Sports

Need a racquet strung? A partner? Just want a quick pickup game? Looking for something for the kids to do this summer? The tennis center at George English Park is the answer to the prayers of every Wimbledon wannabe (or wannabe Richard Williams). Open six days a week (from 2 to 9 p.m. Monday through Friday and 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. Saturday) and located along the Intracoastal Waterway north of Sunrise Boulevard, the complex includes seven hard courts. It has everything a tennis player could want in friendly, unpretentious surroundings. The $4.25 per person ($3.50 for city residents) charge during peak evening and early Saturday morning keeps the place clear of the lets-argue-every-point-loudly losers who too often haunt public courts. Also, the summer camps for kids give every parent a chance to raise the next Venus or Serena Williams without having to become as crazy as the Williams's sisters' ever-present father. Now that's real love.Jimmy Evert

Tennis Center

Everybody knew the Dolphins' offensive line wasn't very good last year, even with a healthy Mark Dixon. While the team's inability to run the ball was often demoralizing, at least the Fins were a team that could stop the run, right? Umm, no. On December 16, 2001, the San Francisco 49ers exposed the Dolphins' vulnerability to a strong running game with several punishing, clock-eating drives en route to a 21-0 victory. This cemented our selection of Gardener as the one player Miami could not do without. Largely because the big defensive tackle was out with a back injury, the Niners' interior linemen were able to get off the line to put a helmet on Zach Thomas, nullifying his speed and playmaking. This year, the coaches are talking about moving Gardener to defensive end to save his back from the beating he takes playing inside. Not sure we agree: While he's a good enough player to make an impact outside, his true gift is as a run-stuffer. If he's healthy, that's where he belongs. If team brass leaves him there, Thomas will be grateful. So will we.

If the Marlins' ownership had been stable this past winter, Cliffy would already be gone. Of course, had that been the case, he might have had an even better year in 2001. His post-All-Star slump seemed to correlate directly to the failure of the stadium drive and the uncertainty about the team's South Florida future. As it was, Floyd still ended up with excellent numbers, offering a consistent, mostly healthy (hooray!) presence in the three-hole, steady, sometimes spectacular defense. And he was the closest thing these pups had to veteran leadership. This year, by the time the trading deadline rolls around, he'll be ripping screaming liners into the right-centerfield gap for a playoff contender -- here, if the young pitching progresses, Luis Castillo and Charles Johnson rebound, and Alex Gonzalez gets his shit together, but more likely somewhere else.

Our favorite feature of this strip of sand in Deerfield Beach is the absence of cars zipping by on A1A ten yards from your beach blanket. In 1967, the Army Corps of Engineers set up boulder piles on the sand every 30 feet or so to prevent erosion. You can sit on the rocks and enjoy the water, lie on the sand, or dive into the ocean. The sand is broader than most of the Fort Lauderdale beaches, and there are vegetation breaks that separate your shot at tranquility from the busy and polluted street. Part of the strip has condos and guesthouses, but they're small and set back from the shore. The sand is dotted with the occasional tiki hut, and a concrete walking path lines the northern end. The nicest, quietest part of the beach is the southern border, which the lifeguards call south beach, not to be confused with South Beach, which is filled with people, restaurants, and dance clubs instead of sea shells and breaking waves. Metered parking is eight bits an hour.

Hidden behind sand dunes and patches of natural Florida vegetation, this place can easily be missed. After you find a parking spot, which admittedly can be close to a mission impossible during the winter season, lug your sun umbrella, towels, and folding chairs through one of the thick and canopied beach entrances. There, you will understand why Delray is among the nation's favorite beach resort towns. The nearly mile-long, pristine, and wide beach is unusually clean and welcoming, without rocks, piers, or fishermen. Food and nonalcoholic drinks are allowed, but don't feed the sea gulls no matter how cute they seem; they'll turn into pests. There is a recreation area in the beach's southern part where teenagers sometimes pass the football and kite enthusiasts fly their creations in the shapes of birds, scuba divers, and sharks. The beach also offers chair rentals, five volleyball courts, showers and bathrooms, a water sports rental shack, and several exotic diving attractions (be mindful of the resident ray at the 19th-century wreck just offshore). And when the sun hits the water just right here and the ocean turns breathtakingly turquoise, you will remember why you live in South Florida.

