Sports & Recreation

The four-year, $52 million deal for aging first baseman Delgado, a bona fide star, was just what Jeffrey Loria needed to lift the stink off his franchise after giving away World Series hero Pudge Rodriguez. But what Delgado really brings to South Florida -- and the entire United States -- is a dose of political courage. That's right. The guy believes in something other than the next seven-figure endorsement deal he can squeeze out of some corporate giant. Delgado refuses to stand for the singing of "God Bless America" during the seventh-inning stretch, a new ritual brought on by a knee-jerk reaction to the tragedy of September 11. Why? He doesn't like, as he puts it, "the way they tied 'God Bless America' and 9/11 to the war in Iraq in baseball." You see, he's not politicizing the game but the exact opposite: Delgado is protesting the politicization of sports. Been to an NFL game lately? Now, a good word to remember the troops overseas is one thing, but halftime has become a frickin' military procession. It's like a jingoistic commercial for the Bush Doctrine in between the ones for Buick and Bud Light. "I say God bless America, God bless Miami, God bless Puerto Rico, and God bless all countries until there is peace in the world," the new Marlins star says. Yes, and God bless Carlos Delgado too.

South Florida is still tennis mecca, drawing rising stars from near and far. Nowadays, it's not just the Florida weather (even states in the frigid north now have those inflatable, climate-controlled tennis pods where would-be tennis stars can drill year 'round) but sharp-eyed honers of championship racket technique like Rick Macci. It has been a good year for the maestro of the Palm-Aire Racquet Club in Pompano Beach, who counts the Williams sisters, Jennifer Capriati, and Andy Roddick as former charges. Macci's got a couple of up-and-comers (a 6-year-old and a 10-year-old, both girls), and the future's looking bright.

One of Macci's great pleasures is taking his three daughters -- ages 8, 7, and 5 -- to a county fair or a local carnival to get lost in the amusements. "There's a kid in all of us," Macci says.

"We always make a day of it at the county fair. What I like about it is just the enjoyment children get out of it. They can go on the littlest ride or the biggest ride and they don't know the difference." Can we call that a passion for the game?

Some people would argue that this is not actually a sports league but a drinking club disguised as a sports league. In what other athletic association do players need to pause to put their beers in their fanny packs before making a catch in deep center field? But athleticism, strategy, competition, and team spirit are all part of the game. Players slide into home plate, make sweet plays, coach teammates from first and third bases, and debate when to bunt or sacrifice fly. The uniforms are hot too: Look for pimped-out threads complete with capes, tube socks, headbands, and beer cap appliqués. Get in on the trend while it's hot: The number of teams in the Fort Lauderdale division jumped from five in the first season to eight in the second, and registration just opened for West Palm Beach and Miami leagues. At last count, the birthplace of adult kickball, Washington, D.C., had 178 teams -- a number limited only by the number of available fields in the city.

You'd think that having your own private island would be too pricey for the working stiffs. But there's a private stretch of sand on Munyon Island at John D. MacArthur Beach State Park that's easily accessible for saps like you and me. Munyon is just a short kayak trip across the park's lagoon estuary, which is ideal for beginners, with its waist-deep water. The kayak rental will set you back $10 an hour for a single or $15 for a two-person, or $25 and $40 for a half-day trip. You'll paddle past roseate spoonbills, silver mullets, and feeding pelicans before landing along the soft sand of Munyon. There's even a covered picnic spot hidden in the trees. On most days, you'll share the island only with the hermit crabs, which will make this your own private island, at least for a day.

If you like to run, well, you're crazy. We mean, it's almost summer in South Florida, and even if you jog at midnight, you'll sweat like a pig. You'll suffer. Of course, you may end up healthier, but then again, you may end up dead. So we recommend drinking heavily. Still want to exercise? Try the 8.5-mile Hollywood Broadwalk course set by the South Florida Striders, who sponsor a fun run every Wednesday at 6:15 p.m.. The course starts at the bandshell, which is located on Johnson Street at the beach. Head north along the Broadwalk to Dania Beach pier -- you'll see some stunning vistas and get a good look at humanity (meaning albino-like, shirtless, Québecois tourists) along the way. Then turn around and head back south to the Jefferson Street parking lot. Turn around again and return to the bandshell. There are three great advantages to this course: (1) There are showers along the way, so you can cool off; (2) it's measured, so you know how far you've gone; (3) Nick's Bar and Restaurant (954-920-2800) is located just north of the course's end, so you can suck down a cool Kalik when you finish.

