Sports

For less money per month than you'd spend on a basic cell phone plan, you can buff your bod and stoke your heart at Downtown Gym. It's smallish and seems geared more toward free-weight equipment than weight machines, but the essentials are here. There's a wall of dumbbells with poundage that most of us can only dream of lifting some day. For cardio it offers treadmills, bikes, StairMasters, and those newfangled elliptical walkers. Freebies include ample parking and lockers for clothes and valuables (bring your own lock). And for those who haven't had the time or inclination to buy music headsets, the gym's sound system plays consistently good alternative rock tunes -- untainted by commercials. A one-year membership in the basic plan works out to around $25 a month, which includes unlimited use of the gym and free abdominal-strengthening classes. Group fitness lessons cost members just $7. Splurge on rice cakes (or ice cream) with the money you save.

Last summer Grand Prix Race-O-Rama was bought by the Boomers! amusement park chain, which already had a location in Boca Raton. The place has been given a facelift, and a wooden roller coaster, the only one of its kind in South Florida, was built. In addition to the go-karts that have whizzed through the place since the Race-O-Rama days, bumper cars, boats, batting cages, and a rock-climbing wall provide plenty of fun for kids of all ages. The SkyCoaster drops riders from dizzying heights, and the Blender turns one's insides into mush. For fun-seekers without a need for speed, four 18-hole miniature golf courses beckon. If you prefer your fun indoors, step into the casinolike arcade, which offers hundreds of video games, from state-of-the art fighting games to old-school classics such as Centipede. On a budget? Ten dollars gets you unlimited video games, bumper boats, and miniature golf on Tuesdays. Add another fiver and you can drive like the pros on the NasKart race track all day long.

Get a brass ring about the size of a silver-dollar pancake. Tie one end of a four-foot string to the ring and the other end to a hook in the ceiling. Make sure that your ceiling hook is positioned so that the arc of the ring just grazes a nearby wall. Now hang an upturned hook on the wall. Take your ring and walk to the opposite side of the room and swing the ring so that it catches the hook. That's all there is to the Bahamian pastime of ring toss. It's an incredibly simple yet maddeningly difficult test of hand-eye coordination that actually seems to get easier the more you drink. If you don't believe us, try it yourself at places including the Sail Inn, 657 George Bush Blvd. in Delray Beach, or the 1889 Old House, 300 E. Ocean Ave. in Lantana. Don't bet with the locals, though. Some regulars, especially at the Sail Inn, can hook the ring with their eyes closed.

Maybe because it stands between two intimidating neighbors -- the Millionaires' Row of lake-to-ocean mansions to the north and the luxury-condo wonderland to the south -- this pristine little strip of land along A1A remains everything a public beach should be, even in the height of season: uncrowded, clean, and quiet. You park your car (at a dollar an hour, admittedly a bit of a turnoff) in a small lot at the foot of a rising slope of park land dotted with picnic tables under scattered oaks and palms. Then take a quick hike over the ridge line, where the only amenity is a short series of thatched-roof huts, and make a sudden drop down to the water -- and that's it. No hot dog stand, no fishing pier, no T-shirt shop. Just sand, water, you, and a happy little group of others in the know (and in little else) soaking up the sun. Shhhh.

Location, location, location. No bicycle shop has a better spot than this gem of a place, and owner Mark Quinn knows it. "We're 100 yards from the trail," hesays, motioning toward the nearby Intracoastal Waterway, where bikers, joggers, walkers, and 'bladers cruise along a roughly four-mile paved path that takes them within ogling distance of some of the priciest and best-manicured real estate in the nation. But while the magnet for Quinn's shop is the Palm Beach Lake Trail, the friendly service and varied stock keep people coming back. "It's Palm Beach, and most people aren't looking to buy, so we have to do things kind of differently," says Quinn, age 41, who began working at the shop when he was 15 and bought it nine years ago. Doing things differently means giving customers the chance to rent a $2700 replica of the Trek bicycle Lance Armstrong rode to victory in the Tour de France. (It goes for $25 an hour or $99 a week) Or maybe it meansrenting bicycle-powered surreys that will accommodate two adults and three kids (also $25 an hour) or four adults and four kids ($45 an hour). But in addition to renting and selling expensive and novelty bikes, Quinn deals in basic beach cruisers, fixes flats, and sells the typical assortment of bells, whistles, baskets, and locks -- all at very non-Palm Beach prices. In that respect location isn't everything.

