Stern: Dude that’s the ultimate move. You get chicks to pay you?
Dykstra: Well, not chicks though dude we’re talking about grandma, you’re talking about a f*cking grey bush, bro.
Stern: No shit? Have you seen these broads naked? Will you f*ck them?
Dykstra: Can’t f*ck them, their bones are brittle.
Stern: I see. You got women paying you for companionship? Dude… How many women you got?
Dykstra: There are three, but one of them’s killin me, because she aways wants to f*cking stick her tongue down my throat.
Stern: And you’re not into it?
Dykstra: She’s like f*cking 80 dude, or something.
Stern: You’re a male gigolo.
Dykstra: I’m not gonna do that no more.
Stern: Yes you are. Lenny, you’re a male gigolo.
Dykstra: I kinda… I lived a lotta lives.
Stern: So these chicks take you around with them and introduce you to everyone in the room.
Dykstra: No it’s just about companionship.
Stern: Do you just go to their houses and you don’t go out?
Dykstra: Yeah well they wanna go to dinner sometimes.
Stern: Do they wanna introduce you to their friends and shit?
Dykstra: No, no, no.
Stern: What’s the oldest woman you ever f*cked?
Stern: Like, would you ever f*ck an 80 year old? If you had to?
Dykstra: I mean, it’s my duty, you know? But it’s not like a get in there and f*cking pound me, you know? It’s more of a gentle…
Stern: Are you afraid they’ll die when they’re in bed with you?
Dykstra: Well their bones are brittle.
I downloaded the book and skimmed the relevant parts. The part about the 93 Phils’ run was mundane bullshit, plainly recapping the playoff run with digs at Mitch Williams thrown in. But thankfully(?), 1993 was the year Lenny hit his stride with steroids and painkillers. Here’s how Dykstra – or the sane individual who transcribed his musings to readable prose – described it:
“And Lenny Dykstra on steroids was going to give the Philadelphia Phillies a much better chance to win than Lenny Dykstra off steroids.
That’s just the way it is. It’s all about results!
With the help of my new regimen, I became an All-Star. I was on the cover of Sports Illustrated. I was hitting .400 in June. A coincidence? I think not!
All season long, through August and September, because of the steroids, I was able to play at the level I started at, not withering away like some kind of runt. It wasn’t like the year before, when I’d walk up to the plate at the end of the season knowing I had no chance because the bat felt like lead. There were times I felt so weak that it seemed like the pitcher was laughing at me. Look at this pussy. A year later, I was walking up there with a different attitude: “You really want some of this, motherfucker?” They knew I was on a whole different level than the other players. They knew I was loaded up. And they knew that I was going to find a way to beat them and make their lives miserable. Because on the baseball field, that’s what I do.
So that’s what I did every fucking night I stepped on the field.”
And on pain pills, on which he says he became dependent midway through the 93 season:
“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 or 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.”
“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.”
Whatever it takes, Dude.