Tourists will probably want to take the Jungle Queen to gawk at the waterfront mansions or wallow among the plastic-surgery disasters downtown, but natives have already seen too much of that. For a taste of what the river looked like back in the day when Frank and Ivy Stranahan's clapboard house was the sole example of prime real estate in Fort Lauderdale, try the New River Trail in Secret Woods Nature Center. The 3,200-foot, wheelchair accessible boardwalk winds through live oak hammocks, over a swamp, and under a green canopy of cypress and maples. The New River here is untouched and untamed, teeming with fish, manatees, tiny crabs, pond apple and mangrove trees, wading birds -- and no mansions and only the occasional yacht to mess up your pure, unadulterated nature moment. With gleaming condo buildings growing like beanstalks downtown, it's tough to come by such a pleasant way to experience the river.

What makes this spot so damned unknown is the fact that it's so damned hard to get to. Here's how it works. Park your car at one of the very few public spots along North Ocean Boulevard in Palm Beach -- you know, near Rush Limbaugh and the other millionaires. Now, either take a bike north to the island's farthest tip along North Ocean Way or hoof your ass across the soft sand for the two-mile trip. Along the rock jetty, swim into a world that most people have to pay a dive company to take them to. A reef has grown along these rocks, with living coral and undulating schools of sea life. Make sure you go at high tide, because low tide brings a cloud of silt and trash from the inlet. As long as they don't install parking spots nearby -- and you can bet those gazillionaires who live along the beach here won't let them -- this place will remain a hidden snorkeling spot that rivals anything north of the Keys.

Never mind Viagra -- every lap around the mountain bike trails in Quiet Waters Park will help your cojones get bigger. When you first start going around the 5.5-mile loop, you can take the novice route, which is full of cheat chutes that let you circumvent the steep drops and hard parts. If you crash on this trail -- which is well-marked with green signs -- well, you'd be pretty pathetic, but you'd fall onto a layer of pine needles that feels like a bed of Charmin. As soon as you become more confident, start tackling the harder trails in all their root-, rock-, and sand-bound glory. One section of single track is covered with tree branches and feels like you're tunneling through a cave; another section forces you to make tricky drops while trying not to fall in the lake. In addition to the roller coaster-esque cruise around the park, there is a trick area with teeter-totters and jumps for all levels of ability. Wear a helmet, keep at it, and soon you'll be swapping pictures of your yard sales and bruises with the folks at Club Mud -- a mountain-biking group that brings machetes to the park each month and keeps the trails in shape. Once you've mastered the trails, join the Mudders for some laps -- at night!

Nothing makes you want to show off the panty lines under your spandex like a beautiful bike route. Hop on your hot wheels and ingest some cool scenery along the water. Start at the Intracoastal Waterway, right around Southern Boulevard and Flagler Drive in West Palm Beach. Once you've pedaled east, past the fishermen on the Southern Boulevard bridge and into the town of Palm Beach, Donald Trump's Mar-A-Lago estate will be on your left. Dodging cars at the rotary here and turning left (north) around the blind curve adds just enough danger to get your adrenaline up. Flow north with the traffic on A1A along the ocean, daydreaming about which mansion you'll buy when you become a famous supermodel. You can either hang a left on Royal Palm Way, which will put you on the Royal Park bridge back to the mainland, or keep cruising north, taking a forced left in front of Estee Lauder's house, hanging a right onto South County Road by the Bethesda-by-the-Sea church, and passing the swank Breakers resort before turning left on Royal Poinciana Way, which brings you back to the mainland on the Flagler Memorial Bridge. Once you hit the mainland, go left (south) on Flagler and suck up the breeze as you coast along the super-wide sidewalks along the Intracoastal back to your starting point at Southern. The longer route measures just over eight miles.

