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usopen.txt
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Text File
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1997-01-08
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17KB
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391 lines
MiSTing by:
Mike Cinpinski ..
MiSTie #71453 @$> 4$$k R~4H
lcinpin@execpc.com '$ `$$F $$P
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Submitted-by: "Marcia Tiersky" <tierskmn@wfu.edu>
Archive-URL: ftp://ftp-eng.cisco.com/ql-archive/alt.ql.creative/
Archive-name: us-open/us-open.p01
[scene opens with the interior of the SOL. Crow and Tom are arguing
over how many licks it takes to get to the tootsieroll center of a
tootsiepop.]
Tom: 1,531!
Crow: I don't think so! I spent a day and a half licking it and I counted
2,567!
[Joel walks in amid the argument]
Joel: Now come on you guys. Everybody knows it takes 3,894.
Magic voice: Commercial sign in 5 seconds
[Commercial light flashes]
Joel: We'll be right back.
[SPF 100! Put it on! followed by more Comedy Central trash]
[Mads light flashes]
Crow: Looks like Jeckyll and Hyde are calling Joel.
[Hits button]
Dr.F: Well, Spaceboy, todays experiment is entitled "US OPEN." It was
taken from alt.tv.quantum-leap.creative. It is indeed icky.
Frank: AHHH!
Dr.F: Frank! What the hell are you doing? Oh, nevermind. We don't have
an invention this time, Joel. Franks been getting me on my nerves
lately. Sorry.
[Movie sign!]
All: Dahh! We got movie sign!
[6...5...4...3...2...1...G]
As the blue light of leaping faded, Sam found himself blinking in
the bright sunlight.
Crow: I wish I had brought my sunglasses, my retinas are shot!
He glanced around, noting that there were thousands of people on
bleachers staring at something on the opposite side of the enclosed
area from where Sam was standing.
Tom: A streaker!
He looked over to see what they were all
looking at and observed as an athletic-looking young man
tossed a yellow ball in the air and hit it
straight at Sam. Sam gulped. "Oh boy."
Crow: If only I played baseball as a kid like the rest of the guys.
Sam made a valiant effort to connect with the ball, but the
disorientation of leaping had thrown him off his guard and he missed
with a whiff.
Crow: Hey! D-O! D-O! My racket strings were, um, missing or...
He heard a disembodied voice announce, "Ace,
Reneberg. Game. Set. 6-1. Reneberg." Sam quickly searched his
swiss-cheesed memory for some meaning that might be attached to those
numbers.
Joel: Cheese, memory and attatched in the same sentence. Sounds weired.
He noticed that the crowd seemed to be stretching.
Tom: Well they get tired watching your sorry ass get beaten-
Joel: Tom...
His opponent was snagging a drink of water and receiving shouts of
congratulations. Shaking his head, Sam headed over to his towel and
water.
Crow: And hope to god a crazy spectator stabbed his opponent in the back.
As he walked across the court, he had a chance to take a quick
peek around. He noticed signs all around him announcing "US Open" and
winced, wondering if he was any good at tennis.
Gradually, the littlehe knew about the game was beginning to sink
in and he suspected that
he had lost the first set. The sound of the imaging chamber door
opening startled him as he was preparing to return to the court. "Al,
where have you been?" he demanded.
Tom: In the back room with the ball girls...
"Las Vegas," Al responded with a sniff. "I lost 50 bucks."
Joel: Not exactly high-stakes gambling.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Sam answered, rolling his eyes.
Tom: <Al's voice>You don't give a damn! You want me to go broke!
Al grinned impishly. "But let me tell you about what I won. There
was this waitress who felt sorry for me and she offered..."
"Al!" Sam snapped. "I'm in kind of a hurry," he pointed out. "Who
am I and what am I doing here?"
Al looked offended. "I was getting to that," he said as he pulled
out the handlink and began to poke at it. "You are Boris Becker. A
professional ten-" Al glanced up, "A ten? I wouldn't rank you more
than an eight." He whacked the side of the handlink. "Is player. Eh?
