that say that I want my money to continue to go to Terri Dykstra for the rest of her life.”
Why should she be penalized for my transgressions? She did not contribute to my downfall. On the contrary, she probably stood by me too long. She’s a wonderful person who certainly did not deserve the fallout caused by my actions. So I gave it all to her. It was the right thing to do.
Most of my life, up until the last decade, I got whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Not that it was always easy. I was often told I couldn’t, but I did anyway.
I was living the dream with all the trimmings, soaring above it all in my bird, looking down upon all that was mine. Unfortunately, your view gets distorted up there, and you literally can’t see the little things. I completely lost sight of what was important and made decisions that I hope my kids will never make.
Eventually the bird must come down. For most, that means a smooth landing, followed by periods of normalcy. Even I realize that traveling in your own Gulfstream is way beyond the realm of normalcy. Undeniably, my jet did not have a smooth landing. It “crashed,” nearly killing me and injuring everyone dear to me in the process. Living the dream culminated in a horrific nightmare. Fortunately for me, I have survived to live another day.
One could argue that the title for this book could have been All or Nothing. After all, that essentially is the story of my life. It has been full of triumphs and tragedies, most of which are attributable to my performance, but some have been completely out of my control. I’ve come to realize that baseball has actually prepared me for what I need to do moving forward.
As a leadoff hitter, one of my many responsibilities was to give my teammates an opportunity to see what the opposing pitcher had that day. Often that meant taking some pitches, particularly at the start of the game. As you know, I prided myself on working the count to give me the best chance to succeed. Unquestionably, I was good at what I did. My brash, arrogant style, although distasteful to some, made me the baseball player that I was. While at times that brash, arrogant style served me well in the game of life, it eventually was instrumental in my undoing.
So as I contemplate my life moving forward, I find myself consistently reflecting on the parallels between baseball and life. For some, baseball never ends. They stay in the game in one way or another, until they die. For most, the game ends and you must move on. Life, on the other hand, doesn’t end until you die. That line from The Shawshank Redemption, shared between Andy Dufrense (Tim Robbins) and Red (Morgan Freeman), kind of says it all: “It comes down to a simple choice: get busy living or get busy dying.” I fully intend to “get busy living.”
I will conclude with this: the only predictable thing in my entire life has been that every day is unpredictable. If I start telling you that I promise to do this and will never do that, then I would not be true to who I am. I would not be true to the person I’ve been telling you about. I would not be true to the man you hopefully learned about. I know I have many flaws and have made many mistakes over the years. I know, too, that I will make more mistakes as I continue to work on regaining a life built with happiness and contentment; a life that I can be proud of again.
What will that life look like?
How the fuck do I know!
Will it be interesting? Will it be unlike any other person’s journey?
Will it contain the highest of highs or the lowest of lows? Or both?
Possibly.
But as I said, unpredictable is an adjective that best describes who I am.
So I think the best way for me to end this book is by saying three words:
“To be continued . . .”
AFTERWORD
WHALE HUNTING WITH LENNY DYKSTRA
By Tom Borowski
My name is Tom Borowski, and Lenny Dykstra is a dear friend of mine. Shortly after getting to know Lenny, I found out pretty quickly that he approaches life the same way he approached the game of baseball: with tenacity, resilience, and a fearless attitude. For those of us who have had the privilege of knowing Lenny, you know that he’s authentic and loyal and has absolutely no filter. These are just a few of the qualities that I admire in the guy. So when Lenny called me up one day and told me that he wanted to ask John Grisham to write the foreword of his book, I knew Lenny wouldn’t reach out to Grisham by the traditional means of going through agents—no, he was going to fly from California to Virginia to approach Grisham man-to-man and give him the manuscript personally. Meaning there would be no appointment, no scheduled meeting, no anything. As Lenny would say, I’m going to Pearl Harbor this guy . . .
He had called to tell me his plan and to invite me out to help him accomplish it. But as it turned out, there really was no set plan. Lenny was going to find Grisham—one way or another—and respectfully approach him so that he could tell Grisham how he inspired and influenced him, then ask him to review his book and consider writing the foreword if he found it worthy.
Pretty simple? Nothing with Lenny is simple.
A few days later, Lenny arrived in Charlottesville, Virginia, where my girlfriend, Melissa, and I drove out from New Jersey to pick him up at the airport. How did he know where the reportedly very private John Grisham lived? As with everything in his life, Lenny finds a way, and he had several ideas he was kicking around about how to make this happen.
