New York, September 2002, very early morning -- After a long night's carousing, overflowing with Shirley Temples and firm celebratory handshakes, an exhausted but jubilant Pete Sampras stumbles into the dimly lit Greenwich Village abode of the Big Apple's most wizened, but wise, fortune teller.
"Have you come for a glimpse of your future, my son?"
"Um, I hadn't really planned on ... OK, sure, why not? Let's see the future!"
"Show me your palm, please."
"Here you go. Just so you know, that there right hand just set the all-time tennis slam record! Fourteen big ones! And about all the hairs ... it's not what you think. It's just my genes."
"Er, yes, I see. Hmm ... a strong life line. You have a long journey ahead of you, my son."
"Right, well, I don't care about that. What I want to know is: how long will my record stand? More than 25 years, right? Half a century, maybe? How about all the way to the year 2100? That would really kill Andre!"
"For that question, I must consult the crystal ball. Yes ... yes ... the path is clouded ... I see a grinning man, grinning and dancing ... a man with a large nose and a large brood ... your record will fall within the next decade!"
"Say what?! Look, lady, I think you must have misheard me. I was talking 'bout my slam record, and how long --"
"Seven years, to be exact."
"No way! You must be readin' it wrong. Seven freakin' years?! There's no way that --"
"I see a second man! A second man emerging from the clouds, grunting and tugging at his shorts --"
"Hey, I didn't ask for no porno!"
"... and sliding, sliding, on the dirt, over and over. This man will eclipse your record in 15 years!"
"So now there are TWO of them?! Hey, am I being punked? Did Agassi pay you off?!"
"Fortune telling is a sacred art. The portents do not lie. You must accept the truth, my son."
"Well, I say you're nuts, 'cause no one's going to touch my record in my lifetime! Fourteen forever! Now leggo of my hand! And I want my dollar back!"
"Have you come for a glimpse of your future, my son?"
"Um, I hadn't really planned on ... OK, sure, why not? Let's see the future!"
"Show me your palm, please."
"Here you go. Just so you know, that there right hand just set the all-time tennis slam record! Fourteen big ones! And about all the hairs ... it's not what you think. It's just my genes."
"Er, yes, I see. Hmm ... a strong life line. You have a long journey ahead of you, my son."
"Right, well, I don't care about that. What I want to know is: how long will my record stand? More than 25 years, right? Half a century, maybe? How about all the way to the year 2100? That would really kill Andre!"
"For that question, I must consult the crystal ball. Yes ... yes ... the path is clouded ... I see a grinning man, grinning and dancing ... a man with a large nose and a large brood ... your record will fall within the next decade!"
"Say what?! Look, lady, I think you must have misheard me. I was talking 'bout my slam record, and how long --"
"Seven years, to be exact."
"No way! You must be readin' it wrong. Seven freakin' years?! There's no way that --"
"I see a second man! A second man emerging from the clouds, grunting and tugging at his shorts --"
"Hey, I didn't ask for no porno!"
"... and sliding, sliding, on the dirt, over and over. This man will eclipse your record in 15 years!"
"So now there are TWO of them?! Hey, am I being punked? Did Agassi pay you off?!"
"Fortune telling is a sacred art. The portents do not lie. You must accept the truth, my son."
"Well, I say you're nuts, 'cause no one's going to touch my record in my lifetime! Fourteen forever! Now leggo of my hand! And I want my dollar back!"