OK, so it's an obvious choice, but so was West Palm Beach's scenic, sinuous Flagler Drive as the setting for the first marathon ever held in Palm Beach County. Flagler's tree-lined ribbon of asphalt uncoils alongside the Intracoastal and weaves through several historic neighborhoods, displaying some of the area's most appealing assets along the way. Although the weather last November 14 was far from the subtropical splendor race officials had hoped for, an almost totally level course kept the competition as fierce as the wind and rain. More than 3,500 competitors from 17 countries took the challenge, but it was Kenyan runner Charles Kibiwot who broke the tape, finishing the 26.2-mile course in just under two hours and 20 minutes. The marathon offered some unusual local color as well: Part-time Palm Beach resident Donald Trump supplied his Trump Ice bottled water to filling stations along the course, some of which were occupied by volunteers dressed as hula dancers and tie-dyed hippies. It all came together flawlessly, and a second marathon, this one open to 5,000 runners, is scheduled for early December.

You've been to Naples, gotten lost in the Everglades, and burnt your epidermis on the beach. But have you ever circumnavigated the second-largest freshwater lake in the nation? It's a nice tour by car and takes you through five counties: Glades, Hendry, Palm Beach, Martin, and Okeechobee. Our preferred way to cruise around the 730-square-mile lake is counterclockwise. From Florida's southeast coast, head west for Belle Glade and then Pahokee. No need to linger, except to gawk at the poverty-prone towns that look more like old WPA photographs than part of 21st-century Palm Beach County. Continue north on Highway 441, but remember to stop and check out boats passing through the locks at Port Mayaca. Pelicans, double-crested cormorants, and great blue herons are some of the wading birds you'll see. On the north side of the lake is a bastion of Central Florida hickdom, the town of Okeechobee, a rowdy, rodeo-show retreat. Continue on past turf farms growing acres of sod and cows munching on grass until you're on the west side of the lake, home to marshland and citrus groves. This largely unpopulated flank sports a few sleepy old farming and fishing communities, with pickups parked along lonely canals, folks pulling catfish from the water all day long.

Curving down south, make time for a stop in Clewiston, where Angler's Marina offers one of the best views of the entire lake and the fleet of boats that ply its waters. Clewiston is also the finest place to stop for lunch. Dixie Fried Chicken (728 E. Sugarland Hwy.) can set you up with frog legs, gator tail, and catfish, but it would be a sin not to mention the best Mexican food anywhere in South Florida, which can be found from 4 a.m. to 8 p.m. at the Tortilleria y Taqueria (645 S. San Jose St.). No-nonsense proprietress Magdaelena Azua serves bistec, pastor, and lengua tacos -- served on homemade corn tortillas -- which are startlingly cheap at $1.25 a pop. On the way home, stop off at the aptly named John Stretch Park in tiny Lake Harbor and walk to the top of the Herbert Hoover dike. Say goodbye to the hinterlands and its liquid heart of the Everglades and head for home.

The Marinelife Center has come a long way since its humble beginnings in 1983, when it opened in borrowed space in a real-estate agent's office. Now, the center cares for about 1,500 turtles a year. Most are hatchlings that couldn't make it to the ocean, but many are injured or sick sea turtles brought to the center for rehab. Fishing equipment and boat propellers cause the most damage. But turtles also convalesce at the center for shark bites and another widespread turtle ailment: flatulence. Yes, gas, which prevents turtles from sinking (as you'd guess, they're fed Beano). Visitors can view the turtles as they rehab in tanks in the center's backyard and watch as they're fed sardines by the six paid staff and a team of volunteers. During turtle egg-laying season in the summer, the center also leads nighttime beach walks and has a "junior marine biologist" program for teenagers. And soon, the center will spend $4 million in donations on a new, 10,000-square-foot facility that will triple its existing building. That is quite a ways from sharing space with a real-estate agent.

In his four years as a Miami Dolphin, Chris Chambers hasn't been the kind of player to make a showy victory dance in the end zone, even though he's been there more often than any other receiver on the team. He hasn't been the kind of player to boast about his accomplishments either, despite racking up better than 900 yards a season (a total of 3,478). So maybe it shouldn't be a surprise that last year, the Cleveland native bit his tongue as the Dolphins stank up the NFL. But it's a credit to Chambers that he not only avoided complaining during the Dolphins worst season in 35 years but that he also shone. The Wisconsin alumnus managed a career-high 69 catches, 974 yards, and seven touchdowns during a year when the offense was the NFL equivalent of junior varsity. Chambers credits his quiet demeanor to being a "nappy-headed" kid with an embarrassing chipped tooth. Nicknamed "Spiderman" as a teenager for his lanky limbs, the 26-year-old has shut up his childhood bullies with a gutsy performance on a team in which many veterans seemed to give up.

