Arts & Entertainment

Miniature golf really is the perfect sport. It requires more luck than skill, people of all ages can play together, and it's fun even if you suck at it. Tilting at windmills against a golfing pro can be annoying though, which is why we love Fiddlesticks. The park has two 18-hole courses; one is an easy course with traditional cute-ass castles, and the other is a sports course with red-rock waterfalls and simulated sand traps. If you've got one seasoned player, you can always ship him off to the sports course or the on-site driving range, which is outfitted with misters and lights for nighttime driving. And if dad the 8-over-par golfer insists on playing without giving you a handicap, you can just pray he'll run into a few water hazards.

According to Kevin Smith's 1999 religious farce Dogma, the almighty God regularly descends from the heavens (taking on the corporeal form of Harold and Maude actor Bud Cort, of all people) to indulge in one of his few vices: Skee ball. No, seriously. And though we haven't been a regular visitor to church in decades, we can at least share in the heavenly father's (alleged) passion as we roll wooden balls up the ramps of the skee-ball machines and rack up high scores at GameWorks. The reason we're milking the tickets out of the four skee-ball machines here versus any of the other arcades in town is because of the primo redemption prizes available, including a portable DVD player (30,000 points), an Xbox 360 arcade pack (49,000 points), or a mini motorcycle (55,000 points). It's not the kind of gear you can get at the neighborhood Peter Piper Pizza, we assure you. Sure, it's probably gonna take us until the second coming to score enough tickets to land these big-ticket items (and it may be cheaper to just buy the stuff from the store), but, hey, we're scoring points with God, too.

Kids seem so appealing on paper. Someone to carry on the genetic line, to worship you like a god (until they're 5), to support you in your dotage. In practice, at about noon on any given Saturday afternoon, with the weekend yawning eternally in the distance, the attraction starts to wane. This is why a lot of very smart people got together and created the parent-saving marvel called the diversion. This comes in many forms, from the newly installed splash zone at the neighborhood pocket park (your tax dollars at work) to the off-the-grid theme birthday party (reference the S.S. Titanic bash in the flick Keeping Up with the Steins).

Our favorite way to pass the hours is a trip to Enchanted Island, the Encanto Park landmark that's been diverting desperate parents for years. Besides being situated in the great outdoors and having nothing whatever to do with video games, the Island boasts nine kid-pleasing attractions, including the restored, 1940s-vintage Encanto Carousel, the C.P. Huntington mini-train, the Dragon Wagon rollercoaster, the Rock 'n' Roll teacups, bumper boats, a parachute drop, and the Red Baron airplane ride.

The gem at this place has got to be the vintage carousel. Constructed by the Allan Herschell Company in 1948 and dubbed "Little Beauty," this majestic merry-go-round was saved from the scrapheap after the demolition of the original Kiddieland theme park in the late '80s, thanks to the efforts of a group of locals who pooled their money and their efforts to purchase the carousel and restore it to its original magnificent majesty. Good job, people. Go for a spin on us.

Got an itchy trigger finger, ace? The high-caliber staff at Shooter's World knows just how to scratch it. If you're not packing your own piece, this west-side pistol palace can let you exercise your Second Amendment rights with firearm rentals available for $10 for the first handgun, $6 for each rental after that (shooters must be 18 and over to rent rifles and shotguns; 21 and over to rent handguns). Once you're locked and loaded, take aim in any of the facility's 24 indoor lanes, which are available for $14 per hour, per person, and are perfect for you to play Dirty Harry with the three kinds of targets available. If you don't like the standard bull's eye or silhouette targets, try taking aim at a photo target of your choosing, including that rat bastard Osama bin Laden, a menacing mugger, and even a little old lady wielding a shotgun. Who knew they had armories in Sun City?

Mountain biking at night seems crazier, in theory, than it actually is. Just as in the daytime, it requires zooming up and hurtling down steep dirt tracks, all the while flanked by cholla cactus and pointy boulders. It sure isn't any safer at night, but it's not as risky as you might think if you have a burly lighting system. A while back, we threw down for an expensive Niterider 15-watt lamp with a rechargeable battery, but we got our money's worth out of the gadget.

Our night fun hunting ground is Desert Classic trail, a nine-mile-long dirt roller coaster that hugs the southern foothills of South Mountain. Full disclosure: At night, we mostly ride the trail from the parking lot at the Pima Canyon entrance to the big, white water tanks about three miles in. Though there are a few tricky dips into dry arroyos on this section, the trail up to the tanks is well worn, without many rocky, technical parts. Desert Classic at night isn't the crowded highway it is in the day — on warm summer evenings we're often the only ones out there. Not that we're alone: Sometimes the coyotes come out to play. Once, one of the mangy mutts trotted to less than five feet away as we stood next to the trail, adjusting the iPod. As the light passes over a dark stretch of single-track, we'll also spot the occasional mouse, rabbit, or rattlesnake. Yes, rattlesnakes — that's on top of all the other objective dangers, such as hitting a rock you didn't see because it was, well, too damned dark. But there's one other thing we like about Desert Classic for night riding: If something bad happens, civilization is just a hop, limp, or crawl away.

It's confession time: We indulged in a rather nasty bout of road rage the other day, and it wasn't pretty. Our dirty driving deed went down after some schnook sideswiped us rather abruptly, causing our blood to boil. Instead of declaring, "Live and let live," as any sane person would've done, it was decided that a little roadway revenge was in order. We proceeded to floor it, T-boning them straight into tomorrow, and setting off a six-car pileup. Uma Thurman in full-on Kill Bill mode couldn't have plotted better payback. And the only reason that we're not cooling our heels in a jail cell right now is because this vehicular vengeance involved the bumper cars of the Ram Rods ride at Castles -n- Coasters instead of automobiles. You, too, can unleash your own personal demolition derby, driving like a maniac behind the wheel of the electric-powered coupes and fitting in as much smashing and crashing action as possible during the 10-minute experience. Single rides are $5.50 each on weekdays before 4 p.m. (prices increase in the evening and weekends, as well as for unlimited ride passes; call for rates), leaving you plenty of green to cover the chiropractor bills for your whiplash.

Running is one of the most physically exhausting activities one can engage in: Your feet are punished, muscles taxed, and electrolytes drained. Usually after a jog or a sprint, it's recommended that one replenishes one's burdened body by drinking ample amounts of liquids. If you're the average sort of runner, that means many thirsty gulps of water or sports drinks like Gatorade. But for members of the Valley's chapter of the Hash House Harriers, the fluid-replacement regimen consists of imbibing beverages with plenty of hops and barley. Self-described as a "drinking club with a running problem," the HHH holds numerous noncompetitive runs each month, where participants maneuver along haphazard four- to six-mile paths through both rural and urban environments created from chalk or flour. These events feature frequent pit stops along the way, where chugging contests, "beer checks," or other drinking distractions ensue in order to emphasize fun and equalize things between the more casual runners and those who're hoping to compete in the Boston Marathon (as some HHH members have done). It brings new meaning to the phrase "beer run."

To win the prestigious Tour de France race an astounding seven years in a row, cyclist Lance Armstrong endured seven grueling treks lasting more than 20 days and 2,000 miles each. It was a triumph of heroic skill, athleticism, and willpower, demonstrating that man can conquer any challenge set before him. But as epic as his victories were, we found it far more entertaining watching a bicycle battle like last year's Dagger Death Race. Held on the Saturday before Halloween, the gonzo contest organized by a local crew of BMX riders featured more than 40 cyclists (many wearing costumes) racing around Tempe and Scottsdale in a quest for two-wheeled supremacy.

The over-the-top event was an "alleycat," a type of urban cycling race developed by bike messengers that involves participants maneuvering through a series of checkpoints through a city. Alleycats are big in cities like San Francisco and Portland, and have caught on across the Valley in the past few years, usually featuring a number of riders on fixed-gear bicycles (single-speed and often brakeless two-wheelers that have also gotten popular recently). Outrageous tasks are a frequent part of checkpoints at events, and the Dagger Death Race was no different with its stops. Riders had to succeed at such challenges as spinning around with their head planted on a baseball bat, digging chicken bones out of a pail of dirt, or drinking either beers or shots of hot sauce. Alleycats occasionally feature some lawless riding, like one rider who took his bike on Loop 202. A second race is in the works for this year, and promises even more mayhem. Let's just hope the cops don't spoil the fun.

It's time to face some hard facts. You're never, ever gonna be cast as a contestant on The Amazing Race. No matter how many times you mail in your cute and clever videotape, the producers of the Emmy-winning CBS reality show (which involves a global scavenger hunt and race for $1 million) aren't going to be calling you back anytime soon. After swallowing that bitter pill, soothe your uncastable ass by signing up to compete in the Great Urban Race. Similar to its televised cousin, the competition (which usually goes down each spring in Tempe) involves teams of two or four who decipher clues and complete a number of odd tasks (such as finding a particular political candidate's campaign sign) in order to maneuver through a series of citywide checkpoints and cross the finish line first for cash and prizes. Teams are encouraged to come in costume to add to the zaniness of the event (such as a pair who dressed as Super Mario Brothers this past year). The prizes aren't as big as they are on TV, and it might not be the same as jetting off to South America, but it's still pretty damn fun.