All right so this is South Florida, not the Bahamas. But what's the point of owning a boat if you can't do a little island-hopping? The Palm Beach County Department of Parks and Recreation has made it easy for boaters to feel like true nautical people by offering a chance to cruise the Intracoastal Waterway for the day, then tie up and spend the night away from the madding, landlocked crowd. Peanut Island, long a haven for day-trippers, has been turned into an official but not officious destination for boaters. For $16.50 per night, boaters can tie up at the 20-site campground, pitch a tent, grab a shower, and sleep under the stars with the water lapping nearby. While reservations are recommended for the campground, less organized types can use primitive camping sites that are available on a first-come, first-serve basis. The primitive sites are free, but they don't come with picnic tables, grills, easy access to bathrooms, or any guarantee of availability. Those trying to regain their land legs can stroll along a 1.25-mile path that circles the island or visit a bunker that was built for President Kennedy just in case the Cuban Missile Crisis erupted into nuclear war while he was staying at the family compound in Palm Beach. For those who don't want to spend the night, the island is a perfect place to spend the day. Drop anchor and swim in the perpetually placid waters, then look for shells along the beach or hike some surprisingly hilly terrain. Located just inside the Palm Beach Inlet, the spoil island marks the beginning of some of the best cruising waters on the Intracoastal. Head north and watch as the waterway widens, mangroves replace high-rises, and civilization -- as we unfortunately know it -- disappears. (Wannabe visitors who don't own boats can get to the island for five bucks by calling the Sailfish Marina Water Taxi at 561-683-8294.)

When Ray Hudson won his first game as Miami Fusion head coach, he kissed his players on the lips, grabbed team co-owner Ken Horowitz in a bear hug, swung him around and announced, "I'm higher than a hippie at Woodstock." This transplanted Scot may not know the meaning of the word restraint, but he knows enough others to be a veritable quote machine. He sums up the task facing the defense saying it "needs to be on its tippy-toes, like a midget at a urinal." Commenting on the change in his team's play, he says, "This team was as dangerous as my grandmother knitting a quilt." Explaining how a winning tide can turn, he says, "We have the slushy in the cup holder. The music is playing. There are no problems, and then all hell breaks loose." On his own job, he says, "It's like juggling balls on a high wire while riding a unicycle." But his similes of circus acts aside, there is no question that the man who first made his mark on South Florida as a midfielder for the now-defunct Fort Lauderdale Strikers is no clown. In less than a year, he has turned the beleaguered soccer club around. And the story of how he got the chance to do it is almost as good as his quotes. One day last spring Hudson was working as the team's community outreach manager, selling pro soccer to school kids. The next day, he was tapped to be the team's head coach. Did he really want the job? "Guys now say, Hey, coach,' and I thought about what if I don't get this job, what are they going to say: Hey, community outreach manager'? I don't want that, you know? I like coach." The players and the fans like it, too.

The best part of a trip to the Fakahatchee Strand State Preserve is the engendered sense of superiority. As you motor toward Naples on I-75, smirk at the lightweights en route to guided airboat rides. Cackle at the sandal-wearing sissies sauntering through the Miccosukee Indian Reservation's mammoth rest stop. You, stoked for adventure, are leaving the cakewalk behind for the Fakahatchee Strand. To get to the trails, turn off the interstate onto southbound State Road 29. Go about 15 miles (until you hit Copeland) and turn west onto Jane's Memorial Scenic Drive, which becomes a remote dirt road. After driving through a few miles of overgrown forest, you'll come to gated, unmarked paths. Park, strap on your backpack, and start walking. The paths cut through a thick, swampy forest of palm trees, brambles, and tall grass. In some places fallen branches obstruct the trails, which extend for miles and mostly do not intersect. The only noises come from birds calling out as they swoop overhead, the wind rattling through the branches, the rhythmic croaking of frogs, and the occasional mystery animal walking within earshot. More than anything else, the Fakahatchee Strand is the kind of place where you could die and no one would find you for weeks. Though you probably won't run into another hiker, expect to see wildlife; sightings of brown bear, raccoons, birds, snakes, and alligators are common. And if you aren't tough enough, Naples, with its golf-playing, sweater vest-wearing tourists, is only a short drive away.