This gym on the seventh floor of the AutoNation skyscraper sits directly across the street from the Broward County Courthouse and is surrounded by law offices. Thus, entering its locker room is like taking a trip to Lawyerville; it's populated by legal experts who work out on weekdays. Everywhere, even when clothing is minimal, cell phones are a must. (There's even a phone right on the locker room wall.) It's common to overhear snippets like, "Eighty-three million? There's no way we're settling for less than 86 mil -- I told him that!" Face it, when you hear someone say "Do you want to be able to see your kids again?" -- and it's not a threat made in a movie but privileged attorney/client discussion of a child-custody hearing -- ears tend to prick up. Lawyers flirt with secretaries. Maybe even set up secret trysts. And you're sure to hear about Mr. Big Shot's ski trip to Aspen or the huge case Mr. So-and-So just won. Who knows? You might even get a stock tip, you pathetic, poverty-stricken turd.

Pileated woodpecker

Black-and-white warbler

Limpkin, mourning dove

Great-crested flycatcher

Glaucous gull, rock dove

Solitary vireo

Cattle egret, snowy egret

House sparrow, oriole

Yellow-bellied sapsucker

Ovenbird, sandpiper

Screech owl, fish crow

Blue-gray gnatcatcher

Binoculars, bug spray

Comfy shoes, half a day

Go slow, soak in

Fern Forest's aviary.

On the 37-mile stretch of sand between Lake Worth Beach and Fort Lauderdale Beach, you're pretty much dealing with blue herons and bluehairs. It's just nature interspersed with condos -- or the other way around. It's quiet. It's calm. It's pretty freakin' boring. Except for one shining spot of beach-worthy bodies and beachfront bars: Deerfield Beach. Of course, this spot has palm trees, turquoise waters, and beach umbrellas -- but so does every other beach from here to Jacksonville. What sets Deerfield apart is the action. You can tell from the bike racks and five permanent volleyball courts that this is not the destination for people who want to lie around and imitate a dying manatee. No, this is the beach for hot lifeguards, spring breakers, and surfers. Go-getters angle on the fishing pier, a blimp chills overhead, and a dude bangs on the steel drum at JB's on the Beach while the bartender doles out mojitos. Everything else you might want is available in the nearby cluster of shops. Need a glass pipe or 40 kinds of rolling papers? Cross the street and hit Lazydaze. A surfboard? Run over to Island Water Sports. A fish taco? Rattlesnake Jake's. A fanny pack, a mood ring, or a man bikini? Go to Wings. Gelato? You can get that inside the post office!

On one of those days, when you're looking at all the traffic on I-95 and you're remembering that your Florida neighbors voted both George and Jeb Bush into office and you're thinking, "Why the hell do some people consider this place paradise?" all you need to do is mosey over to Carlin Park for a reminder. With its 3,000 feet of beach frontage, its Lazy Logger restaurant, its little-league baseball field, its tennis courts, its exercise course, and its amphitheater, Carlin Park offers the best of Florida living. A Pig Gig Rib Fest, a Shakespeare-by-the-Sea festival, and a Sunset at Carlin concert series give you all the more reason to spread out a blanket and hunker down on the sand. Treasure hunters sometimes find buried early-American silver coins on the beach, and some experts expect 2005 to be a record sea turtle nesting season.

So your doctor's been telling you to take better care of yourself, as always. And, as always, he uses the dreaded e word: exercise. However, running around your block means passing by that neighbor whose vacuum cleaner you borrowed and conveniently misplaced. But that's just as well, because what you need is a full exercise course with chin-up bars, steps, and various beams to help stretch all those neglected muscles. The course at South County Regional Park has 20 such stations. And when you're all done, you don't have to hurry home to shower -- the enormous Coconut Cove Waterpark is right there. Of course, if you skip both activities, you've still got 856 acres' worth of park to explore. That means baseball fields, tennis and volleyball courts, the Daggerwing Nature Center, a remote-control car track, a remote-control airplane field, and more open space than Wal-Mart would know what to do with.