Situated in the Coronado historic district is this spacious, urban park with two lighted basketball courts. One slab of concrete usually has families and kids playing around while the other one features fast-paced pickup b-ball. A men's league (complete with referees and a scorer's table) reserves one of the courts on Monday and Wednesday nights, but some teams are often short of players, so just ask to run with them and they'll most often let you join in. Park hours are from 5:30 a.m. to 10 p.m.

Nestled at the east end of this 65-acre park are four regulation-size, rim-rocking basketball courts with some of the most competitive games around town. Each court is lighted for nighttime hoopin', and the lanes are painted purple and orange (an ode to the Phoenix Suns), which kind of makes you feel like a pro. If you get tired of balling, then there are plenty of other super-fun activities, such as batting cages and a skate park as well as chill-out spots by the man-made lake. Park hours are from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m.

Sueño, a Spanish word for "dream," is exactly that when it comes to pickup BB at this west-side park. Students and alumni from neighboring high school basketball powers Trevor Browne and Carl Hayden flock to the lighted courts, which makes for some serious games. The park is infamous for hosting games with the ankle-breaking skills of the Brown family — most notable is professional basketball player Gerald Brown, who suited up with the Suns for a season. Hours are from 5:30 a.m. to 11 p.m.

To the uninitiated, Chandler's Snedigar Park looks like an abandoned water park in post-apocalyptic-drought Phoenix. There's an empty swimming pool with a ladder, giant concrete steps to nowhere, and what appear to be several kiddy pools surrounded by towering palms. But to anyone with a worn left sneaker and a full deck, this is a playground of the imagination. Those "swimming pools" are bowls where seasoned skaters try sick tricks like the 540-degree McTwist, named for modern legend Mike McGill. The park also features k-rail obstacles, a flat bar, and several ledges and rails for sliding and grinding. With 35,000 square feet of cement, this place sure beats faking it on the Xbox.

Remember that time you spilled beer on the floor and Spot got totally wasted? Yeah, that isn't going to happen at Duck and Decanter's Lappy Hour. On the other hand, if you're tired of meeting new friends who turn out to be — gasp! — cat people, then this once-monthly event might be for you. Guests are invited to bring their well-behaved pooches along for a meet and greet over sandwiches and drinks. It's a great way to network with like-minded folks, but don't be surprised if the girl you bring home afterwards is a little on the hairy side. Local animal shelters usually bring unwanted pups ready for adoption to Lappy Hour, and it can be awfully hard to resist those puppy-dog eyes.

Even when it's hot, our retriever-Lab mix Rosy still needs exercise and something to relieve the boredom of the same old smells coming from the patch of grass in the backyard. But taking her for a walk in the summer is a form of animal abuse unless you adhere to certain rules.

Not only is the campus a beautiful place for a walk — you'll see throngs of busy young people, cool architecture, art, flowers, feral cats, and more — but it's got great water features to cool off Rosy's paws.

Once soaking wet, her black fur probably feels a whole lot better when we resume the walk in 100-plus-degree evening heat.

And, of course, leave the dog shampoo at home.

For those who don't favor their pooches large — or, God forbid, don't even own a canine or two — there's not a lot worse than getting bumped off the trail on a meditative nature hike by someone struggling to maintain control of their over-excited old Lab or fearsome-looking pit bull. But we've found a spot where big dogs (on leashes, natch) rarely bother anyone but their handlers — and it's a wonderful walk, to boot. At two easy miles in length, the trails are wide and easy to traverse, so much so that park rangers encourage wheelchair-bound hikers to come on out. We were duly impressed by the Indian petroglyphs, etched into huge boulders around 1000 A.D. After a good rain, the pot at the end of the rainbow otherwise known as the Waterfall Canyon Trail is a 75-foot waterfall that seems incongruous in the Sonoran Desert.

But back to those pups. Not long ago, we saw a lone woman, who had to be pushing 80, walking slowly through the canyon on the return trip. Jogging hard the other way was a triathlete-looking fellow with his German shepherd in tow. The jogger yanked his pooch to the side of the trail, and the woman never blinked an eye, never had to wonder whether she'd be trampled. That's what we call a happy ending.

So you love your little rugrat of a dog, and you want to expand his (we'll make him a "he" here) world to the great outdoors. And even though you know he's spunky as hell, those little legs won't do well on, say, Camelback Mountain, and you're afraid that he'll sniff too close to a rattlesnake, scorpion, or other varmit on a less-traveled trail. We've got the answer, and it's called Piestewa Peak (formerly Squaw Peak, until the city of Phoenix renamed it after Iraqi war hero Lori), officially part of the Phoenix Mountains Park and Dreamy Draw Recreation Area. Though the hike to the top on the Summit Trail is rigorous — 1.2 miles, elevation gain of 1,200 feet — the 3.75-mile Circumference Trail is much more forgiving, for humans and pooches alike. Wonderful views of downtown Phoenix await the people, and unparalleled scents of other canine cavorters await your little fluffball. We've seen more than one little love affair (G-rated, thankfully) spring up on the trail. All you need is some water for you and your best friend — and a leash.

If Piestewa Peak and Camelback Mountain had a baby, it would be Hayden Butte, a.k.a. "A" Mountain. This pint-size peak next to Arizona State University's Sun Devil Stadium provides a quick fix for nuts like us that can't stand flat ground. The best way to start the hike is to take College Avenue north toward the mountain to where the road ends at a parking lot, just west of the stadium. Keep going through the parking lot to the marked trailhead. After a nice, gentle section, hikers must trudge up an ultra-steep, asphalt service road that leads to a series of stairs and handrails. The summit area requires a tiny bit of scrambling to let you know you're on a real mountain.

In total, it's about a half-mile from base to peak — not very much distance, but the inclines are steep enough to stir our calf muscles. If we're feeling particularly energetic, we'll run up and down two or three times. Besides the workout, though, Hayden Butte offers the delights — albeit smaller-scale — of the Valley's burlier hikes. Namely, the temporary relief from urbanism and the picturesque view from on high.

True, there are those unsightly antennas and utility boxes surrounded by a chain-link fence that take up some of the space on the peak. For now, think of it as a bit of history — the equipment has been there for 60 years. But purists, take heart — that stuff is expected to be moved to the top of the new condo towers in downtown Tempe in the next year or two, allowing for a slightly more natural-looking summit.

The view of downtown Tempe and the Town Lake merits, at the very least, a one-time pilgrimage up Hayden Butte's flanks, especially for Valley newcomers and ASU students. Try it at night, when the summer heat's cooled off and you can see the lights strung over the Mill Avenue Bridge reflected in the lake. Two words describe this hike perfectly: Short and sweet.

We once knew a chick who broke an ankle hiking at night and wouldn't step off asphalt from that day forward unless there was light in the sky. What a shame for her, 'cause any knowledgeable trekker'll tell you that the best desert hiking is nocturnal, and it's twice as good in the summer. Our favorite after-dark delight is this short-but-sweet loop, which starts at the Siphon Draw trailhead near the Lost Dutchman State Park amphitheater and follows a gradual rise along the Prospector's View Trail to the base of the Superstition Mountains. Stop to drink in the silvery view at Green Boulder, which resides in the moon shadows of some lovely, snaggle-toothed pinnacles. There are several options for the return trip, but we usually head south on the Treasure Loop Trail, traversing a mile or so of bumpy washes and magical forests of jumping chollas that gleam like fresh bone in the glare of a full moon.

We're a human compass. It's innate. Until we met this befogging jaunt, no map was too complex, no maze too maze-like for our superhuman route-finding ability. Perhaps the hike's transitional setting, between lowland desert and upland scrub, had something to do with it, but after about an hour of head-scratching trekking, we felt as though we were running around in circles, holding a jerky video camera, and finding beating human hearts on the ground.

It might've been the spirit of one of the gold miners who pushed out the native Tonto Apache back in the 1870s — or an angry Apache specter seeking revenge — but whatever the spook du jour, this trail creeped us out. If you like creepy, it's a lovely place, set largely in a dry riverbed shaded by trees that wouldn't grow a mere 500 feet lower in elevation.

We know what you're thinking: "I never get lost. These people are pansies. I'll show them." Right? Well, lay in a supply of breadcrumbs, bub, 'cause this witch is hungry.

There's a moment when you reach the southwest extremity of this park's Pedersen loop trail that you stare into madness. The glimpse into the vast vacuum of central/western Arizona is the sort of horizon-less view you see in the movies, where some poor sap's got himself lost in the trackless desert, and now he's shuffling along like a zombie in the middle of nowhere. The outlook from this particular point on the Pedersen is a lot like that: Nowheresville.

Don't go that way.

