It’s 4:30 in the afternoon on a sunny day in 1998. I’m at Gold’s Gym in Garden City, New York, with the two senior brokers I am interning with for that summer, Steve and Greg. We work at a regional firm on Long Island, and every broker there leaves for the gym the minute the closing bell of trading rings. And they look it. I am a college kid surrounded by absolute Vikings who work hard and play harder. They are nonchalantly bench-pressing 315 pounds apiece while debating who has more gross commissions in for the day.
Greg looks up and stops talking midsentence and then whispers, “Stevie, you know who that is over there?”
“Shut up,” says Steve, “it can’t be! Is it?”
“Don’t look at him, stop. He’s coming over …”