Quiet Waters? Isn't that where all those weird medieval people hang out? Well, if you're thinking of the Florida Renaissance Festival, then, yes, that's one of the many events the park hosts. But if face-painting fairies, jousters, and jesters are all you know about Quiet Waters Park, then you've been missing out on the Holy Grail of outdoor recreation in Broward County. For those looking to relax, there are plenty of shaded picnic areas along the lake ripe for a barbecue. For you active types, there's mountain-biking, a nature trail, and a lot of open space to toss around a football, fly a kite, play freeze tag, or do whatever else tickles your youthful fancy. But if you want to turn the fun up to ten, try out the cable skiing/wakeboarding course, which comes complete with jump ramps and rail slides. If water sports aren't your thing, then grab your blades, skateboard, or bike and hit the ramps and rails. Of course, to do all this would take a couple of days -- why not stay the weekend at the park's campground? At $25 a day, it's a hell of a lot cheaper than some overcrowded Disney World resort. Oh, and if you happen to get there next March, be prepared to joust.

Tired of paying through the nose for an oceanfront view? Had it with crowded beaches and car exhaust? Try this rustic isle just a couple of hours' drive from South Florida. There are 30 tent sites and 12 cabins here. There's also eight miles of beach, much of it deserted, and a surfeit of herons, egrets, and inner peace. But beware. You have to plan ahead. There's running water and cold showers but no stores. No cars are allowed; a shuttle carries you the one mile from the dock to the campsites. The place was whacked by Hurricane Charlie; the winds knocked down most of the Australian pines, an invasive species, leaving intact the native palms and sea grapes. So there's plenty of wood for fires. Costs? A tent site goes for $18 per night and a cabin for $30. (The cabins have three sets of bunk beds.) The island, which is just north of Sanibel and Captiva, is a 45-minute ferry ride from Pine Island. The ferry costs $29 round trip for adults and about half that for kids 6 and under. For reservations, call 800-326-3521. Book ahead. The place is popular during the winter and spring.

For all their superstardom, Shaquille O'Neal and Dwyane Wade can't hit a 24-footer to save their nicknames. Wade makes a three-point shot, on average, once a month. O'Neal has made precisely one NBA trey, nine years ago. Damon Jones, the Heat guard keeping defenses honest -- and freeing the lanes for the Diesel and Flash to savage the rim -- happens to be a guy who couldn't even make a CBA roster when he left the University of Houston after a passable junior season. Jones started his pro career in 1997 as a member of the Black Hills Posse in the International Basketball Association -- and even then was coming off the bench. He fought his way up to the CBA, then toured the NBA with the Celtics, Nets, Mavericks, Warriors, Grizzlies, Pistons, Kings, and, last year, the Bucks. When Rafer Alston left Miami for a $5-mil-a-year contract with Toronto, the Heat signed Aimin' Damon for half that, money well spent: This season, the bargain-basement bomber hit more three-pointers at a higher percentage than any other player in the NBA. He carried one of the highest assist-to-turnover ratios in the league, turning the ball over about a third as often as Wade while starting more games than in the rest of his career combined. Jones has finally arrived, and no coincidence, so has the Heat. As he told the Miami Herald, in reflecting on his meandering career: "I wouldn't change the script at all."

With summer bearing down faster than a gaggle of elderly on an early-bird special, South Florida will soon be slightly hotter than the surface of the sun -- and that's after sunset. No need to even delve into how sweltering it gets in the daylight hours when heat indices routinely hit around 2 million degrees, and anyone foolish enough to step outside runs the risk of instantaneously bursting into flames. So you'll need to find a place to cool off till the weather becomes more amicable in say... December. The beach is nice if you don't mind the ever-present risk of shark attack or spending the next week picking sand out of various bodily crevices. And you probably trashed your Crocodile Mile long ago. So your only hope in this tropical inferno just might be Rapids Water Park. You can cool off while sliding down one of the park's 16 water slides. Or while bobbing up and down in its 25,000-square-foot wave pool. Or while drifting listlessly down its lazy river. For $28, you can explore all 22 acres of this waterlogged oasis, which will be open every day from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. starting Saturday, May 14, through the end of August.

There's really no other way to judge a good dog park than the poop factor. Nothing will ruin your day faster than stepping in a steaming pile of doggy doo, especially if it came from somebody else's mutt. The courteous patrons of West Palm Beach's CityPaws dog park are good enough to regularly clean up their mutts' messes. Unlike many dog parks stuffed into the sans-shade section, CityPaws is well-shaded inside Howard Park, which is full of banyan and oak trees to provide a cool spot for your dog to wrestle in the grass. CityPaws also holds a Smooch Your Pooch contest on Valentine's Day and a doggy costume contest on Halloween. Just make sure to clean up when ballerina Fido makes a mess.