Instead, trek east a couple of miles and keep going straight, even after the Pedersen bends north. We guarantee you'll have one of the times of your life — if you live. Heh heh.

The route you'll find yourself on travels straight up the gut of the least-accessible mountain range in the greater Phoenix area: the Estrella, or Star, Mountains. Whatever route you choose, it'll be random; there are no sanctioned trails to guide you to the 3,650-foot pinnacle of the range, so it's all about route-finding your way through the lush, virgin terrain. How delightful, you say! Well, that depends on whether you like being slapped across the face or bonked on the head. The going's way steep and way exposed. The vegetation's so thick you can't see your legs, and the vicious flora keeps depositing small, pointy pieces of itself in you. It's prime rattler and Gila monster country, and, as noted, you can't see your legs.

So why torture yourself this way? Here's why: A hike into the Estrellas is a trip into the past. This is what Phoenix — and the upper Sonoran Desert — looked like before we brought the jackhammer down. You'll see flora and fauna that no longer exist elsewhere, you'll drink in panoramic views that few others have seen, and you'll set your feet down in places that no one else has. Ever.

Just don't kill yourself, 'kay?

Are you one of those nauseating people who conquer Camelback Mountain in an hour-10 without breaking a sweat? Are you so filled with self-love that you then preen before the opposite sex at the bottom of the trail, flipping your hair and stretching your muscles and stuff while we lowly sweathogs are still grinding up those damned log steps? Well, meet the Flatiron, sucka. It'll kick your hubric booty.

Camelback is one nasty bee-yatch. The tallest point in the Valley, she tops out at 2,704 feet, and there's an elevation gain of about 1,200 feet from the Echo Canyon trailhead. These figures would make a Himalaya vet chortle, but they don't tell the whole story, and we'd like to see a snowhead tackle the Camel in, say, August. We'll see who chortles last.

The appropriately named formation called the Flatiron — it looks, for all the world, like an iron — rests haughtily at 4,800 feet, at the pinnacle of the Superstition Mountains. The elevation at the jumping-off point, the Siphon Draw trailhead, is about 2,000. Math says: two Camelbacks up, two Camelbacks down. Uh . . . ouch.

The trek starts near the campground at Lost Dutchman with the part of the hike we call the Tedious Trudge — 1.6 miles of rocky, irritating going on a gradual rise that leads up to and over the base of the Supes and into the maw of the Basin, a humongous natural amphitheater. This part of the hike accounts for about 1,020 feet of the total elevation gain.

The heartaches begin at the 1,021st foot. There, you're greeted by a vertical view of what's in store for the next, oh, mile and 1,800 vertical feet or so. Now, 1,800 feet in one puny mile is pretty vertical — in fact, it don't get much more straight up than that. More daunting still, the path (loosely termed) follows a natural drainage littered with giant boulders and prickly flora. It's very much like the Camelneck route on Camelback — but worse.

One more quick knock on ol' Dromedary Mountain: People say C-Back offers the best local panoramic views, but pay those unschooled people no heed. The 360 that fills the sockets from the top of the Supes puts anything else within a 100-mile radius to shame.

Bouldering is nothing more than rock climbing without a rope on short boulder faces. You don't need a lot of gear to do it — just a pair of good rock shoes and gymnasts' chalk, to dry up the sweat on your hands. Even those two items are optional, though the experience won't be as fun without them. By focusing on the climbing moves instead of futzing about with a lot of equipment — not to mention worrying about dying an untimely death — bouldering can be a wonderfully liberating experience, mentally. And it's a heck of a workout, physically. Best of all, it's free. At least, it is at Camelback Mountain, which is part of the Phoenix parks system. Quite a few bouldering options exist at Camelback, but we like the big pyramid-like boulder at the top of the trail's first long set of railroad-tie stairs.

We've spent many an hour turning our hands into ground beef on this 25-foot-high boulder, especially the east-facing corner that wraps around into an overhanging cubby with tiny finger-pockets for handholds. Another traverse near the north side is where we like to practice our heel-hooking technique. Best of all, when our arms and hands are blown, we can jog up the 1.2-mile trail to the summit of Camelback to work out the rest of our body. For climbers, this combo workout is cross-training at its best.

The Hand is a gorgeous, freestanding pinnacle of prehistoric lava in the Superstition Mountains that almost looks as if it belongs on Easter Island. It more resembles a finger as you hike toward it along Treasure Loop trail, though from the side it does really look like a hand, complete with a short thumb.

One of the reasons we love this climb is the belay perch on the space between that great thumb and the rest of the hand. It's like sitting in the saddle of a giant horse, our legs dangling over the steep cliffs on each side. Steel chains bolted into the rock provide a good anchor here, but there's certainly a high danger factor — let's just say that if you have no experience with rock-climbing techniques and equipment, the pretty view from this ledge just might be the last one you ever see.

Razor's Edge sports a moderate technical rating, but indoor-only climbers be warned — this one requires the lead climber to pack more than a medium amount of chutzpah. The two pitches of climbing have many sections with no protection for the lead climber. And, as on many climbs in the Supes, we found some loose rock that is just waiting for a careless climber to pull on.

In general, though, the pointy dacite outcroppings make good holds for hands and feet. The fun climbing and airy, heart-pounding exposure of Razor's Edge even received notice by Climbing Magazine. (www.climbing.com/exclusive/classicclimbs/razorsedge).

Also worth mentioning is the thrilling, 150-foot rappel, which is how you get down from this thing. The first climber that goes down should be ready with his or her camera to get shots of the others as they descend on the rope. A day at the Hand, especially properly photographed, will be a day to remember.

When the rocks outside get too hot to touch, climbers have two choices: Head north or head indoors. For the latter option, you can't do better than the Phoenix Rock Gym (which is actually located in Tempe, near Arizona State University). The place has a good mix of walls for beginners and advanced climbers, and a good mix of people, too. On the same afternoon you can see young couples introducing their 5-year-old to climbing and hear muscle-packed experts chat about drop-knee technique. The top-rope walls become crowded on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, but that's the price of success. Thrill-seekers can always move into the lead wall area, where climbers practice life on the "sharp end" and sometimes fall up to 10 to 15 feet on a rope before being caught by a belayer. One of the original rock gyms in Phoenix, if not the first, the PRG recently went through a major renovation in which the owners added a second bouldering area upstairs, this one with more heavily inverted walls. If you want to see human spiders climbing upside down, this is the place. The "old" bouldering area (for the uninitiated, bouldering is the art of traversing relatively low walls without being tethered) received a summer makeover this year, and now sports murals of colorful cartoon sea creatures. If they were to add bunks and a vending machine with beer, we'd probably move in.

You may have heard about the hilltop residents who tried to block access to Valle Vista Road at the upper foothills of Camelback Mountain. Ticked-off homeowners said they were tired of speeders, loud noises, break-ins, public sex, and other high jinks sometimes committed by visitors to this scenic road.

But the city chose not to install roadblocks, and the nearby residents, in fact, reportedly never considered blocking access to bicyclists or pedestrians.

That's great news for cyclists, because although the streets are long in the Phoenix metro area, the whole town is fairly flat and not much of a challenge for you hill-climbing types with calves like bricks. Valle Vista Road, on the south side of Camelback Mountain, is a wonderful addition to any bike ride in the area. Getting to it is easy: Just head north on 56th Street or Arcadia Drive, both of which lead to the hill-hugging Valle Vista Road.

We like to link it to our longer, around-the-mountain ride. But it's also a nice ride for more casual riders in the Arcadia or downtown Scottsdale area. The steep grades always get us pumped, and the view is stellar. Despite the complaints by neighbors, we never see much going on up there during our rides. It's usually just a quiet, pretty view. Many times, we'll even feel a wisp of a mountain breeze that we didn't notice in the flatlands below.

If you go up at night, though, watch where you shine your headlamp or you might see something to complain about.

It's inevitable that a few people end up dead or seriously hurt each year in the Valley's semi-wild mountain parks, given the crowds those parks attract when the weather's nice. Fortunately, we have volunteer groups like Superstition Search and Rescue, or its larger cousin, the Central Arizona Mountain Rescue, to keep the body count as low as possible.

Last spring, the Superstition team, affiliated with the Pinal County Sheriff's Office, showed off its skills in a dramatic cliff-side rescue on the face of the Flatiron, a prominent prow of rock on the west side of the Superstition Mountains.

TV and newspaper reports made it difficult to know exactly what went wrong. Somehow, after hiking up the steep Siphon Draw Gully trail, Valley newcomer Emily Decker and her boyfriend, Texas resident John Wilkinson, both in their 20s, had found themselves where they should never have been: perched on a near-vertical face of the Flatiron. Wilkinson had fallen 80 feet and was left balancing on a ledge, bruises and cuts all over his body. He had bashed his face so hard, according to reports, that he lost seven teeth. Decker was stranded on another ledge above him, too terrified to move.

