It always makes a differences how old you are. When I worked for our local parks department, at around 19 or so, I guess, I had to manicure the department's only MLB regulation-sized field. The Mets were sending a group to do a clinic for our local Little Leaguers. I had been around (I was 19!) so I knew we'd get the guys at the end of the bench. But somehow, word had gotten around that Dykstra was going to be there. He wasn't, of course, but we got every 10-14 year old boy from four towns around packing the field to the point of danger, all for a clinic put on by Bill Robinson, Mel Stottlemyer, Rafael Santana and (I think) Randy Niemann. I saw a friend of my mother's who was from two towns over, and she explained to me that she had brought her 13-year-old to see Dykstra, and he was heartbroken, but still an hour into the clinic, there was this buzz going that he might still arrive. All I could think was, "That douchebag is the phoniest player in the league, — at least, now that everybody knows the truth about Pete Rose." I found it unfathomable that nobody else could see through him. But these were boys. White boys who had a super-athletic, dirty, over-hyped white centerfielder that they could identify with. He even had a boyish stature. Half of them were wearing his number, and some were wearing eye-black (to an evening clinic). I realized then that I might have fallen for him when I was younger too. I kinda, sorta, mostly fell for Lee Mazzilli. But Dykstra seemed to be working a hustle from the day he arrived. (Talk about making the easy plays look hard.) It's a shame, too. He really was that great an athlete. Despite being from Southern Cal (and being a Floridian in spirit), he was actually from a hockey family, and three of his uncles played in the NHL.