I'm not a big fan of coincidence. In fact, I'm more likely than most to look at an apparent connection between two events and scoff at any possible significance. But I do have my weaknesses. One, really.

A bit more than 29 years ago, Andre Agassi was born the same day I was. Every so often, I like to compare my life to his, to see how I measure up. I can easily say that I have followed his career more than any other tennis player. That doesn't mean much, but still. I knew that coming into Sunday's French Open final, Andre (I figure I can refer to anyone who shares my birthdate by his or her first name) had to beat the 100th-ranked player in the world to become the second person in tennis's open era to win all four major championships.

If you don't know, the open era means the period of time that professionals have been allowed to play in all the major tourneys. I think this was ushered into existence in 1968, but in any case, I know it was going by 1969, when Rod Laver won all four major championships in one year. No male player since has won all four in one career, much less

Not Bjorn Borg. Not Jimmy Connors. Not John McEnroe. Not Ivan Lendl. Not Pete Sampras. With the exception of Lendl, who never won Wimbledon, the stumbling block for these great players was the French Open. Andre had played in two French finals, but never won at Roland-Garros. Until Sunday.

I must admit I celebrated a bit at the thought of my birth-mate accomplishing something so rare. And then I began the ritual. Comparing my life with the Andre yardstick.

On my side: I've got a college degree. I'm not getting divorced from my wife. I can walk around without people trying to grab a piece of my clothing (or worse). I have a much more eclectic (and likely, much larger) music collection. I do not feel the need to watch Suddenly Susan out of a sense of obligation (though that may have passed for Andre by now).

On his side: Andre's really famous, he's got a boatload of money and he's a pretty damned good athlete. Oh, and he probably bangs supermodels (though, I'm not sure if that counts as a plus or a minus).

It's not even close. I still win.

And so, despite the petty frustrations of my life, I can feel pretty good about things. My existence still ranks pretty high on the Andre-o-meter. And it's bound to get better. How many superstar athletes can you name who have made a smooth transition into "regular" life after a long period in the spotlight? Maybe a few. How many have actually done something useful after the end of their careers? I'll give you Jim Brown. Bill Bradley? Okay, him too. But the list is pretty small. In all likelihood, Agassi is facing many years of declining celebrity. And you can ask Paul Reubens (Pee-Wee Herman) what that is like.

On the other hand, I've got years before I can even be considered old in my chosen field. As an aspiring writer, I know that I don't even enter "adulthood" until my 40s. Why, just last week, Newsweek referred to a "hot young writer" who happened to be 38. Thirty eight? Alright! I've got years and years before my "prodigy" status wears off. This is very encouraging, to say the least.

And, well, even if I sell a million books, most likely people won't mob me on the street. My face, while not repulsive, is astonishingly forgettable. If it weren't for my hair, I'd be completely nondescript in appearance. So it is unlikely that I'll every have to face down a mob to battle for the remnants of my shirt. Again, a real plus for my side.

Yes, while Andre Agassi has accomplished something I can't even dream of doing, I'm still ahead. My life is pretty damned good on the Andre-o-meter. And that's not bad at all.

Jon Worley also shares his birthday, but not birthdate, with Duke Ellington.