Oh! Professional tennis player," he glanced up sheepishly.
"Mr. Becker. Mr. Becker!"
Joel: Mr. Becker! Mr. Becker! Shall I repeat myself again?
A man in a striped uniform was trying
to get Sam's attention. Sam turned quickly. "It is time to start the
next set." Sam nodded absently. "If you don't get onto the court
immediately it will be interpreted as a forfeit," the man added
firmly.
Tom: Now *wait* a minute! Lets not be adding _anything_ FIRMLY!
Sam glanced up in horror and quickly headed out onto the
court, Al in tow.
"Ok, kid. I got it," Al said quickly. "Hey!" he added as a tennis
ball went right through his body into Sam's hands. "Oh, yeah, it's
your serve, Sam."
"Ummm....right....my serve..."
Al looked at him in disgust. "I am sure that at some point in your
life you have played tennis," he paused thoughtfully, "though not as
long as I've known you. Look it's easy. You stand there, toss the
ball into the air, and hit it into that box in front of Reneberg,
that's your opponent's name, Richie Reneberg. Got it?"
Sam nodded, positioned himself, tossed the ball, and missed it
cleanly. He heard the disembodied voice again. "Fault. Becker."
Crow: Fault. San Andreas.
Once
again, Sam was tossed a ball. He did manage to hit it this time, but
it veered off to the right, missing the box. The voice informed him
that the score was now love-15.
"Ah, love," Al sighed.
"Al, this is not funny," Sam responded through gritted teeth. "Why
am I here, wherever here is?" While waiting for an answer, Sam served
again, this time even serving to the right place. Reneberg hit the
ball in a strong backhand and Sam could not catch it. He glanced at
the speedometer as he returned to serving position and groaned as he
noticed that it read "107 MPH."
Crow: Weeeeeeee!
As Sam stood in position to serve once again, Al announced, "The
date is August 29, 1994. You are in Flushing Meadow, New York for the
US Open tennis tournament."
Tom: Flushing Meadow; home of the Port-O-Let Company
Sam glanced up, "No kidding," he responded sarcastically, "what
gave it away?"
Crow: Your annoying personality and heavy breathing.
Al glared at him. "Of course, if you don't want my help, I could
give that waitress a tip..."
Sam grinned. "Me too. Stay away from Al Calavicci."
"Humph!" Al responded.
Sam turned his attention to serving again. "Hey look! I got a
point, Al!" he announced merrily, turning to talk to the hologram,
only to find that he was all alone. "15-30" the speaker informed
him. Sam sighed.
Joel: C'mon guys lets go.
[G...1...2...3...4...5...6]
[Comedy Central plugs and cheap Mentos commercials]
[6...5...4...3...2...1...G]
About half an hour later Al returned. Sam was drinking his water
and wishing that he were anywhere else. He was sweating and tired.
Tom: Yes, the mating ritual is a long and gruelling task.
He had no idea why he was there. Furthermore, he was a miserable
tennis player. He decided that he hated the US Open. "Why does anyone
ever play this game?" he muttered.
"To pick up women, of course," a familiar voice responded. Sam
broke into a huge grin.
Crow: Ow, I broke my grin!
"Al, you came back!"
Joel: Trumpy, you can do magic things!
"Of course I came back, kid. What did you think, I was going to
leave you trapped in a washed-up tennis player forever?" Sam looked
at him seriously. "OK, I have two minutes before I have to go back out
there. So, what's the scoop?"
Joel: Double. Elephant tracks. Waffle cone. Looks good.
Al glanced up at him thoughtfully. "What's the score?"
Sam winced slightly. "I'm down 2 sets. 1-6, 4-6."
"Wow, that's great! You must've gotten a lot better while I was
gone. I was afraid you were never gonna score."
"Yeah, I think I am beginning to get the hang of this game, but I
am still losing. All I have to lose is one more set and it will all
be over."