With the help of a helicopter, on loan from the Arizona Department of Public Safety, team members lowered a 600-foot rope and plucked the pair safely from the cliff face in a risky effort that took nearly 12 hours and ended just before midnight.

A quote from Decker, in the East Valley Tribune, reveals the underlying problem that leads to most mountain rescues: "We just had no idea of the danger that we were getting into."

San who?

Exactly. Even we die-hard outdoorsfolk spent many a wasted year in ignorance of this under-utilized section of South Mountain Park before a wrong turn turned out right. Our happy misadventure started at that big fork in the road where nobody turns west 'cause everyone's headed east to the top of the range. And who can blame them? The top of this range, the centerpiece of the largest municipal park in the world, is a pretty special place.

But so is San Juan, South Mountain's fetching ground floor. You'll know you're on the right path when you see the snaggle-toothed spires of the Estrella Mountains looming dead ahead in the windshield. On either side of the road are wild tracts of lowland Sonoran Desert that slowly give rise to the park's curvaceous promontories. There's excellent hiking here in the rolling foothills — all of it fairly easy, unless you decide to go vertical — and we've yet to find a better place to ogle desert wildflowers in the spring.

A little farther down the road, there's a parking lot that provides access to a riparian area. Dry most of the year, the riverine system offers a desert experience that's rare, especially in the central core. You can walk for hours through boulder-chocked mini-canyons carved by monsoon storms and flash floods.

At the end of the road lies San Juan Lookout, which offers a prime view of the city plus a picnic area and the terminus of the 20-plus-mile National Trail.

One recent Saturday morning, we drove past the Camelback Mountain trailhead at Echo Canyon, and our hearts went out to the scores of hikers making the one-mile trudge from the overflow parking lot on 44th Street to the Camelhead. Mind you, we didn't feel for the poor wretches because they had to pound a little pavement. We pitied them because they didn't know any better.

That kind of ignorance is bliss for those of us who frequent Papago Park, a little-utilized, 1,200-acre recreational bonanza and one of the few significant parcels of lowland Sonoran Desert remaining in the urban Valley.

In the time it takes you to find a place to park at Camelback, death-trudge to the trailhead, scale the nasty piece of rock, and limp back to your car, we've already checked off two, three, maybe even four of the activities Papago has to offer. These include, but are not limited to, hiking and bouldering, mountain-biking, orienteering, urban fishing, picnicking, golf, archery, the Phoenix Zoo, the Desert Botanical Garden, and . . . you get the picture.

Wish you were here. But not really.

Sakura, the Japanese word for "cherry blossom," holds an extremely important cultural significance in Japanese culture. Each spring, the sakura trees begin blooming in the southwest reaches of Japan and steadily move toward the northeast. During this time, it's popular for natives and tourists alike to buy a bottle of sake and partake in viewing the blooms before they vanish for another year.

If you're yearning for a similar Zen experience, look no further than the Japanese Friendship Garden. A symbol of friendship between Phoenix and her sister city Himeji in Japan, this garden is built on 3.5 acres on which 50 architects from Japan built the park over 60 trips since 1987. Although there aren't cherry trees here, purple leaf plums, Japanese maples, and evergreen pears are just a few of the desert-friendly trees that create shady spaces to relax. You won't find a more authentic Japanese experience anywhere else this side of the Pacific.

Feed your inner butterfly. Even the toughest of men can appreciate the quasi-supernatural experience of walking among thousands of butterflies of all shapes, colors, and sizes. Okay, even if the men don't like it, their kids will.

For eight years now, the Desert Botanical Garden has hosted butterfly exhibits in a greenhouse pavilion — generally, twice a year (spring and fall; check the Web site for details) — with thousands of butterflies in 30 varieties in attendance.

Tickets cost as little as $2 and are available at the door. For that price, butterfly lovers of all ages can walk into a universe of tame, colorful, flying life. We think butterflies are the dogs and dolphins of the insect world: friendly, beautiful, and responsive to humans. If you disagree, go to this exhibit. Then we'll talk.

Think of a Hula-Hoop times 50 and you got a whole lotta shakin' going on. Every spring, the world-class Heard Museum hosts the world championships for Native American hoop dancing. It's like a slam-dunk contest for dancers, except that these folks must don traditional dress before they shimmy, contort, and gyrate for cash prizes and the glory of being the best at what they do. Alongside the adults, teenagers and little ones also vie for the big prizes. The event is held on the Heard grounds in downtown Phoenix, and the $10 fee for adults also covers admission to the museum. Children under the age of 4 get in free.

Since the '90s, this west-side collective of b-boys, hip-hoppers, and mind-blowing breakdancers has preached, in its words, true "H.I.P. H.O.P." (Higher Inner Peace Helping Other People). Every Wednesday beginning at 10 p.m., you can see what they mean when they open up their practice space to the public. The group's professional dancers, DJs, models, and musicians basically throw a big family-friendly party, which, in the past, has featured former Phoenix Sun and current radio personality Cedric Ceballos spinning records.

Former UFC and WWE star Ken Shamrock has been training fighters in mixed martial arts for years at his Lion's Den dojo in Reno, Nevada. This year, Shamrock opened a location in Scottsdale, boasting 8,000 square feet of training space, including a boxing ring, a fighting cage, and a fully equipped weight room. Shamrock handpicked the instructors for the Scottsdale location, who include Brazilian jiu-jitsu black belt Carlos Farias, UFC fighter Edwin Dewees, kick-boxing world champion Rick Roufus, and Shamrock himself.

Members of the Lion's Den can receive instruction in a variety of martial arts, from Muay Thai kick-boxing and grappling to boxing and jiu-jitsu. Members can participate in classes or pay for special one-on-one instruction. Kids are welcome, too, as the dojo offers martial arts programs for "Cubs" (ages 4-8) and "Juniors" (ages 9-14).

We lost our rodeo virginity this past year during the 44th annual Lost Dutchman Days and we can't imagine a more perfect place to lose it. The Grand Canyon Pro Rodeo Association, based in Winslow, programs rodeos throughout the Southwest, including this three-day shindig, which headlines the Old West carnival out in AJ each President's Day weekend. The biggie events of professional rodeo are all here, such as calf roping, steer wrestling, saddle bronc, and bareback riding. The majority of the cowboys and cowgirls live in Arizona (Phoenix area included) so plop your rodeo-watching behind on the new bleachers, listen to a rodeo clown tell jokes inspired by Jeff Foxworthy, drink canned domestic beer, and watch our local cowpokes giddyup.

This ain't no podunk rodeo, uhear? Never has been (the "Singing Cowboy" Gene Autry participated in 1938) and probably never will be, as long as the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association (PRCA) continues to bring this nationally sanctioned spectacular to town. The Buckeye Chamber started Helzapoppin' Days back in nineteen of thirty-five (that's 1935 for those of you who aren't country), and it's a celebration that continues annually every March. The all-things-Western party features a parade, car show, demolition derby, and (yee-haw!) the signature event culminating in the crowning of the Miss Helzapoppin' PRCA Rodeo Queen.

We have friends "back east" who truly believe that we saddle up our horses every morning, jump on from the back, and giddy-up our way to work down the stagecoach trail, which we quaintly call the interstate. Truth is, a lot of people "out here" do love their horses. And we haven't found a better place than this refuge from city life near the Desert Ridge Marketplace. On any given day at this delightfully rustic, family-friendly locale, kids of all ages ride their ponies in the four equestrian arenas, trails, and just about anywhere on-site. Classes include horsemanship, roping, and barrel riding, and family events such as hayrides, trail rides and kid rodeos make for a great time, even for the most urban of parks.

Kitschy? Yes. Cliché? Sure. Silly? No doubt. But this most accessible of local theme spots is celebrating its 37th year in the business of "providing quality 1880s-style family entertainment" for a reason — it works. Rawhide didn't miss a beat last year when it moved across the Valley from Scottsdale to the Wild Horse Pass on the Gila River Indian Community. Though it's obviously kid-friendly, grownups are known to show up sans the little ones, most often to wolf down some meat at the sprawling steakhouse and then to check out the sights for a spell. Those sights include the faux-cowboys who stroll up and down the wooden sidewalks in full regalia (and character), the train that circumnavigates the property, a stagecoach, a petting zoo, the obligatory mechanical bull, the panning for ersatz gold, and so on. Hey, Tombstone is a good three-plus hours to southern Arizona, and after watching the tiresome "shootout" at the OK Corral, there's not a lot to do but figure out which overpriced trinket or T-shirt to take home. Rawhide is a better bet, even if we continue to scratch our heads about its presence on a darned Indian reservation.