The bluehairs who live around here won't be glad we told you, but Reef Road is the premier surfing spot in all of South Florida. Of course, if you're good enough to surf it, you probably already know about it. But grommets and newbies who want to check it out should know a few things before they go. First of all, the break is located in a residential area on the north end of the county's richest chunk of real estate, and there's no public parking within two miles of the spot. There are few bank robberies and crack raids in the affluent town, so police have nothing better to do than ticket you for parking illegally or obstructing traffic. You can stash your ride way south in some public spots on A1A or take your chances with a tow truck. Assuming you find your way to the break, just south of the Palm Beach Inlet, look for a bombing northeast swell, which is what this place needs to start firing. When it does, you'll be dropping down some deep, fast faces, and when the wave lets you off, you might be in Lantana. But you'll be stoked: On a "perfect-o-meter" scale of one to ten (one = Lake Erie and 10 = Jeffrey's Bay, South Africa), Surfline.com gives Reef Road an 8, which is about as good as it gets on the Right Coast.

Northerners flock to Mack's Groves, a gargantuan glorified gift shop on A1A, to immerse themselves in a citrus paradise. Of course, Mack's carries a full line of regional knickknacks, trinkets, and doodads (coral, shells, candles, sea urchins, and starfish), plus silk shirts with palm trees and other examples of pricey SoFla kitsch. But folks who associate winter with snowplows and icicles can have their minds blown by Mack's formidable array of tropical fruit goods. Key lime aficionados will find key lime pie mix, key lime jelly beans, key lime drops, key lime mints, key lime tea cookies, key lime chocolate, key lime crunch, key lime juice, key lime marmalade, key lime mustard, and more. But the 70-year-old institution's staple is its citrus gift baskets (ranging from $30 to $60) -- assortments of fruit that can be shipped almost anywhere in the U.S. and even to Europe. Mainstays like pink seedless grapefruit, Valencia oranges, and honey tangerines nestle snugly against exotic offerings like regal honeybells, clementines, tangelos, and orantiques. Single pieces of fruit are under 50 cents apiece, and samples are always handy. Here's one store where it's OK to be sticky-fingered.

We're not talking about the game. We're talking about practice. So why's it so hard to pick up a good pickup game? By the time you find a court that isn't covered with broken glass and discarded condoms and one that actually has nets on the baskets, there are downs so deep you need a calendar to figure out when you'll get on a court. If you do finally get a game, you end up covering some six-foot-eight guy with a nickname like "Da Meat Hook" who takes every opportunity to drop vicious, 360-degree tomahawk dunks on your face. We can't promise you're not going to get posterized, but at least the Regional Park at Weston, with the nicest outdoor facilities in Broward County, eliminates the search for a place to play. On the eight well-lighted courts, the games run the gamut of ages and skill levels, so you don't need to be trying out for the AND1 mix-tape tour to get in a game. Best of all, the lights stay on till 11 p.m., just in case you want to "practice."

Everybody who's not a moron knows that the real fruits of leisure are to be found in the outdoors. But sometimes, Fort Lauderdale's greatest offering, a stretch of golden sand on the placid Atlantic, isn't enough. Sometimes, a beach is just a beach. You can sweat, swim, and soak up sun. Done that. And yet, there is one way to make beachgoing the most kick ass time ever. Just cruise south of Las Olas Boulevard, enter the gate of South Beach Park, pay $6 for a carload, and drive all the way to the end, where volleyball courts stretch from the picnic benches to the beach. Bring people looking for social refreshment and a workout, or just a ball. Pickup games are everywhere, full of new friends to be made -- the athletic kind. It's addictive fun that'll have your body moving like no club DJ ever could. The park, which also has basketball courts, is open from 6 a.m. to 2 a.m.

