House of Nails Read online

  “Sorry, but I already have a dad,” I told him.

  I was adopted when I was four by my mom’s new husband, Dennis Dykstra. To me, he was everything a father was supposed to be—supportive, tough, and loving. In addition to all those qualities, my dad was equally important in developing my passion for baseball. He coached me all through Little League and never missed a single game. He treated me like his own flesh and blood even though I wasn’t his biological son. He was the only man I’ve ever called Dad.

  It was a sad day when he died unexpectedly on October 4, 2000, from a brain aneurysm. It didn’t make sense to me. Growing up, I never saw my dad sick once, and then out of nowhere, he died. When things like that happen, it reminds me how precious our time really is. For the most part, we just plow through life, marking days off the calendar, taking time for granted. After all, we live in a world where if one has enough money, he can pretty much buy anything. The exception is time. It doesn’t matter how much money one has, or how much money one is willing to spend, time is not for sale.

  Our family was just like the Brady Bunch. My mom had three boys: Brian, Kevin, and me. And my dad had three daughters: Danna, Brenda, and Johna. Despite being thrown together by marriage and living on top of one another in the same little house in Garden Grove, California, about an hour south of LA in Orange County, we all got along really well.

  When I was growing up, my mom was the most important person in my life. She did everything for her three boys. What was even more amazing is that she did it all on her own. She worked full-time for the telephone company to support us. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized how fortunate I was to have her as my mom.

  When my mom was working for the telephone company, she met and married my dad, Dennis Dykstra. They both worked full-time for the company. Supporting six kids took every dime they earned. I remember our highlight of the week was on Friday night, when we would go out to eat at Bob’s Big Boy, on Garden Grove Boulevard.

  I realized at a young age that if I didn’t have money, I didn’t have options. I hated that feeling. So I went to work. I did anything and everything from cutting grass, delivering newspapers, and sweeping the alleys at a hotel to painting houses, cleaning swimming pools, and even working at the batting cages. Although I never really considered working at the batting cages a job: I got to hit for free! The funny thing is that hitting a baseball really did become my job.

  I remember my mom and dad would work forty hours every week for basically nothing; barely enough money to raise our family. That’s when I made a promise to myself that I was going to do everything in my power to never have to worry about money when I got older.

  My solution? I decided I would take the gift that God gave me, which was playing baseball, to go after everything I wanted. Simply put, from a very young age, I knew I could not live my life in “the middle.” I had to be extraordinary! I was determined not to be one of those guys who works his ass off and receives almost nothing in return.

  Some of my best memories as a kid were my dad throwing me batting practice. He would throw to me for hours until his arm became sore. When I was eight years old, my dad signed me up to play in the ten-, eleven-, and twelve-year-olds division. The managers in the league thought my dad had lost his mind. That changed quickly once I proved to them what I could do on the field. In fact, I was an All-Star in a league of ten, eleven, and twelve year olds.

  Because I was a left-handed fielder and was always the fastest kid on the team, my dad put me in center field. I was mad at the time, because at that age all of the action was in the infield. My dad would always say, “One day you are going to thank me.” When I was a kid, there were so many times my dad would tell me things and I would say to myself, He’s crazy. I’m sure a lot of you thought the same way, only to come to the same conclusion as me, that your dad was right most of the time.

  I loved the game of baseball at every level; it started when I was a kid dominating Little League baseball. When I was on the baseball field it was like I had a sixth sense—a knack for being in the right place at the right time. It’s something that can’t be taught, no matter how many hours you spend running drills.

  My first year of Little League, our team was sponsored by Dottie’s Beauty Salon. Obviously, the kids on the other teams enjoyed making fun of us because of our name. That lasted about eight games into the season, when we had kicked every team’s ass. We ended up going undefeated, with twenty wins and no losses. I can say with certainty they weren’t making fun of Dottie’s Beauty Salon anymore.