Smith gets the nod not only because he brought a solid running game to the 'Fins for the first time since Nixon resigned but also because of the hardships he's had to overcome during his seven years in the NFL. When he was a rookie in 1994, he was involved in an alcohol-related car wreck that partially paralyzed teammate Mike Frier. The injuries ended Frier's career; the guilt and bad press could have ended Smith's, but he persevered, showing both contrition and character. He pleaded guilty to vehicular assault, shared his salary with Frier, and took his lumps in the papers as he languished, often on the bench, for four years in Seattle. In 1998 he went to play for the New Orleans Saints' Mike Ditka, a coach revered for his compassion and capacity for introspection and forgiveness -- oh, and for pigs flying out of his ass as well. The Big Easy was plenty hard for Smith, who again struggled. This past season, Dave Wannstedt signed Smith mainly to give projected starter J.J. Johnson some competition. Smith competed Johnson right out of a job. At a compact 5 feet 11 inches and 230 pounds, he has a bloodhound's nose for the hole, deceptively quick feet, and enough power to punish tacklers (and occasionally run over them). The 30-year-old back had a great regular season (1139 yards, 14 touchdowns), but his monster game came in the playoffs when he beat Indy with a 209-yard performance. Smith doesn't talk about Seattle anymore. (In fact teammates say he doesn't talk much, period.) He lets his game do the talking.

If anyone knows fishing, it's worms. Thus by extrapolation, the guys who sell worms to fishermen ought to know where the good fishing is; four of five bait shops surveyed recommended Anglin's Fishing Pier. And why not? The fish are biting. Ask folks along the pier, "Havin' any luck?" (asking if anglers have caught anything is taboo), and they will likely say something to the effect of "yup" or "mmhmm." Bluegill abound in these waters, along with several larger species of fish, especially after a full moon. Strange things happen under the full moon, the saying goes, and this applies particularly to the ichthyoid community; lunar rays turn underwater dwellers into sex-crazed fiends that begin to spawn with anything that moves and looks reasonably like a fish. The result of this aquatic orgy is that the little swimmers get hungry, and those worms on the end of your hook look better and better. So catch full-moon fever at the pier, and catch yourself some dinner.

Because of the airport tram's resemblance to a theme-park attraction, you can calm antsy kids by taking them on a ride around the terminals and parking lots. "Just like Busch Gardens' pseudosafari," you can tell them. But it is fun, not because of the view from the tram (parking spots, terminals, and travelers, oh my!), but because of the sights within. On a recent trip one elderly gent, like some overgrown jack-in-the-box, stood up numerous times until he was warned to sit down. Another man perpetually muttered, "I'm in handicapped parking." Acting like a tram tour guide, a handsome airport maintenance worker politely answered riders' questions -- but unlike the workers on traditional theme park rides, he did it while smoking a cigarette and flexing his buff, browned biceps.

Oh sure, you can hack the greens at plenty of swank and ritzy courses. But we recommend Pompano Beach because it offers two great golf experiences and you don't have to sell your kidney on the Internet to play there. You can go out tomorrow and glide through 18 holes in the morning for a mere $22. If you walk the course (the way God intended), the price plummets to as little as $10. And get this: off-season membership (from April through November) goes for just $280. What do you get in return? Try lush courses with six lakes, brand-new greens, a new practice facility, and beautiful woods and shrubs with wildlife including foxes and ospreys. You'll feel the morning breeze off the nearby ocean, which usually keeps the temperature under 90 degrees, even on the worst summer days. The location also shields you from many of the storms coming off the Everglades. The only decision left, then, is which course to play, the Palms or the Pines. The Palms is short, with picturesque doglegs. It's fun. The Pines is long (7000 yards) and features one of the toughest back nines in Florida. It's mean. We like the Pines -- because it makes the beer seem even colder when we head to the course restaurant after a punishing round.