"Swim Nude to Prevent Sea Lice Infection." Such was the recent headline in a U.S. Public Health Service professional journal. Skinny-dipping is not naughty; it's healthy, experts say, referring to the rash that generally appears on bodies covered in swimsuits. You see, the microscopic jellyfish get trapped beneath the material and release a skin-irritating venom. If that doesn't scare the pants off you, then forget this advice: Peel off your duds behind the Marriott hotel on A1A, scurry across a private beach (though we have had no trouble running around nude for nearly an hour around midnight on several occasions), and give the moon to the night sky.

One minute, you're lying on the beach. The next minute, you're staring down a barracuda. And you aren't even breathing hard. Red Reef Park is the couch potato's answer to underwater adventure. It's definitely more exciting than another rerun of Jacques Cousteau but hardly more taxing. The artificial reef that attracts everything from barracuda to clown fish to triggerfish to puffers is only ten to twelve yards from shore in about ten feet of water. Located at the southern end of the park, the rocks were originally hoisted into place to protect swimmers. The new additions soon attracted fish and other sea life, and -- voilà! -- a not-to-miss South Florida destination was born. The spot isn't hard to find. Just look for the bodies lying on top of the water, snorkels pointed skyward. Grab your own snorkel and fins and join them. Short of buying an aquarium, it's the easiest way to see tropical fish up-close and personal. And you don't have to clean the water, change the filter, or feed them. Just kick and enjoy.

Even if you can't do forward loops in 30-knot winds or catch sick air while hanging from your kitesurf sail, you can still come to 16th Street for a great time -- as long as the wind is blowing, that is. This forgiving site offers ocean conditions fit for both intermediate and advanced wind addicts. The inlet pier and the hefty reef 200 yards offshore minimize the shore break and reduce the swells, allowing even the most flat-footed sailors to venture out. And for the fear-challenged, on big days there is still some nasty whitewater for radical moves. Conditions are best when the winds are northerly and northeasterly with medium waves. But south and east winds are generally doable as well. Parking here, like most beach locations, is a pain in the neck but manageable. Beware the wicked parking-meter attendant who loves lurking around the corner and dispensing tickets. Also, watch out for boat traffic coming out of the inlet and for careless wave runner-drivers on weekends. There are plenty of grassy rigging areas and a spacious, mostly deserted area to launch one's kite. Showers and rest rooms are nearby.

It's another one of those subtropical days. You're hot, hot, hot. Your kids want out. Don't fall apart. Head for Castaway Island, where $5 will buy you or anyone else who's more than one year old admission to the coolest place in South Florida. (Babies get in free.) Opened in 1998 at a cost of $1.5 million, the island offers six slides, a water cannon, H2O-fed palm trees that will drench you, and a baby pool with even more amusements. Last year 140,000 people visited the playground, which is located in the middle of TY Park just west of I-95 and Sheridan Road. It's closed from November through mid-February but wonderfully wet the rest of the year. During the summer, when crowds get serious, the place is open from 8:30 a.m. to 6:30 p.m., and authorities limit you to two-hour sessions. But don't fret if you want to stay longer. There's an artificial lake and beach where you can cool your heels while you wait to reenter. And hey, there's one of those old-fashioned playgrounds with jungle gyms and slides just a few hundred yards away.

Funny how Fort Lauderdale's oft-trumpeted status as "the Venice of America" doesn't apply to the vast majority of its residents. All that the miles of canals mean to the working-class crowd is an annoying wait for drawbridges to close. Yachts are for the rich, and even a nice bass boat will set Bubba back a too-substantial chunk of change. But proletarians can taste life at sea -- sort of. The expensive and limited Water Taxi service morphed into Water Bus in November 2001, adding stops and slashing fares for all-day passes to $5. Three-day passes cost twice that, a week goes for $20, and a month costs $35. Seagoing all year long will set you back $99, with discounts for students, senior citizens, and the disabled. And don't complain about the fleet. Some of the old, yellow, 26-foot open boats that seat 27 are being replaced by air-conditioned 42-footers that carry 72. They putter past the swank condos, elegant mansions, and upscale businesses along the New River and Intracoastal Waterway from 9 a.m. to past midnight every day. Most of the 20 stops between the Riverfront shopping center in downtown Fort Lauderdale and Oakland Park Boulevard on the Intracoastal coincide with bus stops. So climb aboard, squint your eyes, and imagine your public-transit comrades as guests aboard your little yellow yacht. Maps, schedules, and fares are available at all stops, on the boats, and at www.watertaxi.com.

