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	Khalid Khannouchi  Tom Shaw/Allsport

From midnight until two a.m., I am shooting the breeze in a New York bar with Larry Bird, Rod Carew and Evel Knievel. They are all great guys and bitterly disappointed when I tell them that I have to go, that pilot Arnold Palmer is waiting to fly me to St. Andrews for my morning tee time with Jack Nicklaus, Michael Jordan and Heidi Klum. I nap on the plane, fire a 58 on the Old Course, and -- taking advantage of the time difference -- catch a Concorde to Chicago for a 1:05 start at Wrigley Field. The Cubs win in one hour and 59 minutes. I eat a lunch of nachos, bratwurst and Old Style with Ernie Banks. After the game, feeling fine, I run 10 miles along the Chicago lakefront with Khalid Khannouchi. Alas, the world record-holder in the marathon struggles to keep up, and finally tells me: "You go on ahead." And so I must.

I shower and fly west, chasing the sun. I stop in Minnesota for a quick pick-up basketball game. My team of Minnesotans -- Kevin McHale, Kirby Puckett, Alan Page, Bob Dylan and I -- trounce the 2001 Lakers, who are good sports about it: They allow me to board their charter for the return flight to Los Angeles. On the way, playing poker, I take $200,000 from Shaq and $178,500 from Kobe. Phil Jackson gives me a copy of Dharma Bums.

At dusk, I surf Old Man's in San Onofre, then ride in a VW van, chauffeured by Bill Walton, to Johnny Carson's pad in Malibu, where Steffi Graf and I intentionally allow Johnny and Chris Evert to beat us in mixed doubles. Then we repair indoors, where countless surprise dinner guests -- among them Muhammad Ali and the entire roster of the 1975 Cincinnati Reds -- await our arrival. Near midnight, at the end of a long day, as the party still rages, I excuse myself, find a guest bedroom, and fall asleep to Vin Scully announcing the 17th inning of a Dodgers game.