Foreshadowing the Fall of Lenny Dykstra

Dead Spin reprints a profile of Lenny Dykstra from Philadelphia magazine in January 1993, it is a must-read (via Ritholtz):

"I love you, dude," he says to the bald gambler, who nods meekly in acknowledgment. Dykstra compulsively smooths out his slender spire of chips; he keeps adding to the stack like a child testing how high his building blocks will climb before gravity in­trudes.
"We're on a fucking roll, dude."
And so are we. Watching Lenny Dykstra gamble is like having an orchestra seat at a one-character David Mamet tragicomic psychodrama. You are appalled and delighted by the language and the largesse, the exposed and tortured soul. You enjoy the ride. You know it will end badly.
A dozen strangers are loitering at the entrance to the pit, watch­ing the littlest Phillie go through his off-season regimen: tossing cards to keep his arm in shape, honing hand-eye coordination by betting, smoking, stacking and drinking simultaneously. He never does nothing. After performing before tens of thousands of screaming-meemies, a handful of hushed spectators won't inhibit his hyper reverie; degenerate gamblers are in heaven when in ac­tion, and Dykstra has been known to wager on tennis and golf and dice and football and poker and the accuracy of his own expecto­rated tobacco juice.

It always struck me as odd that Lenny Dykstra was an investment advice columnist on TheStreet.com, who specialized in outside-the-money options.  It didn't seem like the right person for that strategy, especially because Lenny never came off as a brilliant guy to me.  It's sad to see a guy crash and burn, but I guess I'll take whatever lesson I can from it and try not to rubberneck too much at the smoking wreckage.

Update: I'll also excerpt the rules on baccarat, just because I didn't understand them:

The Banker is hot. The center fielder settles into a giddy super­stitious spree, talking to himself, taking short circular walks, con­tinually licking those luxurious lips like a nervous ingénue confronting a camera. Everyone knows the outcome of each hand the instant he does. No poker face, he is easier to read than a road­side billboard. In baccarat, it doesn't matter.
The rules of the game are simple. The gambler with the shoe deals two cards each to another participant (Player) and to himself (Banker). The closest to nine points wins. Tens and face cards count as zero, aces as one. A third card may be drawn, if needed. The gambler makes one decision: bet on Banker or Player. You win whatever you bet, dollar for dollar; the casino takes a five per­cent fee — vigorish — on Banker wins. In France, the game is called chemin de fer (railroad) because it moves at great speeds, money changing hands every minute, 60 or 70 times an hour. The game requires no talent at all. If you bat .400, you're a stone loser.