Some experiences just can't be topped, and a canoe trip on the Loxahatchee River in northern Palm Beach County is one of these. With a friendly and reasonably priced canoe livery just feet from its scenic banks, a long or short trip down Florida's oldest designated Wild and Scenic River is a sure-fire way to remember why we all moved here in the first place. In just a day, you can paddle the watery, sometimes narrow, winding, coffee-colored path that opens majestically as it makes its way through Jonathan Dickinson State Park to the pickup point, where a bus will haul you back to your car. Along the way, you can stop by the abandoned fish camp of renowned Trapper Nelson, the Wildman of the Loxahatchee, who was found dead of a gunshot wound in 1968. Murder or suicide? No one knows. If you're up for only a couple of hours in a boat, paddle to a small spillway, have a picnic, and head back upstream. The current is gentle enough for the most confirmed couch potato. If you've been putting off a trip, don't wait. Thanks to an inexplicable action of the all-powerful South Florida Water Management District, the cypress trees that provide a cool canopy for canoeists on hot days are rapidly disappearing. Hurry before water managers destroy yet another of South Florida's irreplaceable treasures.

The fisher people who gather daily on this quarter-mile-long wooden pier have snagged snook, cobia, jack, bonita, mackerel, kingfish, tuna, and even an occasional tarpon, confides pier master Charles Hamilton. But all of that is nothing compared to the creature that glided by one day and brought all the lines cast into the briny blue up short. There, off the city-owned pier, the waves darkened as a 40-foot-long whale shark glided by. The whale shark is vegetarian, so swimmers weren't in danger. But fish like that make good stories. And good stories make good fishing. "I wasn't here, but I heard about it," says Nicholas Wax, conveniently proving the point. Wax antes up the $2 charge to fish just about every day. Asked for insider info on the top fishing spot locally, the 12-year-old angler doesn't hesitate. "Right here!" he just about shouts. For a stroll out over the Atlantic Ocean, where blustery breezes buffet and the 25-foot-deep sea mesmerizes, the two bucks to fish -- or 50 cents for just watching -- is piddling pocket change.

Eddie Jones may have averaged close to 19 points, but he's still just the Best of the Rest. Pat Riley built this thirtysomething team around his center (focal glomerulosclerosis be damned), and the coach has clung tenaciously to an offensive and defensive style that plays to Mourning's strengths. In December, that strategy made Riley look stubborn, inflexible, and not very smart. By March, Riley had turned a collection of has-beens, almost-kinda-weres, and flat-out bums into an actual team with a chance to make the playoffs and had silenced those who were calling for the coach to retire. While the playoff push eventually petered out, the Heat wouldn't even have come close unless the complementary players had finally meshed around their superstar. Zo, in turn, battled through illness (to which his immunosuppressant drugs make him more susceptible), pain (for which he can take no anti-inflammatories, thanks, again, to his kidney medicines), fatigue, and a near-total turnover of his teammates to finally reach a Winter Groove.

Two words: clay courts. One of the few public tennis centers where the rabble can play on a surface generally reserved for the gentry, Howard Park is a hidden gem. Long ignored by West Palm Beach recreation planners, it's a 60-plus-year-old facility where the infamous Bobby Riggs once swung a racquet. And it recently got a face-lift to match the resurgence of the surrounding neighborhood, which is just across Okeechobee Boulevard from CityPlace. The center was once in the midst of crack houses. Even folks wielding tennis racquets feared to tread there. Now it's a magnet for Jag- and Rolls-driving tennis nuts from Palm Beach, as well as those with less substantial pedigrees and more ordinary wheels. Majestic banyan trees that were probably little more than shrub height when the center opened in the late 1930s provide shade. Along with seven clay and two hard courts, there's a quaint stadium with a clay surface where Riggs and lesser-known competitors once played. Tennis director Mike Boone says an elderly visitor once told him she was in the middle of a game when news hit that Pearl Harbor had been attacked. "What was the reaction?" Boone recalls asking her. "Oh," she replied. "We finished the set." And 61 years later, they're still playing tennis with equally unflappable intensity.Howard Park

OK, the 18 holes at the Diplomat may not be the best golf course qua golf course in Broward and Palm Beach counties. Its 6728 yards are lined with shady banyan trees, and designer Joe Lee lavished water on 16 of the holes -- including a tricky island green on the second one (no, you don't have to wade to your putt; there's a bridge). But what makes the Diplomat really special are the amenities. A GPS system on every golf cart gives a color picture of each hole, points out the hazards, and gives exact yardage to the cup. Touch another button and up pops a menu for the country club's Tack Room Bar. A waiter will whisk your repast straight to your cart. After a long, hard day of strenuous golfing, you can relax with a massage at the spa. Best of all, just across the Intracoastal Waterway is the Westin Diplomat Hotel, 39 stories of overindulgence. Hotel guests get one round of golf (plus as much practice as they like) for $125 weekdays, $159 weekends.