When asked for the best method of removing fresh paint from clothing, many homespun experts swear that fiercely scrubbing rubbing alcohol or hairspray into the stains will do the trick. If those remedies are to be believed, then your friends had better stock up on both drugstore staples, since you're gonna be covering their asses with more pigment than a Sherwin-Williams store during a heated face-off at Westworld Paintball Adventures. Oh, they can try cowering behind inflatable cylinders, plywood bunkers, or other obstacles dotting the 30,000-square-foot Xtreme Pursuit Indoor Arena, but just like the Terminator, you're going to track them down and pound them into next week. Westworld also has a 20-acre open-air Splatter Ranch course in Scottsdale where you can stage a showdown outdoors. Both venues feature fully stocked pro shops and technicians who can supply you with air guns, CO2 canisters, protective gear, and other equipment necessary to rain paint down on your buds (or any other n00b that gets in your way).

Your friends have really been getting on your nerves lately. If they aren't ringing you up at all hours of the day or asking to borrow some money, these so-called buds like to stop by unannounced, raid the fridge, and swipe your DVDs. Enough is enough. It's time for some payback, big-time. Invite your pals to Stratum, where you can settle the score and take out your frustrations (without getting jail time) inside the facility's 13,000-square-foot laser tag arena. Get equipped with a futuristic laser pistol and high-tech sensor vest (which keeps track of how many times you've been hit) before heading into a darkened and obstacle-laden arena lit by black lights. Then, get ready for the kill. Smoke your freeloading friends, sniper-style, from atop a 20-foot tower or sneak up behind them for a clandestine kill. Games last about 20 minutes each, which is plenty of time to seek your revenge. Rates range from $13.99 for two games to $19.99 for four games (with unlimited play for $20.99 offered from 8 p.m. until midnight on Friday and Saturdays). Hey, at least it's cheaper than therapy.

We don't admit to much these days (other than occasionally fudging on our taxes or taking an extra helping of chocolate cheesecake), but we'll gladly cop to the fact that we're totally reliving our childhood whenever we go to Big Surf. Many a hot afternoon was spent during our pre-pubescent days riding the waterslides or getting sunburned while swimming in the Tempe institution's gigantic artificial wave pool (the nation's first, by the way). A lot of things have changed since the park first opened in 1969 — slides have gotten bigger, teenage ride attendants have gotten snottier — but we still love the thrill of barreling down a watery tube at full bore. Our current favorites are the "Tornado Twisters," a pair of side-by-side slides where we can race some young punk down to the pool below, and "The Abyss," an enclosed slide that sends riders on a terrifying trip through the dark. If you've got young ones, get your significant other to take 'em to the park's kiddy-themed attractions like the "Otter Slides" and "Captain Cook's Landing" while you get in touch with your inner child.

The Pointe at South Mountain wasn't too shabby, but $52 mil can buy some killer upgrades and an awful lot of water. That's why the remodeled luxury hotel, now called the Arizona Grand Resort, was a shoe-in for the best pool in town. Actually, calling the Arizona Grand's Oasis Water Park a pool is a bit like calling the Desert Botanical Garden a nice yard. There's an eight-story tower with three water slides, a huge wave pool with waterfalls, and a faux river perfect for inner tubing. Order a frozen margarita at the swim-up bar or relax in the 25-person hot tub while the little ones play beach volleyball in the kid-friendly Wild Cat Springs. The only downside is that Oasis Park is for resort guests only, so you'll have to sneak in, splurge for a romantic local getaway, or schmooze your way into a company freebie.

If you're the adventurous type, but also kind of lazy (and we are both), the Verde River/Verde Hot Springs camping area is the perfect weekend getaway. Only 127 miles from the Valley, it's an escape from city life. And though it's certainly popular (there's no fee to camp), 45 minutes down a rocky, unpaved road tends to keep the killjoys out (if you know what we mean).

Though you're not supposed to stay longer than six days, it seems plenty of people ignore that rule by pretty much living there. But these are extra-friendly river folk who will share their beers if they think you're cool.

The real attraction here isn't the local color, anyway; it's the springs. They're a bit of a walk from camp, but if you go, just follow the river and keep your eyes peeled for two out-of-place-looking palm trees. History lesson: The springs used to be part of a hotel that, before it burned down, was rumored to be a hideout for Al Capone. Thus, palm trees.

This one goes out to those of you who remember the romance of necking in cars, or actually may have been conceived in a car — not that there's anything wrong with that. We would suggest that local possibilities still remain for exercising your lips (we refuse to endorse anything more), and some of the Valley's finest "parking" sites can be found out near the magnificent resort and golf club in north Scottsdale.

What's left of the desert out here is stunning, and finding a quiet nook to pull into as millions of stars twinkle overhead can be a little bit of Heaven. The city seems so far away — it's about 30 miles to downtown Phoenix — and your date seems, well, so close. And with nearby street names such as Dynamite, Happy Valley, and Pinnacle Peak, how can you go wrong?

This ain't your granny's bingo. Far from the dark, crowded, stinky bingo halls of yesteryear, Reflections Bingo is a blissfully smoke-free building with a snack bar, card room, and video bingo. Specials and hours change throughout the year, but most nights there's traditional bingo at 7 p.m. The game is the same, but the players have changed. Bored singles and stay-at-home moms get out their aggressions by pounding a blotter onto books of numbered boards. Don't discount the old biddies, though. That 70-year-old who reminds you of "Gram" will elbow your cards onto the floor to beat you to the Round Robin or Full Card — and a few hundred bucks.

Before Tom Cruise became a maniacally mindless automaton of L. Ron Hubbard, the Risky Business star was kind of the shiznit. Whether he was working a pool table in The Color of Money, zooming around a racetrack during Days of Thunder, or shooting through the skies for Top Gun, everyone dreamed of being a blockbuster badass like Cruise. In fact, we're betting many of the folks who sign-up for the thrills and chills of Fighter Combat International are wanna-be Mavericks. (Hell, FCI's Web site even declares, "Be a Top Gun"). Potential pilots can head to Phoenix/Mesa Gateway Airport and sign up for various packages (lasting anywhere from half a day to five days). There, they are clad in flight suits, briefed on tactics, and flown into the wild blue yonder by veteran sky jockeys.

Inside two-seat Extra 300L high-performance aerobatic planes, they wage an aerial battle against combat professionals with simulated weapons. (You even get to buzz the tower at the end, just like Maverick). For more peacenik types, FCI offers aerobatics programs in which you can experience loopty-loops, inverted flying, spins, and other stomach-wrenching maneuvers. You'll need a Hollywood-size budget to live your dreams, as these thrill rides aren't for the thrifty, with combat packages running from $729 to a whopping $3,669, with the amount of dogfights and flight time varying ($469 to $1,574 for the aerobatic program). We're sure Tommy Boy would approve.

All go-karts are not created equal. It takes just one trip to F1 Race Factory to learn this.

For starters, the go-karts at F1 peak at about 45 miles per hour and handle like mini-Porsches. Racers don aerodynamic helmets, racing jumpsuits, and gloves. Once they're suited up, racers can choose from two air-conditioned indoor tracks, which occupy about a third of the 113,000-square-foot warehouse facility (actually the carcass of a former Sam's Club).

You know a kart-racing operation is serious when the very professional employees give Breathalyzer tests to racers who've been throwing back booze at the trackside bar and lounge. If you do get pulled over for racing under the influence, though, you can enjoy yourself at the restaurant/bar — complete with barstools built from automotive wheels and more than 30 TVs screening ESPN and the SPEED channel. You can also burn some time perusing the collection of retired racecars, climbing the rock wall ($5) or playing in Race Factory's decent arcade.

F1 Race Factory sits on a peninsula of land between Loop 202 and State Route 143, on the Tempe-Phoenix border. Unfortunately, the adage "you get what you pay for" holds true. And at $25 per racer per race, F1 Race Factory ain't gonna be a first date for cash-strapped teens.

Insiders say you should rent the entire facility (which includes unlimited racing) for a large party and split the cost. Each kart is electronically timed and ranked on a TV screen, making the competition and rivalry, well, addicting.

Real bowling alleys have a little grunge to them. They're not too slick, not too clean, cavernous but friendly — the kind of place where Walter and Jeffrey "The Dude" Lebowski might feel comfortable bellying up to the bar and knocking down some pins, where the pizza, fries, and wings are just-right greasy and the beer is good and cold. We think the Dude would approve of the lanes at Indian School and 30th Street. We think he'd like the fact that on a Saturday night, the feel is more small-town than big, and you can find some actual teenagers, unplugged from their electronic devices and communicating with each other directly over a game. We think he'd like the Sunday-morning bowlers — the little boy and his grandmother who come almost every week, the single dad herding his offspring — and especially the raucous Thursday-night bowlers, including a bunch of arty types.

But, hell, we've introduced this place enough. In the immortal words of Walter Sobchak, "Fuck it, Dude, let's go bowling."