  By the time I was in high school, baseball was my life. When I would have to make a decision on something, I would always ask myself, Is this going to help me become a better baseball player? If the answer was no, even if it sounded like something fun to do, I would have the discipline to stick with my game plan.

  I had a 3.4 grade point average in high school. Do you think it was because I wanted to get into some Ivy League school and impress the prom queen? Hell no. I hit that GPA because I knew it was needed in order to play baseball in college, just in case I didn’t turn pro.

  At Garden Grove High School, I became the first freshman ever to play on the varsity baseball team. And do you think I just rode the pine while the seniors had all the fun? No, I dominated every time I stepped out onto the field. We had a great coach, Dan Drake, and I can still remember how mad the other players were when he called me up to varsity. The upperclassmen on the squad didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms. Instead they would make me pick up their dirty socks and jocks from the floor of the locker room. Although it was humiliating, it only drove me harder toward my goals, and I swore right then and there that I would show them all.

  Before a game, while the other kids were talking to girls and fucking around, I pulled out Ping-Pong balls and would throw them at a wall and watch them come back at me, pretending they were baseballs. Then, when it was time for the game to start, the baseball looked so big coming out of the pitcher’s hand; it was amazing how much that drill helped me. I did that drill my whole career.

  When I was fifteen years old, my favorite place to go was Anaheim Stadium. I would just ride my bike there; it wasn’t too far, about a fifty-minute ride. During the summer, I went to almost every game. I’d get to the stadium early to watch batting practice. I loved to watch all the players hit. I would study how they each had a different approach to hitting.

  At the time, Joe Rudi was the Angels’ left fielder. With a lanky body that could have come only from the 1970s, Joe was one of the most unexciting baseball players who ever put on spikes. It seemed like he had taken a Xanax before every game. Even as a kid, I knew this guy was ripe for a good ribbing, so I stood down the left field line, just hammering away at him.

  “Joe!” I yelled. “Throw me the ball.” I kept yelling, “You’re so old you probably can’t even throw it this far.” I continued lighting him up; the fans around me were staring at me like I’d lost my mind.

  Rudi was at the tail end of his career and really struggling at the plate. He didn’t look at me the whole time I was screaming at him. Then, when he got done playing catch, he strolled over to me and handed me a ball.

  “Here you go, son,” he said.

  He made me feel about as big as a raisin.

  I have to believe that inside he was probably thinking, Just shut the fuck up, kid, you little smartass, but he still treated me with the utmost respect.

  Now fast-forward to when I made it to the major leagues. I became known for generously handing out baseballs to the fans. Without a doubt, this was inspired by my humbling experience with Joe Rudi. In fact, when I was playing for the Phillies, I gave away so many baseballs to fans that the team called me up to the front office and said, “Lenny, we think it’s great that you love the fans so much, but at the rate you’re giving away baseballs, we’re going to have to order twice as many balls as we did last year. Just slow it down a little.” I walked away with a smile on my face.

 
; On another memorable Anaheim Stadium adventure, I was determined to meet my idol, Rod Carew, who defined what a big-league baseball player was supposed to look and act like. Rod Carew was the reason why I folded my baseball hat and put it in my back pocket throughout my entire professional career. Rod Carew was also the reason I started chewing tobacco—even though I hated the taste of it. I remember I would get sick and throw up when I first started using it. But I was determined to make the big wad of chewing tobacco in my mouth part of my identity as a baseball player. Even at that time, it wasn’t hard to figure out that baseball was entertainment. People pay a lot of money to watch a Major League Baseball game, especially in this day and age.

  Back to my plan, which was to meet my idol, Rod Carew, face-to-face. When the game ended, after all the fans had left (I was hiding out in the men’s bathroom), I walked really fast to the Angels dugout, jumped over the fence, and thought I was home free, but when I started to walk up the runway toward the clubhouse, there were two security guards waiting for me. They got me!

  I was only fifteen, but they still put me in stadium jail (it wasn’t really jail, it was just an office I had to wait in), my first experience in lockup but, unfortunately, not my last. Security called my mom and dad, and they had to drive to the stadium and pick me up.