Not in the 'hood, as one might expect (and romantics might hope) but solidly suburban, the four -- count 'em, four -- courts in the southeast corner of this county park's 525 acres host the area's best-quality round ball. Local players make the trek from all over West Palm Beach and as far south as Boca Raton; collegiate talent on spring break and off-season visiting pros have been known to drop by. But even your run-of-the-mill pickup game here covers the full razzle-dazzle: the behind-the-back, no-look pass; the triple head fake, double-pump, pull-up shot; the long outlet pass and the finishing thunderdunk. Twenty- and thirtysomething guys hold the main stage, but there are enough courts to accommodate other ages and genders. A nice racial mix almost makes you think there's hope for the human race.

So your K2s are oiled, roller hockey just doesn't do it for you anymore, and you're ready to soar. Then head west, young dude, to the skate park in the Broward County Regional Park in Weston. Here, you will find a facility that's $100,000 worth of tubular. Back in December 2001, Weston commissioners -- who are unlikely to ever try this place -- approved the conversion of one of eight hockey rinks into a 'blader's dream. Ramps, pipes, and grindwalls manufactured from steel and polyethylene allow you to do things you've never done before. Indeed, you'll want to wear every pad in the house, and a helmet too. How risky is it? Parents of kids who dare to skate here must sign an injury waiver before junior can even enter. It's open 3 to 10 p.m. weekdays, 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. school holidays, and 10 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. Sundays. Skaters pay variable rates to register and $6 for one-and-a-half-hour sessions. And, oh yeah, those wimpy, good-for-nothing skateboarders can roll here too.

The biking and jogging path in this 320-acre park is shaded and rarely crowded. Clean (or at least as clean as public gets) water fountains are plentiful, and bathrooms are located at convenient spots along the mostly concrete trail. Whether you're jogging two or ten miles, visit the basketball, tennis, racquetball, or numerous volleyball areas for cross-training or a cool-down. Smith Park also boasts a freshwater beach complex including a bathhouse, playground, and two 700-foot waterslides.

In with the good air, out with the bad. Breathe. Deeply. Let the fresh sea air fill your lungs. You'll soon need every molecule of it. Standing at Boca's South Beach Park pavilion on Palmetto Park Road and A1A, while looking out over the beautiful waves breaking upon the shore, do all of your muscle stretches. Once you're warmed up, start jogging along the wide, gray concrete A1A jogging trail, which runs north about six scenic miles. You'll pass tall, luxurious condominiums, spacious city parks and public beaches, wild vegetation preserves, exotic gargantuan mansions, and even a handful of snowbirds in cars, who seem to drive way too slow. Traffic is far from menacing here; a four-foot-wide swale separates the trail and the road for most of the distance. When the right moment comes (if your chest is aching, you've gone too far), turn around and jog back. Upon your return to your starting point, quench your thirst with a sports drink at the convenience store conveniently located on the corner of Palmetto Park Road and A1A. Hey, if this jog doesn't pump you up, nothing can.

OK, so this ain't necessarily the numero uno ride for you Lycra-wearing, Bollé-blinded, Bell-headed geeks who zoom through stop signs and endanger the lives of fellow riders. But it is nice. Relaxing and sandy. Kid-friendly too. On a recent weekend day, we started out at Hollywood Boulevard and the beach, headed north a few blocks and stopped at a shady playground for a cup of coffee, a bagel, and a rest. Spent an hour there, cooling our jets and watching the tykes frolic while talking with a Martian-like fellow who was playing some very interesting electronica on his boom box. Then we headed north, down a nice blacktop path, far from traffic, up and around a curve, and onto a quiet street lined with quaint houses and a secluded beachfront. Ended at Dania Beach Pier, where we partook of more shade and more food before swimming and resting another hour or so. Then headed back south along the same route (it would have taken too much energy to head west) and stopped at a shelter on Hollywood Beach, where a guitar player was entertaining a mostly Argentine crowd dancing the tango. Drank a little red wine while we listened and spent a couple of hours before heading south to -- what else? -- dinner at a Greek restaurant. Nice, huh?Quiet Waters Park