"Well, kid, if it makes you feel any better, you haven't changed
history at all yet. Becker was down two sets with the same scores at
this point, too."
Sam smiled. "Well that's a relief. How did it end up?"
Al poked at the handlink a bit more and said, "Becker lost in the fifth
set. The game went on for almost 4 hours. It seems that the last set
was 7-6, so it took quite a while. The physical fatigue and pain of
the loss after such a long battle really got to Becker. He retired
immediately after."
Crow: That tennis is a bitch!
Sam looked across the court at his opponent, chatting cheerfully
with the crowd and blotting sweat off his face. "And Reneberg?"
"Oh, beating Becker really made his tennis career. He goes on to
win the US Open and several other championships as well."
"Hmmm," Sam said. "What does Ziggy think I'm here to do?"
Crow: What the hell does it matter what Ziggy thinks?
Tom: Who do you work for, man?!
"Ziggy says you are here to win this match for Becker. If you can
do that, even if he loses in the next match it won't be such a
crushing blow and he can go on to do tours and stuff."
Joel: Well Ziggy can keep his opinions to himself.
"Win the match?" Sam repeated. "Al, I'm two sets behind and I'm
not very good."
Al lit a cigar thoughtfully. "I know that, kid, but it's our only
hope. Remember that Becker almost won in the original history starting
from where you are now. All you have to do is be a little better in
the last game. It's possible. After all, you are more rested than
Richie over there cause you didn't have to do the first set."
Sam's face brightened. "That's true! And if I win, I'll leap?"
Crow: Jump for joy!
"98 percent," Al assured him. They heard the speaker announcing the
start of the third set. "Good luck, kid," Al said softly.
Joel: <Al's whisper>you'll need it. Ha ha ha!
Sam stepped out onto the court with a confidence that surprised and
puzzled his opponent and fans. Many were surprised at how poorly
Becker had been playing and people were beginning to suspect that he
was out of the running. Reneberg was so taken aback by Sam's attitude
that he actually missed the first serve. "Ace, Becker. 15-love," the
speaker announced.
A long grueling set finally began to draw to a close. First Sam
was ahead, then Reneberg, then Sam crept up again. Finally, with a
ferocious return to the backcourt Sam ended the third set. "Point,
Becker. Game. Set. 6-4, Becker."
"You did it, Sam! You won the set. Now all you need is to win two
more." He studied Sam's flushed face carefully. "Are you OK?"
"Do I look OK?" Sam asked tiredly. "I really don't think I can do
this, Al. Tell me, what happens to Reneberg if I do win?"
Al frowned and consulted the handlink. Ziggy says he'll try again
next year, but will never be really successful. I guess he needed the
big break that beating Becker gave him." Al pursed his lips in
thought.
Crow: He can purse his lips? I can wallet mine.
"Come to think of it, maybe I should go run a few more
scenarios with Ziggy."
All: NO ONE GIVES A DAMN ABOUT ZIGGY!
Sam nodded wearily and slumped down to rest for the remainder of
the period.
When Al next returned Sam was deep into the fourth set. Sam had 4
games and Richie had 5. The score was 30-30. "Sam," Al said, "I
couldn't find anything. Ziggy says your best bet is still to beat
Richie in this match. So be careful. The next few points are
critical."
Tom: I'LL GIVE YOU CRITICAL YOU SON OF A B-
Joel: Tom...
Sam glanced over Al's way. "I know they are. I'm just not sure
that winning is necessarily the right answer," he sighed heavily.
Crow: The sigh weighed in at 5 pounds 2.5 ounces.
Al studied Sam suspiciously. "What's the matter," he taunted
suddenly, "can't you do it? Maybe you just aren't up to it?"
Sam hit the ball hard, hoping to relieve his frustrations on it
and watching in disgust as it went out. He accepted another ball from
the sidelines. "I can do it, Al. I know that I can. I'm just not
sure..." Sam looked at Al for a moment and then gave Richie a long
measuring look. Sam's serve hit the net. "30-40," the speaker
informed the tense crowd.