  The week after the incident, and unbeknownst to me, my aunt took it upon herself to write a letter to Rod Carew, informing him of what had happened at Anaheim Stadium. A few days later, I was at home with my family when the phone rang. I was swinging my bat in front of a mirror and doing push-ups, like I did every night, when my mom said, “It’s for you, son. It sounds like a man.”

  After I got on the phone and said hello, a deep voice greeted me. “Hello, Lenny. This is Rod Carew.”

  I thought my heart was going to explode in my chest. I was in complete and utter shock. I couldn’t believe I was actually talking to my idol on the phone. I tried to figure out what I should say to him. Should I ask him for advice about hitting? Then he told me that he wanted to apologize for what had happened at the stadium. I was so overwhelmed by the fact that Rod Carew had taken the time to call me at home, I never forgot that feeling and did whatever I could to help a person out when I became a major league player.

  The first time I met Rod Carew in person was in 1998. I invited him to sign autographs at the grand opening of my second Lenny Dykstra’s Car Wash, in Simi Valley. He was so nice and respectful; a class act all the way. I asked him if he remembered calling me at my house, and he quickly answered by saying, “Of course.” He went on to say, “I remember receiving a letter from your aunt—it was your aunt, wasn’t it?” I answered, “Yes, it was.” I went on to tell him that he’d been my idol growing up—I wasn’t embarrassed—and that I wanted to be just like him.

  I also played football in high school, and I was damn good at it. Like in baseball, my instincts were superb and I excelled at the sport. I played free safety, and Arizona State, who already knew I had a full ride to play baseball for their university, offered me the opportunity to play football as well. But I knew that baseball was my only option and the only way I could realize my dreams. Besides, I was a small kid and not really big enough to play football. Football was fun, but I knew that baseball would be the profession that would make me a millionaire.

  Being a star athlete in high school had its social advantages, especially when it came to the girls. My first sexual encounter came out of left field (no pun intended).

  I was a freshman, and one morning before school I was invited by a senior to her house. She was very popular and extremely pretty. When I knocked on her door—I’m not going to deny it—I was nervous but excited at the same time. I didn’t know what to expect.

  “Follow me,” she said.

  The next thing I knew, I was lying on her bed and she put on the song “All My Love” by Led Zeppelin. Before I realized what was going on, she took off my clothes, climbed on top of me, and had sex with me. She took me to a place I had never been before. So I kept showing up at her house before school, knocking on her door, hoping we could do it again, but she never answered after that day.

  I was different from most of the other kids in high school. I didn’t need a girlfriend, and I didn’t want one either. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely needed to clean my pipes, if you know what I mean, but my number one priority was baseball, and having a girlfriend would have only set me back from completing my mission.

  As a senior in high school, I was five foot nine and I weighed all of 150 pounds. At that time, it was extremely rare for a major league club to invite a high school player out to their major league stadium to take batting practice, especially with the big leaguers before a game. It just never happened, unless you were related to one of the players or to one of the powers that be.

  The Angels invited me to Anaheim Stadium to take batting practice with them before a game against the Texas Rangers. They gave me an Angels uniform, and the next thing I knew, I was walking down the runway from the clubhouse to the dugout, and eventually out onto the field. And what a field. Wow! It was so perfect. I remember saying to myself, All this for a baseball game. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I remember dropping down on a knee and pulling out a piece of the grass, just so I knew it was real.

  Then one of the scouts yelled, “Dykstra, get in there. Let’s see what you got.” So I walked into the cage and up to the plate with my aluminum bat. It was all I had.

  Several of the big leaguers stared at me—it was a very uncomfortable feeling—and yelled, “What the fuck do you think this is, Little League? Get the fuck out of there with that metal shit.”

  What the hell did I know? It wasn’t like it is now, with kids already using wood bats in junior high school. A wood bat was foreign to me—it might as well have come from Mars instead of Louisville, Kentucky.