Buckle up, you adrenaline junkies, and let the ride begin. This former quarry turned park provides more than ten miles of gut-wrenching, heart-pounding, mountain-biking action. The trails range in difficulty from leisurely four-foot bunny-hops for the intermediate to 30-foot, hold-on-at-all-costs hills for the advanced. The trails run mostly among tall pine and eucalyptus trees, so shade is abundant. But, you equipment-obsessed wacko, you'll still need your camelback water supply in both summer and winter. There are plenty of obstacles, such as large rocks, slippery roots, and hanging tree branches that will keep all riders on their toes. The park also offers parking and bike wash stations at the entrance to the trails, which are maintained by Club Mud -- a group of local mountain-bikers and volunteers.

John U. Lloyd State Park in Dania Beach is the only place in South Florida where a park -- a real one, complete with trees, barbecue grills, picnic tables, and enough green space to throw a Frisbee across -- dominates a rise above the ocean. In true Florida fashion, the 310 acres of barrier island stretch from the Atlantic Ocean to the Intracoastal; it's one of the few places in the state where you can actually be a couple of feet above sea level yet near salt water. The place is big enough to find a quiet spot to hide. Or you can sit in one of the more populated areas and stare out at the water as you eat. You can choose between sun and shade, grass and sand, or throw caution to the wind and have it all. We like walking through the mangroves or sitting atop one of the picnic tables and looking down at the beach. Depending upon your level of courage and agility, you can climb down to the sand and walk a couple of yards to the beach, or you can just sit on the rise and watch the waves break.John U. Lloyd

State Park

An urban walk needs big-city grit. Problem: Downtown Fort Lauderdale doesn't have grit per se. It's too purty, and so much of it near the river is wrought with a Disney-esque sensibility. But just as Disney creates longing for small-town America -- minus the litter, the claustrophobia, the nosy neighbors, and the violence embedded in the winding sheet of the American family -- here you don't need the real thing to extract the finer parts. You need the symbols of it. The imagination will fill in the outlines. And sometimes it's better to experience these things as poetic apprehension. It tugs at memory and desire, making the moment more personal. Blurring the raw truth is better sometimes. Especially if you're taking a walk to relax. Riverwalk stretches along the New River on the north side for three quarters of a mile, from SW Seventh Avenue near the Broward Center on the west to the Stranahan House at SE Fifth Avenue on the east. There is the Auto Nation skyscraper for that we-are-but-human-ants feeling. Automobiles rumble over two drawbridges that cross the river. If you time it right, a Florida East Coast Railroad train might thunder past. Construction cranes growl and clang. You can feel the gnawing mouth of the military-industrial complex. By contrast, that fresh-scrubbed family clad in khaki taking an afternoon walk along the river sure looks good. Don't they look happy? The breeze off the New River feels sweet. Maybe grab a coffee on Himmarshee and sit on a bench for a while. Watch the kids race by on bikes. Read the paper. It's shady and surprisingly cool. The rhythm of the river aligns with the blood flow. Heck, why not just take a little spin on the Water Taxi? You won't be missed. Duck into the Fort Lauderdale Museum of Art. You must climb the stairs to transcendence, but it can start here, dude, down in the city with a river running through it and a place to walk and think beside it.

Debbie Black is not only the shortest player in the WNBA at 5-foot-3 but she also has suffered ten broken noses during her 14-year professional basketball career. Her fans at AmericanAirlines Arena sit together in a black-and-blue section, where they tally the number of times she hits the floor in a game. A huge banner sports one Band Aid-style cross for each crash; her record is 16, in the 2001 opening game against rival New York Liberty. She usually gets possession of the ball and comes up grinning, though sometimes stitches are required. Her dives are not in vain. Black, or "The Pest," as she's known to many fans, led the league last year for steals and was named WNBA Defensive Player of the Year. Her take on her lack of height? It's an advantage. "I'm the closest player to the floor," she says. Not that she's all sweetness and light. When Liberty guard Teresa Weatherspoon missed a shot just before the half-time buzzer on July 22 and shoved Black to the ground in frustration, our homegirl got up, turned around, and gave chase. Black didn't hit T-Spoon, but seven technical fouls split between the two teams later, the Sol guard had proven she's no pushover. Unlike the Heat, who occupy the AmericanAirlines Arena the rest of the year, the Black-led Sol made the playoffs in 2001, its second year in the league. Not bad for a team that was predicted to come in last during its freshman year; it ended that season with a double-overtime win and the best record of four expansion teams. Under Black's leadership last year, it became the first 2000 expansion team to make the playoffs.