On a team the age and health problems of which were its undoing, House's youth and upside win him the prize. When the Heat made the Arizona State guard the 37th pick in last year's NBA draft, the question heard at breakfast tables across South Florida was, "Who is Eddie House?" He's a scorer, we were told -- in fact he once scored 61 points in an overtime college game. He was touted as a Glen Rice-caliber shooter. So how did we get him? Well, he's a 'tweener. At six-foot-one, he was too short for the two-guard slot and didn't have the ball-handling skills to play the point. Coach Pat Riley gambled on him anyway; judging by House's rookie season, it was a hell of a bet. Number 5 has sparked several victories with his play off the bench and shows an almost uncanny ability to stroke the net with his jumper. He's deceptively quick and practices as hard as anybody on the team. But he played only in about a third of the games this past season, and even then for scant minutes. Sure, he got a little extra PT in the playoff debacle, but that was a desperation move by Riley as the team fell apart against the Hornets. Next season House must be not only in the Heat's house but on the floor. We think he can be something special, as in Miami's answer to The Answer. (OK, maybe not that good, but who knows?) The bottom line is, we agree with Riley's 12-year-old daughter, who is known to wear an "FEH" T-shirt: "Free Eddie House!"

Famous for its annual Renaissance festival, Quiet Waters boasts some qualities that have nothing to do with thousands of pseudo-Brits juggling, forsoothing, and quaffing swill. Unbeknownst to many it's a light hiking and camping locale. The park, open daily from 8:30 a.m. to 6 p.m., offers a great escape from the suburbanized domesticity of its surroundings with 430 acres of greenery packed with squirrels, birds, and the occasional raccoon. If you don't want to hoof it, detour onto the oft-used bike trails for a shin-banging jaunt through the park's northwestern corner. You can camp overnight, but make reservations first. This place isn't as hush-hush as its name implies.

Precious few spots exist in Broward and Palm Beach counties where you can let loose a pebble from your slingshot, much less a volley of buckshot from your gun, without hitting the side of a building. But the Corbett Wildlife Area offers a whopping 60,000 acres with game aplenty. Managed by the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, the preserve is home to deer, wild hogs, turkeys, and a plethora of other critters. During small-game season in January and February, you can blast away at squirrels jumping through the oak hammocks or pursue quail, rabbit, opossum, raccoon, beaver, coyote, armadillo, and skunk. Turkey season runs from March to April and November through January. Bow-and-arrow aficionados can hunt for deer and small game in late August and early September. For those who prefer bagging deer and small game à la pioneer, with muzzleloaders, the season runs during portions of September and October. A $26.50 permit lets you hunt at any of the state's 100 wildlife preserves. Hunters must also buy the appropriate license. The wildlife commission will set exact dates for the 2001-02 hunting seasons in June.

At five feet nine inches tall, Michael McCarthy is an unlikely jockey -- until you realize he weighs only 110 pounds, at least during racing season. (Off-season he lets his weight balloon to 128 pounds.) To maintain his slender build, McCarthy eats like a supermodel. To maintain his competitive edge, he works harder than most jockeys half his size. In season at Gulfstream Park, you'll find him out there early in the morning exercising the horses, a practice other big-name jockeys frequently eschew. There's just something beautiful about McCarthy, nicknamed the Flamingo, guiding a mount around the track. And when you realize the determination he needs to prosper in this cutthroat vocation, the sight is all the more inspiring.

Ballpark financing woes aside, the Florida Marlins can be just as dreary on the field: waiting for Alex Gonzalez to chase yet another breaking ball in the dirt or watching Matt Clement walk the bases loaded -- again. And games can be especially unpleasant during those hot summer Sundays, when the hammering sun makes just sitting in the stands akin to a full workout. But parents, take heart. The real attraction for your little Little Leaguer comes after Sunday afternoon games, when the team opens up the base paths so tykes 12 years old or younger can trot from first to home -- usually with a smiling Billy the Marlin slapping 'em five. Queue up before the ninth inning in the corridor behind first base. Then await your kid's turn. But keep an eye peeled: Ours nearly disappeared into left field before a friendly usher steered him home.