Sure, Don Carter Bowling Center has shinier lanes and more of 'em too. But that's precisely what attracted the group of obnoxious high school brats that ruined your perfect game the last time you went. Fortunately, their kind isn't as prevalent at Greenacres Bowl -- even if it's the only thing to do in Greenacres on a Friday night. Greenacres Bowl may be home to 20 year-round leagues, but it's just as fit for the occasional bowler; you don't need to be Homer Simpson to enjoy Saturday's "All You Can Bowl Night" ($20) or Friday's "Rocking and Bowling" ($17 for three hours, starting at 10 p.m.). Of course, if you're throwing a party, there's bound to be one or two bowl-a-phobes; they can hang out in the Thirsty Gator Lounge or the arcade room -- or, more appropriately, order you some of those tasty chicken wings from the snack bar. If it's Friday night, the Thirsty Gator has karaoke, which attracts some interesting characters, to put it mildly. Hey, at least they stay inside the lounge and away from the lanes. Now you've got no excuse for all those gutter balls.

Indulge your inner (or outer) senior citizen with 28 covered shuffleboard courts just west of downtown Lake Worth. After the spring, the shuffle clubs tend to clear out, leaving more space for the casual player. The cost, including equipment? One thin dollar per person. The building is also the site of regular bridge games, art classes, voting, and various civic clubs, so you may just run into the Finnish War Veterans when you go to put cue to disc. Play from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday and until 10 p.m. Tuesday and Friday.

You probably drive past it several times a week, the mass of intricately stacked wood rising ten stories in the air off I-95. From a distance, it looks as though it could be made with matchsticks, but it's actually built of roughly 1 million feet of pine and fir lumber. And when you get on top of that baby and ride, it's one heck of a 3,200-foot-long, two-minute thrill. Like all the best wooden coasters, you spend a good part of the ride suspended above your seat. It may be the only game in town, but it's got a bit of national clout. A group of roller-coaster enthusiasts gave it a ranking of 34th best "woodie" in the world out of 163 listed. And only four of those that ranked higher lie south of the Ohio River. We're no experts, but that sounds like it might be something a little special. Undoubtedly special is the price -- $10.60 for unlimited rides (and $6.25 for the fool who wants to ride only once). You need to ride it five times before you really get your fill. But if you take a kid with you, be prepared for the worst, because youngsters will go on the thing until they're ordered to the ground. A 9-year-old boy recently rode it 23 times straight, which isn't uncommon. But loosen up with the children -- it's a time that neither they, nor you, will soon forget.

The sheer duration of the National Hockey League lockout places it among the most baffling stoppages in the history of North American sports, and it may well signal hockey's withering into second-tier entertainment. Owners claimed players' salaries were devouring 75 percent of revenue; reckless expansion had diluted the league; with TV ratings down, ABC and NBC dumped their hockey coverage, and ESPN plans to relegate the sport solely to ESPN2. Quagmires rarely carry silver linings, but at least a belt-cinching labor agreement will probably extend the life of the 30-team league. Not only that but in the likely event that the owners impose a salary cap, "small market" teams such as the Panthers may be able to afford some formerly exorbitant talent. The Panthers' 2003-04 player payroll was in the bottom tenth of the league, and only one player, right wing Valeri Bure, was among the league's 100 best-paid. If big-market teams dump expensive free agents to avoid a luxury tax, the Panthers (and the Penguins, the Oilers, et al.) figure to be in terrific position to add discount stars. Assuming hockey survives its own self-righteous cannibalism -- and the Panthers cough up some cash -- look for South Florida to boast an NHL team more competitive than that of recent seasons.

A lot of factors go into judging a great golf hole: natural beauty, approach technique, and overall feeling come into consideration. But as most serious duffers would agree, the single most important factor is challenge. A great hole separates the weekend warriors from the hardcore linksmen, sending the former to the clubhouse whining and discouraged and the latter triumphant and even a little better as human beings. The 18th at Colony West -- recognized by the Florida State Golf Association to be the toughest and longest par 71 in Florida -- is such a hole. Lined with trees on either side of a narrow, right-doglegged fairway, with a water hazard about 300 yards from the tee, this par-four hole is all about the drive. If you lay up just before the water, you get a shot at making it to the green across the way in two and getting in at par. If you don't nail the drive just right, you're done for. Not for the faint of heart, Colony West's 18th hole is the perfect finisher for a uniquely challenging course.