At the Wednesday-night Jackpot Rodeo at the Bergeron Rodeo Grounds, local cowgals and cowboys show their stuff. Amateurs as well as locals hoping to make a go at a professional career come here weekly to ride bulls, rope steers, and barrel-race. If it makes your heart skip to see a pretty girl in a cowboy hat fly like a bat out of hell on the back of a muscular steed moving at a full-bore gallop, barrel racing is your thing. The crowd gets into it. Hot pretzels with mustard are the favored snack. And the prices are homespun. Adults: $4, children: $2. Starting time: 7 p.m.

So you've got the weekend open, and you feel like sitting down at the tables for a bit of gambling. But where to go? The Indian casinos? Not bloody likely. Native-American gaming commissions do not run like Vegas. You will, in other words, get taken for all you're worth, sooner or later. What about SunCruz and those nifty cruises to nowhere? Now you must really be out of your mind. Go gaming in unregulated international waters? So where does one go to hold on to the outside hope of actually coming home a winner? Simple. Set sail for the Bahamas. You'll want to go to the closest island possible for maximum gaming time. And while there's not much action to be had on Bimini, just a few miles away is Freeport on Grand Bahama Island. Sure, there are bigger casinos in the Bahamas such as the ludicrously huge, 50,000-square-foot monstrosity at Atlantis, but that's a long way away. And the Bahamia, with 20,000 square feet of gaming space, is only a stone's throw from SoFla on Grand Bahama. Rack rates are through the roof, as is typical of resort/casinos, so don't be a sucker. Stay at one of the nice little places in West End, and scooter over to your gaming for the day, then scooter back to your flophouse at night -- assuming you sleep at all, of course; there's gambling to be done! Play your cards the brilliant way you always do, you stud, and the trip will pay for itself.

Sinking your balls into the soft center pocket will never be tough again. Just start practicing now at this classy pool hall, where 21 tables in impeccable condition are almost certain to improve your game. And even if no marked improvement is observed, don't worry -- the spacious, full-liquor bar and friendly waitresses are sure to lift your spirits. Happy hour is daily between 11 a.m. and 7 p.m. Even serious players -- folks with their own cues and chalk -- can likely find their match here among the tattooed machos, smart-aleck pretty boys, and smooth pool sharks who frequent the joint. If you fancy taking in a meal to the melodious background sound of cue striking ball, Shootersville offers a dining section overlooking the pool hall with a late-night kitchen that serves a variety of scrumptious fare, from steaks to loaded cheese nachos. And there are even plenty of bar stools and comfortable couches to sit on while awaiting your turn and enough lighting to distinguish stripes from solids.

From its departure point at the Bahia Mar Yacht Basin on A1A, the Jungle Queen Riverboat tour chugs west down the New River, passes beneath the concrete canopy of the Interstate, and docks at its secret mini-theme-park destination. When the gator wrasslin' and pretzel-eatin' gets old, a few tots'll amble around the monkey-and-parrot filled "island" (actually a large, tropical compound in the Riverland area) and look for trouble. They often find it at the ground-level iguana cage, where a greenish-brown gaggle of lumbering, slumbering lizards do a whole lot of nothing, making them easy targets for the prodding fingers and twigs proffered by toddlers. The critters tolerate these indignities with typical reptilian indifference -- but as any herpetologist can tell you, touching the iguanas before putting your hands in your mouth is a sure-fire way to contract salmonella. So hands off, young professor.

Despite the association of trainspotting with the tracks left in the arm of a heroin user, which may have its origin in the 1996 movie of that name, the word is used in England to describe a person obsessed to the point of mania with the trivial. Trainspotters haunt railway platforms in England, notebook in hand, writing down the numbers of trains that roll through. Then they gather and compare lifetime lists. South Florida trainspotters covet a spot on 15th Street under the I-95 overpass, west of the Pompano State Farmer's Market. Four train lines rumble down the tracks -- Florida East Coast Railroad, Tri-Rail, Amtrak, and CSX Corp. So you can see a damn fine assortment. But if you decide to head over in pursuit of the trivial, take a few words of advice from big brother New Times: Don't let the monkey on your back.