Kickball has dominated the realm of sport for people who really just wanna get fucked up and mess around for far too long. But it's a little too first-year-out-of-college, binge drink-y for our taste. Luckily, we were introduced to the world of disc golf — a more laid-back way to drink, smoke, and still feel as though you're getting some kind of physical activity in. We're not quite sure how throwing a Frisbee around qualifies as sport, but it does, and people take it seriously. There's even a Professional Disc Golf Association and international leagues, and a store that sells discs (which we, like the novices, just called Frisbees until we learned that's a brand name, not a catch-all term), caddy bags, and other disc golf accessories. But unless you plan on getting really into it, we suggest just tagging along with someone who already has the equipment. And by the way, the game is actually pretty hard, so be prepared to fish your discs out of the water if you're playing on a course that has one. There are courses throughout the Valley. We're partial to the one at Moeur Park/Papago Park, but you can look them all up at www.pdga.com.

Not only is Aguila the newest, fanciest municipal golf course in Phoenix, it's incredibly cheap. You can walk the course for $16 (or $12 after 11 a.m.) or rent a cart for $27 (or $23 after 11 a.m.). Designed by Gary Panks and opened for business only 8 years ago, Aguila has an 18-hole championship course and a nine-hole par 3 course. Located on what used to be the Alvord family farm, the course has some of the prettiest views you'll find on a municipal court — South Mountain and the Estrella Mountains in two directions and the Phoenix skyline in another. Golf addicts in town call it the best-kept secret in affordable golf. Guess the secret's out now, but everyone deserves to know about this pretty, cheap place to play (especially since Papago, probably the most scenic course in town, is closed for construction.) There's a full-service pro shop on-site and, if you get hungry, the Eagle's Nest Café is open from sunrise to sunset.

Dobson Ranch may sound like the name of a private golf club, but it's not. The city of Mesa owns and operates the course. This year, there's no contest in this category: The storied and scenic Papago Golf Course in Phoenix is currently closed for a much-needed $8 million renovation (expect a beautiful new course at the historic Papago when it re-opens in November).

Phoenix's loss is Mesa's gain, for the time being, anyway. Dobson Ranch's championship 18-hole course has been in Arizona longer than many Phoenicians, since 1972 to be specific. That age means the course has its share of mature trees — which give a nice, non-desert feel to portions of the greens and fairways.

Those trees also provide some shade for cheap summer golfing on early, dew-laced mornings. With a summer rate of just $15 for 18 holes of golf, it's tough to beat Dobson Ranch, with its 6,712 yards of fairways. The city of Mesa keeps the Bermuda grass in great shape, and the course offers a driving range.

In a golf-centric metropolis like ours, one private club was designed with purists in mind: The Golf Club Scottsdale. Like any other private club, membership is limited (to 350 members in this case) and expensive ($110,000 gets you in the door). But it's what The Golf Club Scottsdale doesn't have that sets it apart — a fairway lined with homes.

True, the $2 million to $10 million homes alongside the Boulders and Estancia clubs aren't eyesores. But The Golf Club Scottsdale gives purists the opportunity to play an award-winning course amongst beautiful high-desert scenery and with nary a mansion in sight.

That's why Golf Magazine named The Golf Club Scottsdale one of the "10 to take your breath away" in 2005, and Golf Digest placed it among the top 10 Arizona courses in 2007.

Befitting such a majestic and secluded course, the mansion-like clubhouse hits well below par (that is, in a good way). Both the clubhouse and restaurant have an old-world Royal Palms-esque air about them. And like its neighboring north Scottsdale courses, The Golf Club Scottsdale will challenge even the most avid (and wealthy) of regular golfers, particularly — we hear — on the final four holes.

We played all sorts of sports in our younger days, but when it came to baseball, strikeout was our middle name. That's until Daddy took us to Main Street, Mesa just west of Gilbert Road to this batting range (which was called Danny's Dugout at the time — now we're really dating ourselves), where a friendly fellow took us into the slow-pitch baseball cage and taught us to stop whiffing at every pitch. Today, the creaky baseball and softball range still looks as it did in the those days, save for the misting system that keeps batters cool in the summer months, a remodeled clubhouse chock-full of arcade games and baseball gear, and an upgraded concession stand that divvies out $1 hot dogs every Wednesday and Friday night from 6 to 8 p.m. Home Run Stadium is open just about every day.

We feel the need to say that all the stadiums used by Cactus League teams are nice. We have no major complaints about any of 'em. But, there's a big difference between "nice" and "best," and a couple of key elements make Scottsdale Stadium just a little bit better. Start with grass in the outfield and a nice view of the mountains from the seats. Mix in the fact that it's located in the heart of downtown Scottsdale, walking distance from dozens of bars, restaurants (we like to eat off our beer buzz at Los Olivos, which is only a block away) and hotels. As a fellow baseball-loving friend says, Tempe and Mesa stadiums are nice, but look at where they are. Yeah, there's nothing there. So though you might pay a little more for your seat in Scottsdale (typical . . .), you can take comfort in knowing you're paying for the best. And the VIP area here has its own little scene going on. It may have pretty much nothing to do with watching baseball, but it's fun. It will cost a bit more, too — unless you're tricky. We know a guy who managed to make himself VIP for an entire season without spending a dime. But we can't disclose his secret. You gotta figure that one out on your own.

Not so long ago, a ticket to a Sun Devils b-ball game had all the value of Confederate currency circa 1866. But those were the dark days when the Devils were the perennial lapdogs of Lute Olson's Arizona Wildcats. The worm began to turn in 2006, when the hopeless Rob Evans was replaced by Herb Sendek, late of the North Carolina State Wolfpack and the mighty Atlantic Coast Conference. Sendek was the ACC Coach of the Year in 2004, which is kind of like saying that, for one shining season, he was the best college basketball coach on the planet. By all rights, he should have pocketed the equivalent Pac-10 hardware for 2007-'08, when he took the new-look Devils to a 21-13 record, a berth in the National Invitational Tournament, and two — two! — wins against UofA. Suh-weet. The '08-'09 squad may yet net him the award — and, much more important — a berth in the NCAA tournament, because Sendek's two top players, phenom guard James Harden and team anchor Jeff Pendergraph, rejected early entry into the NBA to return for one more campaign. As for you, dear bandwagon-jumper, you're the beneficiary of the Devils' many moons of mediocrity. Wells Fargo Arena single-game tickets start at about the cost of a Starbucks Mocha Valencia. Behind-the-bench courtside? They can be had for as little as $20. You just have to try a little harder to get 'em than you used to.

Ours is a basketball town, and our WNBA franchise is the first pro-basketball team in Valley history to bring home a world championship. Ponder that for a sec. The Phoenix Suns have been scratching and clawing for 40 years, but a gang of burly chicks that's barely a decade old steals their thunder.

That's gotta sting for Steve Nash, the Big Cactus, and crew, what with their still-throbbing pride from that first-round playoffs ouster last April. For the rest of us, not so much. We here in Phoenix just like a winner. We don't care who it is, or what they do. If there's a "W" in there somewhere, we're all for it. Makes our chest swell up real nice.

It's even nicer when we can wallow in victory at a nice price, and the Mercury have always offered a square deal. Pro team, check. Led by a superstar who transcends the limited appeal of her sport (Diana Taurasi), check. Ten bucks for a decent view at one of last summer's Mercury games. Check.

Ten bucks? Hell, that's what a beer with a decent buzz costs at a Suns game.

Hoping to see some spring training major-leaguers off the field? Best odds are to hunker down between the Giants' stadium in Old Town Scottsdale and the Oakland A's' stadium near Papago. With only four miles between the two stadiums, the concentrated area of high-end restaurants and shopping in this quadrant is prime hunting area. Fans in this zone are nearly bound to run into a major-league hitter, his wife, or even his manager.

Among the hottest stakeouts is Don & Charlie's Steakhouse. It's old news that Cubs manger Dusty Baker and ESPN voice Rick Sutcliffe are practically fixtures at Don & Charlie's, which sits just minutes from the Giants' stadium in Scottsdale. Other likely places to spot a major-leaguer include the P.F. Chang's across from Scottsdale Fashion Square and in Fashion Square itself.

Those seeking autographs can drive over to the Oakland A's' Papago Park complex, where fans can position themselves to rub shoulders with MLB players walking from the clubhouse to the field.

If you're tired of seeing the Suns lose, but you still want to see an NBA star in person, we've got just the place for you. We have it on insider knowledge that most visiting NBA teams and some NFL teams stay at one and only one hotel in Phoenix — the Ritz-Carlton at Camelback and 24th Street.

We've seen Phil Jackson in the bar, and we hear this is where Kobe Bryant gets his breakfast in bed when visiting Phoenix. Shaquille O'Neal may have even enjoyed the spa treatments here (before moving to Phoenix himself).

A single room can cost $1,200 a night at the Ritz, but you need not be an overnight guest to buy a drink at the bar or eat brunch in the restaurant — both of which are on the first floor. So next time you're bored and you know a visiting NBA or NFL team is in town, head to the Ritz. You might just bump into somebody famous.

What can we say about Phoenix Suns point guard Steve Nash, except that he's like a really fine wine: aged to perfection. Last year, it looked as if he'd slowed down a little, but that was because his dunderheaded former coach played him as if he were a 24-year-old. That's just not any way to treat a fine Cabernet. He needed to start the game, naturally, but be given more than just a few minutes at the end of the first and third quarters and the beginning of the second and fourth. Jeez, the geezer (for an NBA point guard) averaged 36.6 minutes a game. Only the much younger Amaré Stoudemire and the tough-as-nails Raja Bell averaged more.

