Toward the end of his final felonious run, I started receiving irregular drunk phone calls from Lenny Dykstra. He always sounded like he was on the side of a freeway on a 1997 cell phone connection. I’m not even sure how he got my number. Something to do with one of his shady businesses. He convinced me to meet him in Wayne Gretzky’s former mansion that Lenny had bought under one of the many financial schemes that would later send him to prison. The entire palace was empty save for a pool table, a couple of ladies of questionable professional occupation, and ‘Nails’ with a wild glazed look in his eyes yelling at nobody to bring him two Dr. Pepper sodas. We spoke for about a minute about nothing that made any sense, he got crazy angry like he was going to lunge at me, then he abruptly segued into a nonsensical story about the Mets. That was enough. I left. Fuck the Mets.
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