So you want to make your friend into a punching bag... nothing too horrible, just some friendly, good-natured fisticuffs. But brawling in the streets can lead to misunderstandings with the local police, who generally are willing to demonstrate how to properly whip the tar out of someone. And doing it at your house could break all those valuable family heirlooms. Boxing gyms charge obscene fees. Can't a guy just strap on some gloves, step into a ring, and light up his buddy? You bet he can! This is America, dammit, and if you want to put the smackdown on your pal, that's your God-given right... as long as you do it on Wednesday at Atlantis. On that night, the club features amateur boxing matches. Arrive early to sign up (early in nightclub speak means around 7 or 8 p.m.) or the dance card will definitely be full and you'll have to wait another week to prove once and for all who would win if you and your best friend traded shots. And who hasn't had that conversation?

After only a brief existence, it can honestly be said that Warrior's Boxing Gym has changed the face of the sport in South Florida. It's no coincidence that major title bouts returned here after decades of absence since the gym opened, though it was sad to see the gym's great hope, Andre "Tombstone" Purlett, get dropped. But since that inaugural bout, SoFla has seen matches featuring such big names as Roy Jones Jr., pound-for-pound perhaps the best professional fighter today. The gym's trainers, Bill McKnight and Jessie Robinson, can take some credit for returning the sweet science to one of its most legendary locations. Because of the presence of this top-of-the-line training facility in Hollywood, we can look forward to local big-name pugilistic contests for years to come.

Two words that allow Firm Fitness to crush all its girlyman competitors: hypoxic chamber. Michael Jackson ain't got nothing on this contraption that creates a more efficient, thus shorter, cardio workout. From what New Times understands, the treadmill, encased in glass, is temperature-controlled -- read: average 58-60 degrees. It purifies, stabilizes, and thins the oxygen, which makes you breathe a little harder and sweat a little more to create more red blood cells. Remember the Olympic controversy over blood doping? Well, the hypoxic chamber lets you do something similar without causing an international scandal. The Firm complements the chamber with washboard-abs, muscle-step, and yoga classes. If you haven't had enough after these, try the roomy, circuit training area, which offers standby Atlantis equipment as old as 1997. Or for those who like the latest, there's the Cybex VR2 machines, which allow smooth and comfortable resistance and weight training. For those who are easily bored, hang out in the EZone section and hook up your headphones to local radio and television shows. The basic annual fee is $499, which includes two sessions with one of the gym's eight trainers. Premiere membership lets you use the chamber, take spinning classes, and bronze yourself silly for $599. Monthly rates are available.

With almost 30,000 square feet of workout space, Body Perfect should really have its own ZIP code. It certainly has everything else. This behemoth offers rows of treadmills, bikes, Stairmasters, and elliptical walkers. Build muscle the old-fashioned way with free weights, or for the latest thing, hop on the Flex Fitness machines. All classes -- kick-boxing, Pilates, spin, yoga, and others -- come free with membership. Ditto for on-site child care. An annual membership costs $36 a month after a one-time $75 enrollment fee. The gym also offers everything from one-day passes to three-year memberships. Tanning and massages are available for an extra charge. It's open from 5 a.m. to 10 p.m. weekdays, with shorter hours on Saturdays and Sundays.

They don't call him P-Rock for nothing. No, it's not because he won that "The Rock" look-alike contest last year when the wrestler formerly known as Dwayne Johnson threw out the first pitch at a Marlins game. It's that body. Though he tips the scales at a modest 213 pounds, it is all muscle, as ex-skipper John Boles discovered last May when he tried to restrain an irate Wilson from getting in an umpire's face. "My goodness, is he strong," Boles told reporters after the game. "I got his arm, and he moved me out of the way quickly. If he wanted to [reach the umpire], I certainly couldn't have stopped him.... We needed to call in the militia." Wilson also showed his internal strength last year, returning from injury and the heart-wrenching death of his newborn son to finish the season on a hot streak, reaching the 20-20 (home runs-stolen bases) plateau for the second time in his young career. Look for him to take another step toward stardom this season.