But would Little Stevie complain about now-departed coach Mike D'Antoni's riding him like a favorite whore? No way! You never heard the cool-as-the-other-side-of-the-pillow Canadian whimper a note. Even when his ailing back was obviously killing him. Hey, we're not saying Nash isn't in great shape — for a player who will be 35 next season. Running 20 miles a game in the NBA is hard work for anybody. But no matter how hard he worked during a game, no matter how disappointed he was after a loss, Nash always stopped to talk with the media, sign a kid's program, or pose for pictures for his favorite charities.

Indeed, Nash gives himself extensively to good causes. The Steve Nash Foundation offers grants to programs helping poor, neglected, ill, or abused children. He is the sponsor of the Steve Nash Youth Basketball League in British Columbia, is involved with GuluWalk, which helps children in war-torn Uganda. And, with Houston Rockets center Yao Ming, was among NBA players who played a game in China against the country's national team that raised millions of dollars for Chinese children. Heck, he even financed a new pediatric oncology ward at a hospital in Paraguay, his wife's home country. Like we say, the man's a class act.

We're kicking ourselves lately for giving Mike D'Antoni last year's coveted Best Pro Coach award. We marveled at his run-and-shoot offense, how he had brought a fast-paced European style of play (he was a star player and coach in Italy) to the NBA. Well, the experiment with his brand of small ball is over, and it failed miserably at bringing a championship. Time for a change. Enter Shaquille O'Neal. It was D'Antoni and owner Robert Sarver's idea to bring Shaq to Phoenix, so was it too much to expect that D'Antoni would conform the team to his new starting center's abilities? Was it too much to expect that he was a good enough coach to work Shaq into the offense and still have great fast-break possibilities with the other speedy members of the squad?

The jury is now in, and the verdict is that Mike definitely wasn't good enough. In fact, he sucked. He stubbornly refused to do anything except run his fast-paced offense, with Shaq as an afterthought. Let's not even get into the fact that D'Antoni also hard-headedly refused to play more than seven or eight team members regularly, leaving promising rookies to rot in bench oblivion. Let's just talk about how he couldn't work Shaq into the offense without bringing the team's offense to a grinding halt (and an exit from the playoffs in the first round). Now, we know a lot of you will say it was O'Neal's fault, but you're dead wrong, Jethro. Shaq did everything he was paid to do: score and rebound in double figures. Sure, he's lost a step, but he's still arguably the best true center in the game. He definitely added a measure of what the Suns desperately needed: D!

Okay, we're sure you've all heard what happened: GM Steve Kerr and Sarver met with D'Antoni at the end of the embarrassing first-round loss in five games to the ancient Spurs (whom the Suns dominated during the regular season) and practically begged him to stay. Kerr just wanted D'Antoni to stress defense a wee bit more (he even suggested hiring a defensive specialist as an assistant coach) and to go a little deeper on the bench. You know, develop some younger players, because guys like Steve Nash, Shaq and Grant Hill ain't going to be around forever. Hello! Not that much to ask of a coach who had failed to deliver, who had had just completed his worst season as a head coach here.

But you know what? The mule-headed West Virginian just couldn't cotton to anybody suggesting a few obviously needed changes — even the guys who paid the fathead his fat salary. So he bolted at first opportunity for the New York Knicks. The New York Freakin' Knicks! The worst team in the NBA, with a roster of the biggest losers in pro sports. Our prediction: The New York media will chew the mustachioed cracker know-it-all a new one — because if he couldn't cut it with the talented Suns roster, he certainly won't with a bunch of overpaid whiners.

Amaré Stoudemire's a specimen: 6-foot-10, 250 pounds, all muscle and tattoos. A puma in short pants. He can jump out of the gym, gimpy knees or not. As far as sheer athleticism, nobody on the Phoenix Suns can touch him. Few in the NBA. Certainly nobody in Phoenix sports. Stoudemire's a guy who came off microfracture surgeries on both knees to return to All-Star caliber. There's no reason that he can't be the NBA's Most Valuable Player, especially now that Shaquille O'Neal's arrival in Phoenix has allowed Amaré to go back to his natural position of power forward, particularly now that the Suns have moved on to a head coach, Terry Porter, who stresses defense.

It will help immensely that Porter and general manager Steve Kerr have hired Bill Cartwright as an assistant coach. Cartwright's specialty will be handling the team's big men, Shaq and Amaré, principally. He will be able to relate to them, too — been there, done that. Amaré's always been capable of thundering dunks and moves under the goal. He even perfected a long-range shot from the top of the key last season. Scoring has never been his problem (he averaged 23 points in 2006-07). Defense has always been his Achilles' heal. Hey, it's not that he hasn't had his moments; he's been adept at a magical steal under the basket that turns into a fast break basket for one of his teammates. He averaged a respectable nine rebounds in the '07-'08 season. It's just that he's lacked grit as a defender.

All that's about to change. His athletic gift is about to bloom into full-fledged NBA dominance. Something Kerr told us last season comes to mind: "Amaré truly wants be a great player." So he's always had mind and matter; next season, he'll have the coaches to show him the way.

Diana Taurasi may have the college records and may be considered by hoops experts to be the best WNBA player ever, but she certainly didn't show it in last season's league championship against the Detroit Shock. She wasn't bad, but you know who was great? Cappie Pondexter. Maybe it was because Taurasi was double-teamed, maybe it was because she let her temper get the best of her (read: foul trouble), but Pondexter was the reason the Mercury brought the title to Phoenix. A sparkplug for the team from her guard position all season, Pondexter was so good in the finals that she was named series MVP. In the clinching game, she scored 26 points and added 10 assists.

Pondexter's the first to say she couldn't have done it without Taurasi and forward Penny Taylor, but she's too modest. Her athleticism, demonstrated by her speed and ball-handling skills, put the Mercury over the top against coach Bill Laimbeer's favored Shock. Said former Mercury coach Paul Westhead, who has since split for an assistant coach's job for the Seattle SuperSonics: "Cappie proved surely in the playoffs that she was the key player for us." At 5-foot-9 (one of the smallest players in the league), Pondexter's always been a killer. She's been a WNBA all-star during all her seasons as a pro, a scoring leader at Rutgers, an international basketball star with Fenerbahck Istanbul, and a member of the USA women's Gold Medal-winning team in Beijing.

This year, injuries hampered her, and the team didn't make the playoffs. But, our prediction is that she'll be back at full strength next year.

We predicted last year that the 2007 Cardinals would have their best season in modern times (with 8 wins and 8 losses). Damned if we weren't on the money! And we said this success would be inspired by new head coach Ken Whisenhunt, he of Pittsburgh Steelers grit and grime as offensive coordinator of that team's championship in Super Bowl XL. Now, Whisenhunt is a shrewd operator. He used sleight of hand (trick plays) and an aged quarterback to have a respectable first season with the Cards, but do it he did! Thing is, except for incredibly bad luck (sometimes you think the team is, indeed, jinxed), the Cards would have been 10-6; Whisenhunt's boys in red and white lost to lowly San Francisco twice.

The reason the new coach had to use dinosaur QB Kurt Warner was that star-of-the future Matt Leinart suffered a broken collarbone in the fifth game of the season. But Warner played admirably (and he's played admirably in the early-going this season). This year, our prediction's that the wily Whisenhunt — with the help of a stellar defense he's put together — will take the team to that 10-6 season and a playoff berth.

Disappointed? Yeah, we know all you long-suffering fans want the team to not just get in (but win!) the Super Bowl, but who're we kidding?! The former X's & O's whiz for the Steel Curtain, no-bullshit and turf smart though he certainly is, can work only a minor miracle for this team. After all, they're the Cardinals, and there's good evidence that they're, indeed, jinxed, all the way back back to the time when they were the Pottsville Cards in 1925 and grasped tightly to a championship that wasn't won on the field ("Here's Why the Cardinals have Sucked Forever," Robert Nelson, January 11). Their dismalness over the years got the superstitious fans among us conjuring up the Pottsville Curse bugaboo. Though not up there with the Curse of the Bambino (Boston Red Sox) or the Curse of the Billy Goat (Chicago Cubs), the P-Ville Curse certainly would explain why our Red Birds have often resembled Dead Birds.