You love your rugrats. They're funny, smart, cute, and they rarely vomit at the wrong time. Well, that doesn't mean you don't occasionally want to free yourself and your mate for a Saturday-night romp. Dancing, maybe. Or bowling. Or, hell, just sitting on a bus bench in peace for a few minutes and breathing deeply. Our suggestion: Try stowing the twerps aged 4 to 12 at the Art and Culture Center's parents' night out, which takes place the second Friday of every month and lasts from 6 to 10 p.m. It costs $15 per kid -- juice and pizza included. The babysitters, if you want to call them that, are generally experienced teachers, so your beloved little monsters will try all kinds of intellectually stimulating things. Among 'em: supervised arts and crafts, games, and even shows. And they'll do it in perhaps the coolest boutique arts mecca between Miami and Fort Lauderdale -- or maybe between Havana and New York. Parents should call in advance; spots are limited.

Surely you've seen him. That guy, dressed in camouflage pants and combat boots who's doing squats on Fort Lauderdale Beach with a bunch of sweaty "recruits" in tow? That's the 53-year-old Health Colonel, a.k.a. retired Army Col. Bob Weinstein. Never have we met a man so in love with exercise. When he lets his students take a break from doing 100 pushups or lunging down the sand in a maneuver called the "Death Walk," he says, "Go get some water." But if they linger too long, he faux-barks, "This isn't happy hour!" before breaking into a grin and saying, "Oh wait... yes it is! It's always a happy hour when we are making our bodies healthy!" On his website, www.nomorecrybabies.com, the colonel writes about his quest to "fight the enemy soldiers on American soil" -- like heart disease and obesity. But on the beach on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings, he doles out inspirational quotes, dispenses advice to the lovelorn, and leaves his troops laughing -- and buff.

One columnist wrote that Saban has gone entire seasons without cracking a smile. He's serious, cheerless, and dull as a two-yard gain up the middle. He's so secretive that some around the Dolphins camp have already started calling him "Double-O Saban." Maybe his family and close friends know the real Saban, but we doubt it. He's an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in a covert playbook. One thing about the new Fins coach, however, is utterly transparent: He knows how to win. During the past decade, he made big winners out of Michigan State and LSU, which were both struggling mightily when he came on board. And he's got a delicious NFL pedigree, having served as defensive coordinator for the Cleveland Browns under the brilliant Bill Belichick. No one can really know how well the Dolphins will do this year, but we're gambling that they'll come out strong. Even if Saban looks like he's attending a funeral every Sunday, the fans definitely have something to smile about.

Shaquille O'Neal is the most powerful force in basketball. The Heat got him from the Lakers and turned in one of the best regular seasons in basketball. 'Nuff said. But the trade wasn't really between the Heat and the Lakers but where the real competition lies -- between California and Florida. For years, each region has been trying to establish itself as the news -- and weirdness -- capital of the world. They had O.J.; we had Elian. They gave the country Ronald Reagan; we gave it the 2000 election. They have the Governator; we have Brother Bush. They've got earthquakes; we have hurricanes. L.A. has the Sunset Strip; SoFla has South Beach. It's inarguable, however, that Cali has taken the lead of late, with the help of that little rascal, Robert Blake, and the Laci Peterson murder. Then the King of Weirdness himself, Michael Jackson, completely stole the show. But just as it looked like South Florida would fall by the wayside, Terry Schiavo stepped up and carried the banner. Go Heat. Best Boxer in Broward

Quiles is in this spot not because he killed a man with his fists, which he did. He is here because he didn't let that horror stop him. It was February 28 last year when Quiles won a 12-round decision over Luis Villalta in Coconut Creek. Villalta went to his dressing room, complained of a headache, and collapsed. He spent four days in a coma and died five hours after his wife and father arrived from Peru. He was 34, the same age as Quiles, and, like Quiles, had two sons. Quiles cried. Drank. Prayed. Nearly retired. Took him two months to return to his Hollywood gym, Warrior's Boxing. But the sport had pulled him from a life of drug and alcohol addiction a decade earlier, and it helped to save him again. Five months after Villalta fell, Quiles returned to the ring, saying, "I don't think I will ever get over it." He won that night. He entered his next bout, in February, as an underdog to a fighter 12 years his junior. Quiles won a split decision. "This has got me closer to myself," he told the Miami Herald after the victory. That fight made Quiles (37-6-3) the second-ranked lightweight in the International Boxing Federation and, further, the rare athlete to recover from a devastating win.