Lenny Dykstra, the center fielder called “Dude,” really is standing there at home plate wiping the tobacco-juice slobber off his chin. Over in the dugout the team’s manager, Jim Fregosi, is not only smacking on his own cheeksful of disgusting chaw but sneaking a drag on a cigarette at the same time. John (Krukie) Kruk, first baseman of fat and frolic, is scratching himself uncomfortably close to the huge rip in his pants, and relief pitcher Mitch Williams is divebombing off the mound, practically sprawling over his scraggly locks and wearing a tattoo that illustrates both his personality, a cartoon Tasmanian devil, and his nickname, “Wild Thing.”
When nonaficionados of the national pastime remote-controlled in on the World Series this week, they were probably shocked to discover that such a mangy-haired, scruffy-bearded, protuding-bellied collection of politically incorrectable miscreants was even being allowed to pollute the video waves. Either that, or they figured they had channeled into tag-team wrestling with Homer Simpson and Rush Limbaugh grappling Z. Z. Top. “PIG PEN” PHILS ON PRIME TIME, screamed none other than The Wall Street Journal.
But with all the furor over the team from this woebegone city being misfits, outcasts and throwbacks, the Phillies more than earned their trip to the World Series. Last year they finished in last place in their division; this season they improved by 27 games and came from behind in the National League Championship Series to defeat the Atlanta Braves, seemingly on grit and guts alone. No matter what happens in the series, in the ultimate world of scratch and spit, the Phils are undisputed kings. “Their clubhouse should have signs posted that read: No lifeguard on duty,” wrote Fran Blinebury of the Houston Chronicle. “You need galoshes to walk through the place and it is always wise to keep one’s eye out for the streams of brown fluid that come out of nowhere, like sniper fire in downtown Beirut.”
There is a certain obnoxious charm in the way the Phillistines revel in their image. When a female fan chastised Kruk–who alternates smoking cigarettes with stuffing as many as 30 pieces of bubble gum in his mouth–for lighting up in a restaurant, behavior unbecoming an “athlete,” he responded in true Phillian phassion: “I ain’t no athlete, lady, I’m a ballplayer.”
Why are the Phillies such rogues? Possibly because they have arrived at their peculiar destiny from so far–since they won the National League pennant in 1983 they have been 98 games under .500–and from every which way. General manager Lee (Trader) Thomas, who began in 1988 saddled with pitiful veterans and the worst farm system in the league, has acquired a powerhouse of vagabonds and vagrants. Of the regular position players only shortstop Kevin Stocker and catcher Darren (Dutch) Daulton–married to Playboy Playmate and Hooters restaurant spokesmodel Lynne Austin–were drafted and developed by Philadelphia.
Star pitcher Curt Schilling, who was the MVP in the league championship series, is a perfect Phil in that, at 26, he had been given up on by the Red Sox, Orioles and Astros. Possibly it was because he drove too fast. Schilling owns a rocketfueled red Lamborghini purchased from Jose Canseco. Or because he thought too slow. Once Schilling entered a game for Baltimore as a reliever and blithely asked the manager: “Who’s up?”
The heart and soul of the team, though, remains Daulton and Dykstra–forever coupled in baseball life as they were in almost death. In May 1991 the two left Kruk’s bachelor party– Dykstra drunk and at the wheel of a Mercedes sports car–and were found wrapped around a tree. Dude came all the way back to lead the National League not only in runs (143, the most since 1932) and hits–but also in walks and atbats, a remarkable combination. Dutch, meanwhile, has overcome seven knee operations and two seasons hitting below .200, not to mention his 2-month-old son getting booed by Philadelphia fans at a father-son game (and Shannen Doherty thinks she’s got it bad), to become the leader in the clubhouse.
Character has always been the consideration in Philadelphia; hang the characters. Trader Thomas is the least shocked of anybody about the Phillies. “These aren’t bad guys,” he said. “They’re just strange.”
Really? Larry Anderson, the team’s 40-year-old reliever/philosopher, has taped a regular feature on WPHL-TV in Philadelphia called “Shallow Thoughts,” in which he ponders subjects like, “If a visiting player hits a home run why do they call it a home run?” One day during the Phillies-Braves showdown, Anderson approached Atlanta’s Terry Pendleton. “If we don’t win this series,” he said, “I hope you guys do.”
Which surely must mean that if the fat, sassy, scurrilous, low-phallutin’ phoul Phillies don’t go on to win the World Series this week, somebody else probably will.