Apologies to Cliff and P-Rock, both of whom might go 30-30 this year if they stay healthy, but Demp gets the nod. In a starting rotation full of question marks -- as in, "Can Matt Clement find the strike zone?" "Can Brad Penny build on last year's strong finish?" "Can A.J. Burnett and Chuck Smith come back from early injuries?" -- Ryan Dempster provides the one exclamation point -- as in, "Damn! That slider just fell off the friggin' table!" Now if he could just pitch a few innings in relief, the Marlins staff would have no problem. At 23 years old, he's a bit young for the burden of being the ace, but if anyone can handle the pressure, it's this hard-throwin', easy-goin', joke-tellin' Canuck.

We hate to repeat ourselves, but in this case we can't help it. The Russian Rocket wrapped up his second consecutive 50-plus scoring season this year with 59 total points. His numbers lead the league for the third year straight and total 11 more goals than the closest runner-up, Jaromir Jagr of the Pittsburgh Penguins. Bure notched 30 percent of the Cats' 190 goals overall, the most any player has scored for his team in a season. But none of these numbers truly does justice to his game. Even if you're following the puck at a game or on a TV screen, the only way you can appreciate his moves is in the slow-motion replay. He's scored on every team he's faced, is still one of the quickest players on the ice, and, as he just turned 30 years old in March, he'll be lighting up goalies for many years to come.

South Florida has its share of topnotch pro coaches. Dave Wannstedt is a fundamentally sound boss who sets a good tone for his football team. (We're forgiving him for keeping a hurt Jay Fiedler on the field to lose key games when he had a proven backup QB in Damon Huard.) In round ball, we're lucky to have Pat Riley, but without Magic and Kareem around to close the deal, Riley's team tends to choke and fade at the end of the year. (And Jamal Mashburn, who was foolishly traded last year -- and yes, we were criticizing the trade when it happened -- personally removed a lot of luster from Riley's slicked-back hair by burning his old team in the first round this year.) That leaves us with John Boles, the best coach of the lot. We admit we wondered about him at first. He doesn't look like the sharpest cleat on the shoe. He always seems to be opening his eyes as wide as possible to keep from falling asleep in the dugout. But don't let that fool you. Boles single-handedly proves that nice guys don't always finish last. When thousands of fickle "fans" whined about the Great Huizenga Sell-Off, Boles was working with GM Dave Dombrowski to put the pieces together again. And he's done a masterful job of bringing a team with a payroll the size of A-Rod's monthly dry cleaning bill to respectability during the past two years. Despite a lukewarm start, we expect the Marlins to battle for a wild card spot this year. Bolesy, rest those eyes. You've earned a nap.

For most of A1A's course through Fort Lauderdale, the west side of the street is a hideous combo of strip malls, restaurants, condos, hotels, and curio shops: crap, in other words. But then you come upon a strange little strip of mangroves and sea oats corralled behind a wrought iron fence, which seems as out of place on this road as a ballerina at a biker bar. That would be the eastern boundary of Hugh Taylor Birch State Park. Mr. Birch was a reclusive former attorney from Chicago who amassed the land for a dollar per acre. In 1949 he donated it to the state, and today it's a priceless reminder of just how beautiful Fort Lauderdale must have been long ago. Spread a blanket on the beach or grab a picnic table on the Intracoastal and watch the parade of passing boats. (But beware the marauding raccoons. You could lose your lunch.)

Now that South Florida is perilously close to maximum density, places to pitch a tent are hard to come by. Developers who map out suburban hells like Weston simply don't pay much attention to camping. But we'll always have Markham Park. In this 666-acre county idyll, you'll find mountain bike trails, tennis courts, a personal-watercraft lake, boating, a swimming pool, an observatory, and 96 campsites. Most of the sites are of the drive-up variety; however, a handful of "primitive" spots are nestled in a patch of thick Australian pines. It ain't exactly the Alps, but it's pure South Florida. Markham is a popular place, especially on weekends, so call first to check availability.

