http://nypost.com/2016/06/26/ex-met-len ... y-friends/
http://nypost.com/2016/06/27/ex-met-len ... -managers/Partying became my full-time job for a while. Eventually, I landed in a rehab facility, but I was so f- -ked up that I didn’t know where I was. When I came out of my coma, I realized I was part of a star-studded group at Promises, the famous rehab in Malibu that overlooks the Pacific Ocean.
Charlie Sheen was there along with several other famous actors and celebrities. Trust me, I was the low man on the totem pole there.
Charlie walked up to me and said, “Hey, man, I know what you are feeling. I was just like you. I felt the same way, but you should try to stick it out.”
Fast forward to 2014. On a Friday afternoon, around 5 p.m., I received a phone call from a woman who was crying hysterically. I kept saying, “Who is this? Who is this?”
She finally caught her breath and said, “It’s Scottine. I’m [Charlie’s] fiancée.”
I said, “OK, why are you crying?”
She said that Charlie was smoking crack and that he had been holed up in his room for nine straight days. She said he told her to leave and stop ruining his buzz.
I asked, “Why are you calling me?”
“Because everyone told me that you are the only person that Charlie will listen to who has the balls to stop him.”
When I pulled up, she was waiting in one of the Mercedes Charlie owned. She was obviously shaken up. I said, “Get me through the gates, and I will take care of it.”
“You will never find him.”
I responded, “What are you talking about? I’ve been to Charlie’s house thousands of times.”
She said, “Nobody knows about this room. It’s in the master bedroom, but it’s behind a bookcase and you have to punch in a code to get in.”
I said, “OK, then you’ll have to walk up the stairs with me and punch in the code. I’ll handle it from there.”
As I was walking up to his master bedroom, one of Charlie’s security guys said, “You’re not allowed up there. Charlie gave us strict orders that nobody is allowed in the house.”
I fired back, “F- -k you, the only way you are going to stop me is to shoot me! You f- -king people are as bad as the drug dealer. So call the cops or shoot me in the back, but I’m going to save my friend’s life.”
The room was right out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie, a sliding bookcase and all. It felt like I was a character in a mystery spy thriller.
I walked in and Charlie was standing there with a crack pipe in one hand and his phone in the other, obviously surprised to see me.
I took one look around and said, “Charlie, I have to admit, if you’re going to smoke crack, this has to be the best crack room on the planet!”
It was unbelievable. A theater, Babe Ruth’s ring, Cincinnati Reds jerseys, and some of the coolest paintings I have ever seen. All f- -king amazing. After breaking the ice, I got serious with Charlie.
“Is this it? Is this what you’ve worked your whole life for? Charlie, do you realize you have been up in this room for nine straight days? What the f- -k kind of life is this, holed up in a room, smoking crack by yourself?”
I told him, “You remember that show you own, ‘Anger Management’? Today is Friday and you have to be at work on Monday. Give me all the drugs. I’m flushing them down the toilet.”
Dykstra on Mets manager Davey Johnson:
He was a lucky manager. He was drunk every night and frequently hung over just enough the next day to not always know what was going on. That, and he was probably the worst communicator I’ve ever been associated with in baseball, and that includes a lot of f–king people! Other than all that, Davey was great. Ha!
On Mookie Wilson:
He was a great guy, by the way, though he had terrible breath. I’m talking death fumes.
On George Foster:
Foster was a strange guy. Talk about a human Xanax. I am falling asleep just thinking about him. Talking to George Foster was like attempting to hold a conversation with a piece of furniture . . . When Davey [Johnson] announced that Kevin Mitchell was going to be our new left fielder, Foster charged that the Mets were being racist. The only problem with that story? Kevin Mitchell was black, too.
On Kevin McReynolds:
Kevin was an honest-to-God redneck from Arkansas — and also happened to be one of the most talented players I’d ever seen on the field. The only problem was that he hated baseball. F–king hated it. All he wanted to do was be on his duck farm and in that hunting lodge of his in Arkansas.
On Johnson’s decision not to start ace Dwight “Doc” Gooden in Game 7 of the 1988 NLCS, which the Mets lost 6-0:
Another clusterf–k move. To make matters worse, Davey announced that Doc would be available out of the bullpen. WTF? If he was available out of the bullpen, he should have gotten the ball to start Game 7. For the record, Doc pitched three innings in Game 7, and gave up one hit. Davey single-handedly set off a time bomb that would dismantle the organization for years to come.
On Gregg Jefferies:
It didn’t take the players long to figure out Gregg Jefferies was a losing player, not to mention a whiny little [expletive]. He would spend hours rubbing his bats with some special concoction and specifically requested that they be stored separately from the rest of the team’s bats so they didn’t chip.
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