At the very least, figure on a house in the Shenandoahs for Sampson, equidistant from Charlottesville and Harrisonburg, "so it's not more than a 20-minute drive to either one." A few restored cars in the driveway. A robust stereo system pumping out slickly arranged rhythm and blues with lots of tenor sax. And if his routine is anything like it's been this past summer, he'll be up early each morning to run—though he would never admit it, Sampson wants to prove something to Fitch this fall—and then come back to the kitchen to cook piles of French toast for his sisters.
But that's as much speculation about what might constitute Ralph Sampson's future happiness as we're entitled to. The final reckoning is for the son of the woman who was born on Thomas Jefferson's birthday to do, in his dotage, during some walk down The Lawn.
The fruits of the experiment and the bread-and-butter "basic" and the championship and the respect of the public, all have potential, real potential. They are all things that haven't happened yet. But the degree has happened, and it will allow him to close the last scene of his life with a peace that should be both salutary and permanent.