"If rattlesnakes, cottonmouths, alligators, scorpions, wasps, mosquitoes, chiggers, horseflies, spiders, palmetto stumps, swamp, sugar sand, sawgrass, briers, wild pigs, or World War II ordnance bother you, go back to Yahoo! The rest of you, listen up!" Welcome to the opening lines of the Website of Club Scrub, a group that has spent nearly every Sunday morning for the last year clearing a single-track, mountain bike path through the dense pineland of the 11,500-acre Jonathan Dickinson State Park. Hard-core stump-jumpers have been coming to the former Camp Murphy army base, just north of the Palm Beach line in Martin County, since the early 1990s. But it wasn't until Mark Nelson was named park manager later that decade that work began on the long-awaited trail. As former top dog of the Oleta River State Recreation Area, a mecca for mountain bikers in northeastern Miami-Dade County, Nelson had experience with the lunacy of the off-road set. So far, with Nelson's support, Club Scrub members have cleared more than five miles of trail. They hope to have an additional ten opened before year's end. Because the trail is a work in progress, each visit brings a new surprise. In late February, for instance, bikers could take a roughly ten-foot-high jump off a concrete pad that was left behind when the army camp closed in 1944. Marked with a red sign warning, "Experts Only," the jump proved to be too extreme, says Club Scrub president Steve Bucina. "No one can do it," he adds. "We'll probably put a ramp down the back side." But even without such practical adjustments, the trail offers far more than your average trek through Florida wilderness. It winds around the remains of barracks and other buildings once occupied by servicemen who were sent to the outpost for jungle warfare and radar training. Some hills are actually old bunkers. As you pedal through the place, ponder this question: Which is worse, training in South Florida heat or fighting a war?

Everybody knows that one of the best stress relievers in the world is to go out and whack balls. (We're talking golf balls here, gutter head.) The sprawling park has a new golf center that includes a pro shop, greens for putting and pitching, and a two-tiered driving range that offers both artificial and natural tees. While you're hacking away, the kids can play putt-putt on a well-kept and challenging little course. Don't feel like practicing your golf swing? Then go next door to the state-of-the-art batting cages and try your luck with some fastballs. Once you get your timing down, it's a blast (literally). And if that's not enough, ten freshly painted tennis courts lie nearby (954-437-2674), where you can practice your stroke. Whacking, swinging, stroking... By the time you finish at this park, you'll need a cigarette.

Sure, well-heeled folk would like to keep this little slice of paradise to themselves, but the 17-mile-long island is so peaceful and so doggone pretty that it demands a two-wheel tour. With speed limits of 25 miles per hour on most stretches -- and as low as 15 mph in places where golf carts need a fighting chance -- combative motorists are kept at bay. Only two bridges connect the isle to the mainland, so it's mildly remote. If you're feeling particularly energetic, start at Jupiter Lighthouse Park near the southern bridge. Then take Beach Road over the Intracoastal Waterway and head north on the island's only north-south public road. Coral Cove Park is a chance to pull over, rest, and get a good view of the ocean. As you pedal through Blowing Rock Preserve, homes disappear, and you'll have the chance to imagine what the island looked like a hundred years ago. But don't worry, the flora remains lush even as the preserve ends and the palatial homes begin.

Say you are the kind of skater who doesn't go for the fancy stuff -- trick skates, snazzy wheels, too many pads. You want an ocean breeze but don't have the perfect thighs and svelte tummy required to traverse popular stretches such as Fort Lauderdale beach. You just like a good workout where the chance of death is low and the view gives you that skater's high. Well, this tree-lined residential neighborhood fits the bill. Warm up at Joe DiMaggio Park on Harbor Islands, where a pleasant, paved trail circles two pretty saltwater ponds, then head east on Washington Street, curve north onto South Lake Drive, and proceed around the lake to South Seventh Avenue, then head north under the bridge, past the tot playground to North Lake, and continue to the turnaround at the northeast corner. Reverse direction and head back to your car, where, if you're smart, you will have stashed a few cold ones.

