Major League Baseball

Dykstra's downward spiral ongoing

Published Mar. 6, 2012 12:00 a.m. ET

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Bob Klapisch

It was late February when Wally Backman ran into his former teammate and friend, Lenny Dykstra, although the circumstances were less than ideal. The two were attending the memorial service for Gary Carter, which meant the gathering of 80s-era Mets, Backman included, were too preoccupied to ask Dykstra about the downward spiral of his own life.

But at one point during the evening, Backman and Dykstra, the two rug-rats who helped fuel a miracle in Flushing a generation ago, snuck outside for a cigarette. Only then did it become apparent how much the player once indestructible enough to be nicknamed Nails had deteriorated.

“Just listening to Lenny speak — he was practically incoherent,” Backman said. “He was whispering, mumbling. I said, “Lenny, I can’t understand you. What are you talking about?” It was sad to what’d happened to him. It broke my heart.”

As he finished his cigarette, Dykstra gathered himself to grimly predict his early death. Already in prison in California, awaiting sentencing, Dykstra told Backman, “I’m going to be dead in five years. Someone’s going to get me.”

When he finally heard that Dykstra had been sent away for three years for grand theft auto and providing a false financial statement, Backman spoke for the rest of the Mets family when he said, “I just hope Lenny makes it.”

“He’s a complicated man who somehow lost his soul,” Ron Darling added.

Only, how? Where did Nails’ life derail after a brilliant career? What happened to his unthinkable wealth he’d accumulated after retirement? Dykstra was shrewd enough to develop and then sell a chain of car washes in southern California, walking away with a cool $60 million in profits, according to some reports.

It should’ve been enough to guarantee a lifetime of financial security — and would’ve been, had Dykstra not been genetically wired to push his luck. “A flat-out greedy gambler,” is how one member of the Mets organization put it, explaining how Dykstra could’ve gone through his money so quickly.

Indeed, Dykstra’s later-life predicament traced its roots back to his playing days. Lenny was fearless on the field, all right, refusing to let his 5-foot-9-inch frame stop him from becoming a star. No pitcher intimidated him, even as a rookie.

A’s general manager Billy Beane recognized that trait when he and Dykstra were Mets teammates in the early ‘80s. Beane still likes to tell the story of Dykstra’s first encounter with Phillies’ legend Steve Carlton, who was warming up prior to a spring training game in Clearwater.

“Dude, who’s that guy?” Dykstra asked, nodding in Lefty’s direction.

“You’re kidding me, right?” said an exasperated Beane. “That’s Steve Carlton. He’s going to the Hall of Fame.”

Dykstra, unimpressed, spit a stream of tobacco juice, and said, “I’ll rake him, anyway.”

That was Lenny, on and off the field, even on the golf course. He would often challenge Davey Johnson, even though the manager was a scratch golfer. Dykstra was an eight-handicap, but ignored the impossible odds.

Time and again, Davey recalled, “I cleaned Lenny out … he never learned.” With a rueful laugh, Johnson said, “I liked Lenny better when he was flush with cash. I just wish I could’ve talked (then-Mets GM Frank Cashen) out of trading him (to the Phillies). I wanted Lenny to play for me.”

Dykstra was never the same person after he was dealt to Philadelphia in 1989. Never satisfied platooning with Mookie Wilson, he was focused on playing every day with the Phillies. But more than at-bats and face-time, Dykstra was consumed with making money — he wanted to pull down a big-time contract, finally landing a $25 million deal in 1993. Dykstra was only 30, in his prime, but the steroid era was descending upon the major leagues, and his friends saw changes in his frame, his behavior.

The warning signs were everywhere, said Backman, who in joining the Phillies in 1991, had become Dykstra’s teammate again.

“There was one night before a game, Lenny had blood coming out of both his ears,” Backman said. “I don’t know how he played, but he did. Obviously, you knew it wasn’t going to end well.”

That can’t-miss career was over in 1996. Dykstra, only 33, was never the same after the Phillies made the World Series three years earlier. He’d led the NL in plate appearances, at-bats, hits and walks, but the machine broke down all too soon.

Many suspect it was the steroids that ruined him. Although Dykstra denied juicing, he was named in the Mitchell report. Still, there was supposed to be a full life ahead of Dykstra, if only he been satisfied with his cash he’d put away.

But Dykstra over-invested in the market, lived beyond his means, and was ripe for a fall when the Dow crashed in 2008. The last four years have been a crushing blur of lawsuits and criminal charges, bankruptcy and now, finally, jail. Yet, the worst isn’t even over, as Dykstra still faces federal bankruptcy charges and is scheduled to stand trial this summer.

If Backman says it’s hard to decipher Dykstra’s slurred words, it’s almost impossible to recognize him. That fierce, mini-wrestler’s body looks broken now. Suffering from spinal stenosis, “Lenny can barely stand up straight,” said Backman. “He’s stooped over, like an old man.”

His friends can only pray Dykstra survives his darkest hour, that his vision of an early grave doesn’t become a prophecy. Somewhere through the haze of greed and criminal acts, the Mets still remember the hard-nosed player who helped them own a generation of fans in New York.

“Let’s hope when Lenny pays his debts to society that we judge him hopefully on his future good acts,” said Darling. “Not his lost years.”

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