It was a typical cold February afternoon when we set out to find Grisham’s private residence in North Garden. The moment we turned off the main highway, we b
egan a half-hour ride into as rural, desolate, and beautiful a place as you’ve ever seen. That said, the roads were extremely narrow with crazy hairpin turns, looming trees acting as our guardrails, and steep ditches on both sides of us. We saw plenty of green pastures, cows, horses, and small bodies of water . . . everything except people.
We were in the middle of unimproved parklike property for as far as you can see.
Lenny looked at me and said, “This looks exactly like where a writer would want to live, bro.”
We kept driving for what felt like hours, but in reality it was only a few minutes, when Lenny announced that Grisham’s house should be coming up pretty quickly. We soon approached a large black iron gate at the bottom of a hill, the gate conveniently open. I glanced at Lenny and asked, “Are you ready to do this?”
Lenny’s crooked smile was his only answer.
I’d been through this before with Lenny—he’s not afraid to go anywhere. Just a month earlier, when he was visiting me in Jersey, I wanted to show him a potential development site that the real estate company I own is in the planning stages of. Lenny has a good eye for property and design and wanted to see the existing on-site building, currently a catering hall.
Lenny took one look and said, “The building is great, bro, you can incorporate this into your design—let’s take a closer look.”
Before I could stop him, he had already headed into the building to check the place out. A guy working there asked if he could help us, and Lenny said he was looking for one of the bigger rooms. The guy asks, “Susan’s birthday party?”
Lenny responds, “Yeah, Susan.” Before I can even try to stop him, he takes the direction to that room and we wander into this elderly lady’s birthday party. Lenny checks out the room quietly, casually says happy birthday to the obvious birthday girl—who thanked him—and we exit out the patio doors on the side. To this day, Susan has no idea who she met among her guests at her birthday party.
While that was fun, this felt unnerving and intense. I’d had too much time to think about what we were doing, driving up to John Grisham’s estate out in the middle of nowhere.
So I drove onto the private property, where we went over some railroad tracks, shortly followed by a second gate, which was also open. Without hesitation, I drove on through and saw a sign that said, CAUTION HORSES.
As soon as we pulled past this gate, a woman in a car approached us in the opposite direction. In hindsight, it makes sense why the gates were open—Lenny and I had some lucky timing. The woman slowed down and unrolled her window. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m here to see Mr. Grisham.”
After she asked if we had an appointment, Lenny held up his manuscript and waved it as his response, and she directed us to speak to the men up ahead.
We knew he was there and that was that. One hurdle down.
I slowly pulled forward and we were on the driveway to the main house. A gravel driveway led to a beautiful but modest yellow plantation-style home. Then, seeming to come out of nowhere, a pickup truck pulled up nose-to-nose with our car, completely blocking us from driving any farther.
At this point, I was getting a little nervous . . . all right, a lot nervous.
The driver of the truck didn’t come out or speak to us, but instead the passenger, a thirtysomething man wearing overalls, got out and approached us cautiously.
It was show time.
Lenny quickly introduced himself and explained why he wanted to meet Mr. Grisham. In his typical, somewhat rambling style, Lenny apologized for intruding and explained how he had flown all the way across the country from LA just to personally give his manuscript to Mr. Grisham. Lenny told the overall-wearing man that if Mr. Grisham liked what he read and found it worthy, he would be honored if the author would consider writing a foreword for the book.
The man in overalls said that Mr. Grisham wasn’t there, and in fact was out of town. It was pretty clear that he wanted to send us on our way.
But Lenny hadn’t come all this way for nothing. “Are you sure? I’m pretty sure he’s home. I don’t want to take much of his time or intrude, but if you could please tell Mr. Grisham that Lenny Dykstra is outside, and that I would be honored if he could spare a few minutes to discuss this.”
Although Lenny had introduced himself and stated who he was and the reason for his appearance on the property, I don’t think the man quite processed everything. I decided to interject and asked for his name. He told us his name was Curtis.
“Curtis, are you a baseball fan?” I asked.