Gilbert was a sensational basketball player at Dillard High School and ended the regular season of his senior year at the University of Missouri on a down note. Missouri was ranked as high as number two early in the year but, in one disappointment after another, eventually fell into unranked territory. They barely made the NCAA tournament as a 12 seed, and, with Missouri's dismal past record in the Big Dance, few expected much out of the Tigers. But Gilbert wouldn't go down easy. First, the guard came up with a theme for the team -- "The Rock" -- that Coach Quin Snyder said galvanized his club for the tourney. Then Gilbert backed it up on the court, pushing his teammates and averaging about 20 points a game as Mizzou knocked off the University of Miami, Ohio State, and UCLA to become the lowest-seeded team ever to reach the Elite Eight. The bigger, stronger bodies of number-two seed Oklahoma finally stopped the Tigers, but Gilbert left the court proudly; he made Missouri one of the maddest teams in March history.

Number 37 perfectly represents the Florida Panthers. Every time trade rumors have surfaced this year, the 30-year-old goaltender's name has come up. He has been here for three seasons, and his lucky break this year was Roberto Luongo's injury on March 20. Maybe now the front office will shut up and Kidd will finally get the ice time he's always wanted. Kidd has a reputation for not complaining, for showing leadership in the locker room, and for rising to the occasion when necessary. This season, he had a terrible time coming up with wins at home. In 33 games, he had 4 wins, 16 losses, and 5 ties. Those stats, though, don't tell the whole story of Kidd's performance.

How 'bout them Owls? Coach Sidney Green, the former Runnin' Rebel and NBA journeyman player, inherited a pretty sorry bunch back in 1999. In fact, the team hardly qualified as a "bunch" at all: What with all the transfers, he suited up just seven players that year. Hardly surprising, then, when the team went 2-28; if this squad wasn't the worst in Division I, it was pretty darn close. Last year, after further attrition, Green was forced to play his freshmen, and the team actually improved -- to 7-24. For this year, he brought in some talented junior-college players to plug holes. The result: a 16-11 regular season, three hard-fought wins in the Atlantic Sun Conference tournament (including the 76-75 squeaker over Georgia State in the final), and the university's first trip to the NCAA Tournament. In their first-round date with Alabama in Greenville, South Carolina, the Owls refused to lie down, matching the heavily favored Crimson Tide shot for shot for 33 minutes. Alabama finally pulled away and won, 86-78, but FAU's performance earned the program nationwide respect -- and almost cost the team its coach. Green's success at turning around the program made him a finalist for the vacant DePaul job. When the task of reviving that university's once-proud tradition fell to someone else, the brass in Boca Raton breathed a sigh of relief. Now Green will have a chance to defend his conference title and perhaps bring the pride of Palm Beach County back to the Big Dance once again.

The Marlins somehow escaped Montreal-like fan desertion when Wayne Huizenga sold off all the big talent after the 1997 World Series. A solid base of fish-lovers survived three consecutive losing seasons. But then John Henry skipped off to Boston and Jeffrey Loria bought the team, bringing a little of that Montreal magic with him. Now the Marlins are bringing in 5000 or so at home games, right on par with the 'Spos. And despite the fact that the carpetbaggers from Canada callously traded closer Antonio Alfonseca, the team is showing signs that it could be a serious playoff contender. The young pitching staff has the potential of supplanting Atlanta's old-timers as the best rotation in the National League, and the batting lineup is solid from top to bottom. If a few consistent guns emerge from the bullpen, the men in teal (and no, we're not talking about some dance troupe from Key West) might just vie for a championship. Which brings us to that ancient philosophical question: If a team is winning and nobody is watching, does anybody give a damn?

"I wept." With those simple words, Ray Hudson, the most quotable coach this side of Knute Rockne, confirmed what South Florida soccer fans had feared: The four-year-old Miami Fusion was dead, a victim of the money-lusting contraction fever that has gripped professional sports. The Major League Soccer team was killed by owner Ken Horowitz, who had steadfastly maintained he would support the Fusion for the long haul and then unceremoniously bailed out, insisting the action would make the sport stronger. That the death came less than six months after the Fusion completed a fairy-tale season only made the sting worse. In his first full year as coach, the always colorful Hudson led the team to its best record (16-5-5) ever, missing the MLS championship match by only one goal. The English-born Hudson, who first endeared himself to South Florida fútbol fans in the 1980s as a member of the Fort Lauderdale Strikers, is now coaching D.C. United in the nation's capital. As for professional soccer in South Florida, with two failures on its record, fuhgeddaboudit.