  All the scouts and front office people were there; players call them “the brass.” I could feel them staring at me; when they looked at my size, it was obvious they didn’t take me seriously. Even though I had hit .550 and was the best player in the history of Garden Grove High School—one of the best players in the state of California. To be truthful, when I got in the batting cage to hit, it didn’t matter what I did, because I would be judged on my size, not on my hitting. Before I even took my first swing, I knew what they were thinking: We’re going to draft this little runt?

  Only one scout, Myron Pines, believed in me. He recognized I had the “it factor” and could do things on the baseball field that can’t be taught. Pines never doubted my ability to play baseball at the major league level. He didn’t listen to his fellow scouts when they said I looked like a batboy. In all honesty, it didn’t bother me—it just pissed me off and only made me work harder.

  After I finished hitting with the big-league players, I saw Fred Lynn, the Angels’ star outfielder at the time and one of the premier players of the 1970s, standing near the batting cage.

  “Mr. Lynn,” I said, approaching him in awe, “I have a full-ride scholarship to Arizona State, but the scouts told me that I am going to get drafted. What do you think I should do?”

  I genuinely wanted to know his opinion on what I should do with my future. At that particular time, Arizona State University had the best college baseball program in the country. In 1981, they won their fifth national championship, and they had sent a string of players to the big leagues, including the megastar Reggie Jackson, soon to be an Angel himself.

  I waited with bated breath for Fred Lynn to issue a pearl of wisdom that would help decide my future. Instead he turned out to be not only arrogant but a complete asshole as well. He looked me up and down like I was wasting his time and sneered, “This is a strong man’s game, son.” And he just walked away.

  I was crushed. It made me work even harder, and added more fuel to the fire to accomplish my dream. I was not going to let Fred Lynn, or anyone for that matter, tell me I wasn’t going to make it to the big leagues.

 
Funny story: when Fred Lynn was at the end of his career, playing for the San Diego Padres, I was playing for the Phillies, in my prime, and firing on all cylinders both at the plate and in center field. It was a Saturday-night game and Lynn hit three bullets in the gap; I robbed him all three times. He easily could have had three extra-base hits. The next day at the yard, as the Padres were finishing up batting practice, I went out of my way to find him and said, “Hey, Freddie, man”—I couldn’t wait to bury his ass—“looks like I got a little stronger, didn’t I?”

  “Fuck you” was all Freddie said.

  Karma is a bitch.

  3

  CLIMBING THE LADDER

  During my eighteen years I came to bat almost 10,000 times. I struck out about 1,700 times and walked maybe 1,800 times. You figure a ballplayer will average about 500 at-bats a season. That means I played seven years without ever hitting the ball.

  —MICKEY MANTLE

  In June 1981, I was waiting for my name to be called in the Major League Baseball draft. I was sitting at home. It wasn’t like it is today, with players outfitted in Giorgio Armani suits waiting in the greenroom for their first moment in the spotlight.

  I wasn’t nervous, as I had already prepared myself to be drafted much lower than I should have been. The fact that I wasn’t six foot two made me a nonfactor to 99 percent of the typical pro baseball scouts.

  My name was finally called when the New York Mets drafted me in the thirteenth round. I was the 315th overall pick in the 1981 MLB draft. That same year, the Mets drafted three outfielders ahead of me: Terry Blocker, John Christensen, and Mark Carreon.

  I was disappointed but not mad. The majority of the scouts were former minor league baseball players, or players who got a cup of coffee in the big leagues. Most of the scouts are afraid to hang their balls out there on a player who doesn’t fit the so-called pro baseball mold. The majority of the scouts, not all of them, focus on the wrong things when it comes to evaluating a player. Meaning, in today’s world, teams must pay players millions and millions of dollars before they even put a uniform on. For example, the first player chosen in the 2015 MLB draft was slotted to be paid a signing bonus of approximately $8.6 million. That’s some serious cheddar to pay a player who has yet to set foot on the baseball field.