He responded affirmatively, and I decided to elaborate a little about Lenny’s career and accomplishments. I wanted to make sure Curtis clearly understood that there was a legendary All-Star, World Series–winning center fielder standing right before him. I told Curtis that Lenny’s book was being published by HarperCollins, one of the world’s largest publishing companies, and that Lenny wasn’t asking for anything but a few moments of Mr. Grisham’s time.
As Curtis and Lenny talked baseball for a bit, and a little about the book, I could see that his guard was starting to slip and that he was really enjoying meeting Lenny—Lenny tends to have that effect on people.
Curtis finally agreed to go inside and try to locate Grisham. About ten minutes later, Curtis reappeared and told us that Grisham was in town, but he was currently getting ready for a dinner party. He also informed us that Grisham would be attending a Little League tryout the next morning before leaving town for a few days. But he said that Grisham agreed to accept the manuscript and instructed Curtis to leave it on his desk.
While Lenny wrote a personal note to Grisham, humbly apologizing for showing up unannounced and saying how much of an inspiration he was to him, I pulled up YouTube on my phone and started showing Curtis some of Lenny’s career highlights: his walkoff homer in the NLCS in ’86, his World Series homers in ’86 and ’93.
With it fully sinking in that he was in the presence of a legend, Curtis quietly said that he wished he had a ball or something so he could get an autograph from Lenny. Lenny said he had a couple of his cards and would be happy to sign them for him, and for Grisham as well.
Curious, I asked Curtis if anyone had come to the house before. Curtis told us that he’d worked for Grisham for twelve years and we were only the second unannounced visitor. The first was a fan who wanted a bunch of books signed.
Lenny felt satisfied that the mission to get the book into Grisham’s hands was accomplished. It would have been a little more satisfying to meet with Grisham personally, but the letter, cards, and manuscript would have to do. After Curtis had mentioned the Little League event the next day, Lenny said that we would be in town a few more days, and if Grisham’s schedule opened up, he would love to meet with him briefly. Lenny even offered to meet the kids at the Little League, talk to them about baseball, and even take a few swings, if Grisham could spare a few minutes for Lenny afterward. Curtis took Lenny’s number, we shook hands, and he said he would ask Grisham to call him.
Curtis, who had probably just had his most interesting and bizarre experience in more than a decade of working there, signaled to the truck in front of us to back up. I pulled forward and made a U-turn in Grisham’s front driveway, then headed off the property. On the way out, all the closed gates were remotely opened as we approached.
We both felt good about this exchange and confident that we’d left the book in the personal clutches of Grisham.
We never did hear back from Grisham.
As much as I believe Lenny would have really liked to have at least heard back from Grisham, by the time we left Virginia Lenny had accomplished what he set out to do, which was to gain some experience in preparing to bag the biggest whale in the sea, Stephen King. That doesn’t mean Lenny is not a huge fan of John Grisham, because he is, and we were both treated with the utmost respect by Mr. Grisham’s people. But Lenny had his sights set on Stephen King, whom Lenny calls a genius, so he was mentally preparing for his big move fr
om Los Angeles to Florida—to bag the biggest whale. Stephen King is a devoted Boston Red Sox fan, and I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that he bought his Florida spread in close proximity to where his beloved Red Sox have spring training.
Stephen King was in our near future.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Terri, you have been the rock and the foundation. You have always put everyone else first. You are an amazing mother to our boys. And I hope you know in your heart that you are the only woman I have ever loved.
Cutter, Luke, and Gavin, while all of you are different, each of you holds a special place in my heart. I have watched you grow from babies, to boys, to men, and now to fathers (Gavin and Cutter). I realize that my fame and infamy have certainly complicated your lives at times. Although I was physically removed from you for a couple of years, our unbreakable father-son bonds sustained me and were the driving force that allowed me to persevere when I was incarcerated. As a parent, I can only hope that you have inherited whatever is good about me and been spared the rest. At the very least, I hope you learn from my mistakes. You are the ones who will carry the Dykstra name forward in a positive fashion. I could not be prouder of the men you have become and will continue to be. I am incredibly fortunate to be your dad.
Beau Dykstra, you truly reinforce what is really important in life. By the time you can comprehend this, I fully anticipate that you will be dominating Little League. More important, because of your wonderful parents, you will be well on your way to establishing yourself as a quality human being. I treasure the opportunity to witness and aid in your evolution. Take advantage of what life affords you. I eagerly await celebrating your triumphs with you and helping you when you fall. What a blessing you are and will continue to be.
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