Walk to the end of the Lauderdale-by-the-Sea pier to discover some of the best hunting in all South Florida. But you're going to have to get wet. And you have to be a certified scuba diver even to have a shot, because the quarry, found between 30 and 60 feet down, is fish. Delicacies such as hogfish and mutton snapper are the reward for the skilled spearfisher; people who live for this exotic and skill-testing sport say the hunting has never been better. "Spearfishing in Broward and Palm Beach is as good as it gets," says Stephen Picardi, president of the South Florida Spearfishing Club. You can also find big fish around artificial reefs all up and down the coast, but you'll need a boat to reach most of them.

There's just something comfortable about this place. Maybe it's the olive-green carpet, which is worn but not ragged. Or perhaps it's the paneling or the mounted deer heads on the wall. Whatever the reason, Hollywood Billiards feels like the kind of joint where you can play a game or two even if you stink. Nobody laughs as you blow shot after shot. And if you're Minnesota Fats good, 18 tables allow you to show off. If you just like to sit around and drink beer, happy hour runs from 11 a.m. to 6 p.m. every day. So take a cue from us and head over.

They say hitting a Major League pitcher is the most difficult feat in sports. We sometimes wonder about that -- tackling, say, Earl Campbell head-on in his prime sounds pretty hard, too. But still, hitting breaking stuff from the Big Unit or El Duque must be damnably difficult, despite how easy Castillo makes it look. And he does it in so many ways: drag bunt singles, slap shots to no man's land, twisting line drives that tax the outfielders' knowledge of physics, and even the occasional home run. (OK, he had two last year anyway.) But as well as Luis puts the bat on the ball (.344 last year), hitting is only part of the remarkable package. What makes Castillo truly special are his speed (he had a Major League-leading 62 steals last year) and his play at second base. He credits his fielding ability in part to growing up poor in the Dominican Republic, where he fashioned gloves out of whatever he could find. (Legend has it he was partial to milk cartons.) All the hard work has paid off in incredible snags of hard-hit ground balls often followed by wheeling, acrobatic throws to first that belong in the ESPN highlight canon. Long live Luis.

White lights flicker on at dusk, like moons setting on the horizon. The stench of chlorine is oddly comforting. You'll have no parking problem here, encounter few spectators, and will have to do without even the comfort of a locker room. Rinse off under the trickle of the outdoor shower instead. Once in a while, the pool will close because of rain or a team meet, but otherwise, on weeknights from 5 to 8 p.m., it's yours for the swimming. On rare days the 25-yard lanes become crowded with lean and disciplined master swimmers in their fifties. You probably won't notice them, though. This blue-green world is blessedly quiet. We swim, as we dream, alone.

You love this part of the park for many reasons: lots of foul balls, great sight lines, and best of all you're within point-blank heckling range of the enemy bullpen. And when those stinkin' Braves are in town, the fireballing, immigrant-bashing, racist homophobe nincompoop every baseball fan loves to hate is sitting right in front of you. His thick, red neck is just waiting for you to heap invective upon it. Problem is, he's been heckled so darn much the past year or so, your barb will have to be really cutting to penetrate his callused hide -- to say nothing of that dense, bony skull and walnut-size brain. What to say, what to say....

Hello, what's this piece of paper that just fell at your feet from two rows up? Why, it's a photo of the reviled reliever himself (in which his mouth is agape, as always). You search your pockets for a writing implement, debating whether to go with (a) devil's horns, (b) Hitler mustache, (c) hayseed between the teeth, or (d) all of the above.

"Excuse me, did my picture fall down there?" You look over your shoulder at a mousy, bespectacled woman in a Braves T-shirt. Silently you hand her the snapshot, and watch in bemusement as the woman strides down the steps, leans over the bullpen wall, then returns with her hero's autograph.

Another spectator asks her why she's such a fan of the big fella. "Because he's honest and he speaks his mind," she declares in a slight drawl.

You look back down into the 'pen, where the paragon of homespun, folksy wisdom is about to sit back down. It's now or never. You take your best shot:

"Hey Rocker, you suck!"

Ooh. Stung him with that one. Definitely.

For a tennis scene devoid of tea-party etiquette, Hardy Park is the place to go. The four hard courts, lit until 9:45 p.m., attract scrappy players who don't wear white and who don't need well-manicured courts. And best of all, they're free.