"Sam," Al's voice held a warning note. "Sam what about Becker? Sam
don't do this!" Al waved his hands in front of Sam's face, hoping to
distract him. "Ziggy is certain that you are here to win this game."
All: NO ONE GIVES A DAMN ABOUT ZIGGY!
"Ziggy's been wrong before, Al."
"So speaks Mister Swiss-cheese brain. I'll bet you don't even know
if Ziggy's been wrong or not." Al smirked triumphantly, waving his
cigar in Sam's face.
Crow: Hey! It was fine till you started getting personal!
Sam hesitated. "Ziggy thought that I was supposed to marry that
girl, Tess, and I wasn't," he pointed out. "There! I remembered
something. And I have the distinct impression that that wasn't the
only time."
Al scowled. "That doesn't mean that he's wrong this time."
Sam smiled. "Only one way to find out!" He served the ball gently
right to Reneberg. Not one to miss an opportunity, Reneberg hit it
towards the deep right.
Joel: Home run!
"You can get that, Sam!" Al said urgently. "It's not even going
all that fast."
Crow: Yeah, you might just get an eye knocked out, but what the hell?
"You're right," Sam whispered as he ran, "I can." Sam arrived at
the spot to hit the ball at the exact right time and then, he
stumbled, missing the ball. He hid a smile as he heard the speaker
announce. "Game, set match." Sam walked over to the net and offered
his hand to Reneberg. Reneberg looked him over carefully. "Good
game," he said, still looking rather confused.
Tom: I'll bet he failed math class.
Crow: Yeah, he's pretty dense.
Sam returned to where Al was busily poking at the handlink. "Well,
how'd we do?" he asked.
Al studied the handlink and said, "I don't know how, but you did it,
kid. Becker decides not to leave tennis and he returns next year very
successfully. I guess thinking that he would have won if he hadn't
stumbled," Al paused to roll his eyes, "convinced him not to give up."
"So, am I ready to leap?"
Crow: I can't read your mind!
Al hesitated. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "Wait, Ziggy says there's
one other thing that you did." Al glanced up at the large clock on the
wall of the court and noted that it was five minutes before midnight.
"What's that?"
"Well, in the original history, the game ran until almost one in the
morning, umm eastern time this is, which caused USA, the channel
televising the US Open, to cancel some important television show at
midnight. By finishing the match early you have guaranteed that the
show will go on as planned."
Sam looked aghast. "I was sent here to save one episode of some silly
television show?"
"Hmmm? No. I think you also need to make sure that none of the other
broadcasts of the US Open run into the midnight time slot
either. There seem to be some very unhappy fans. Must be one hell of a
show."
Sam put his hands on his hips and was prepared to argue when he heard
someone calling his name. He turned and found himself face to face
with a TV camera with "USA" plastered across the side.
"Mr. Becker, could we have a moment of your time?" Sam hesitantly
turned to face the camera. "Mr. Becker, we know that this upset must
be a terrible disappointment to you. Tell me, what do you think the
most important result of this match will be?"
A slow smile spread across Sam's face. "I think," he said
solemnly, "that the important thing is that USA will be able to air
their regularly scheduled midnight program. I would hate to think
that this, or any other match of the US Open would ever displace an
important show like that."
The cameramen looked at each other and shrugged. "Thank you for
your time, Mr. Becker."
Sam turned back to Al who smiled happily. "You did it, Sam. USA
reschedules all of their episodes of this program during the US Open
so that they are all shown back-to-back on a Sunday, which is really
what all the fans wanted anyway."
"That's great! Hey, what is this show anyway?"
Al poked the handlink one more time and gasped. He held out the
machine for Sam to examine just as the light of leaping overtook him.
Sam barely had time to catch the words "Quantum Leap."
Joel: I love the shameless self promotion here. C'mon guys.
Dr.F: Push the button Frank.
[Credits]
MST3K and all related indica are Copyright Best Brains Inc.