Female coaches, along with women's sports, so often get overlooked, even by us. And we're supposed to be an "alternative" publication. Not this year, baby: We're giving our Best College Coach nod to the incredible Charli Turner Thorne, the winningest coach in Arizona State University history. Yeah, you heard that right, in freakin' Sun Devil history, with a record of 225-145! In addition to that, she's fourth in the Pac-10 in most career wins. That all means that Turner Thorne has taken the team to the NCAA tournament six times. The 22-11 record for 2007-08 was the fourth consecutive 20-win season for Turner Thorne's squads. And if that weren't enough, she led the team to a school-record 31 victories, 16 Pac-10 wins, an Elite 8 berth and a ranking of 10th in the Associated Press national poll a year earlier. Turner Thorne is known worldwide for her round-ball prowess; she was assistant coach of USA Basketball's U21 World Championship team that won the gold medal in Moscow last year. With accomplishments like these, which bring in top recruits, we predict that it won't be long until the Stanford graduate and former Northern Arizona coach brings a national championship to Tempe.

Not long ago, the question was, would the ASU women's fast-pitch team ever beat archrival Arizona in a regular-season game, much less win the conference championship and, gasp, the 2008 NCAA College World Series? After all, it was the Wildcats who were two-time defending national champs going into this year's Division I playoffs in Oklahoma City. Even after ASU had swept Arizona in its three-game season series this season, most fast-pitch pundits still viewed the Sun Devils as pretenders to the crown worn so often by their hated opponents to the south. But come next season, ASU will be the defenders, not the pretenders, after sweeping through the field (which included Arizona) and winning the whole enchilada, thanks in large part to the remarkable, five-win pitching performance of senior southpaw Katie Burkhart. Head coach Clint Myers deserves huge kudos for taking a program that famously underachieved again and again under his predecessor and climbing with his young charges to the very top of the women's fast-pitch ladder.

Steve Kerr has long been one of the best minds in basketball, even if he did sign ancient center Shaquille O'Neal to a run-and-gun team last year. We thought that was a bad move from the start, but we realize that the Suns were never going to win a championship with the small-ball Shawn Marion squad. And, frankly, Marion was an overrated pain in the ass. Good riddance!

Kerr knows that one thing the charismatic Shaq will do is put fannies in the seats at U.S. Airways Center. But we digress . . . Kerr's putting together what may be the best Suns team in a long time. He's added crucial elements, like a big man, in Robin Lopez, who can come off the bench to spell both O'Neal and Amaré Stoudemire. Did we mention that Lopez, out of Stanford, is a defensive specialist? And Kerr's added a point guard of the future, Goran Dragic. The 6-foot-4 Slovenian, the second-best point guard in the '08 NBA draft, will actually be able to replace Nash some day. Kerr also grabbed swingman Matt Barnes from the Golden State Warriors.

These are major moves, along with the hiring of coach Terry Porter, who will stress D — unlike his predecessor, whose system was a flashy failure. We want a championship, dammit, before a couple of Suns become AARP members! Last year, with the aforementioned stubborn Mike D'Antoni around, Kerr couldn't shine. But his off-season moves will make the Suns, with aging stars like Nash and Shaq, shine again. We smell a championship trophy — or is that Amaré's jock strap?

The great hopes for the Diamondbacks this year have been a couple of pitchers: Brandon Webb and Dan Haren, the team's All-Stars in 2008. After winning the 2006 Cy Young Award with a 16-8 record and 3.20 ERA in 33 starts, Webb has gone on to be arguably the best pitcher in the National League. At press time, he had a 21-7 record (the NL's first 20-game winner, he started the season with nine wins in a row).

Haren, acquired from the Oakland A's last December, had a 15-8 record at press time, and in the 2007 season with the A's, he was one of the top 10 pitchers in the American League — winning 15 games, striking out 192 and sporting an ERA of 3.07.

The two pitchers provide the best one-two punch of any pitching staff in baseball. In the All-Star game, they combined for three scoreless innings. Webb might have started if he hadn't pitched a tough game a few days before and needed the rest. In the 2007 All-Star Game, Haren did start for the American League (because of his incredible performance in the first half of the season) and led it to a win. The Diamondbacks offense, despite occasional spurts, has continued to be a disappointment this season (and not just because of injuries to key players like left fielder Eric Byrnes), but the team's best two pitchers have been stellar.

Bob Melvin toiled for eight major-league franchises as a player, including the New York Yankees, the Boston Red Sox, and the San Francisco Giants, but was never much of an offensive player. A backup catcher during his career, he finished his playing days with a batting average of .233 and 35 home runs. But he has been a hell of a manager in his still-young career. He won 93 games as manager of the Seattle Mariners in 2003 but was let go after the next season, when the team lost 99 games. Shit happens!

He returned to the Diamondbacks, where he'd been bench coach, in 2005 and led the team to the National League West Championship last year, going on to manage the D-Backs to a sweep over the Chicago Cubs in the National League Division Series, only to see his team swept by the Colorado Rockies in the NLCS. But it was a marvelous journey, one that earned Melvin National League Manager of the Year. The poorest offensive team in the National League would never have gone as far as it did without "The Mad Scientist," which is what broadcaster and former D-Back Mark Grace dubbed Melvin because of his frequent juggling of winning lineups.

He did a whole lot last year with a team of promising youngsters and only one real star, Cy Young Award-winning pitcher Brandon Webb.

This year, he had a few more stars but (at press time) was seemingly less successful. Melvin has a quiet intensity on the field that inspires the confidence of players and fans. We pray (as we always do when in comes to the D-Backs) that the Mad Scientist can connive a way to get us into the World Series — someday. Bob, go back into the lab and conjure up a potion.

We know, we know . . . Shaquille O'Neal is over the hill, or certainly he's crested the top of it and is heading down. Still, he's got a lot of gas left in the ol' tank, and he proved it during the 2007-08 season, producing double-figure points and rebounds in most games. What do you naysayers expect the Big Aristotle to do? He's not going to be the high-scoring, stellar-rebounding monster he was back in his L.A. Lakers championship days. He's not even at the level he was when he and Dwyane Wade brought an unexpected championship to the Miami Heat. But he's a boost to the team, not only because he's a great role player but because he's a great role model. Not to the kids (that genie movie aside) but to his Suns teammates. They desperately need a champion in their midst — a guy who knows how it feels to be at the top and win rings and championship trophies (four of them).

But Shaq's more than just an inspiration; he's a celebrity. Look at that big grin; look at his antics on and off the court. He's strictly showbiz, from his sprinting ahead of his speedy teammates to prove that he's fit, to diving for balls in the stands (and having impromptu conversations with fans) to refusing to accept Spurs star Tim Duncan's help off the floor after a hard foul. Shaq's out in the community doing charity work, and he's volunteering with the Tempe Police Department to keep his law enforcement chops current.

Whether he's acting (and we use the term loosely), clowning around with teammates and fans or just grinning at the camera after reciting one of his raps (remember this one after the Lakers were pulverized by the Celtics in this year's championship: "You know how I be/Last week Kobe couldn't do without me/I call myself big, but I'm not as good as Biggie/I call myself big 'cause I live next to Diddy/Excuse me, Diddy lives next to me/So in the hood, dog, I feel like B.I.G."), the man now called the Big Cactus is just a pleasure to have in Sand Land. And now that dunderheaded Coach Mike D'Antoni and his failed fast-paced offense are no more, we may be very glad to have an entertaining veteran on the floor. Another thing we desperately want to believe is that he means it when he says he will win another NBA title with the Suns.

We love Grant Hill. He's cool; he's friendly. But he's too gimpy to play major minutes as the Suns' small forward. He definitely shouldn't be the starter anymore. Coming off the bench would be this gimp's speed nowadays, and hopefully new coach Terry Porter will use him effectively in this role this season. Hill adds character and leadership to the team. He's the kind of guy that young players look up to. Plus, he had his moments during the regular season. He injured himself at the end of last season because coach Mike D'Antoni gave regular playing time to just eight team members. There are 12 active players on the team, and other more successful teams (say, the San Antonio Spurs) rotate 11 players into the game. This is the way you develop players, and the way you preserve the bodies of your veterans. Duh, he was worthless to the Suns in the playoffs because D'Antoni had used him until he used him up!

Here's why Hill must be used sparingly: He's been in the NBA since 1994, six years with the Detroit Pistons and seven with the Orlando Magic, and he's been injured much of that time. Hill's had everything from ankle injuries to a life-threatening staph infection to a sports hernia that allowed him to play in only 30 percent of the Orlando Magic's regular-season games when he was there. Last year, we said Hill was a valuable addition to the team, and we still think that. But as a bench player!

Last year, we thought the Suns would, at the most, start him and play him maybe half a game. That way, he could've given the team quality minutes and stayed healthy. If Porter is wise (we know GM Steve Kerr is, and we know he understands that there's only so much life left in veteran players), he will use Hill as a sparkplug. He will keep the slasher fresh so he has some spring in those gimpy legs of his.

Dustin Pedroia may be the best major-leaguer to come out of Arizona State University since (dare we say!) Barry Bonds — and he hasn't resorted to steroids (we think). Consider these stats from the Woodland, California native, former Sun Devil, and current second baseman for the defending champion Boston Red Sox: a .317 batting average in his first full season with the Red Sox in 2007 and .327 through 147 games of the 2008 season. After winning American League Rookie of the Year in 2007, his performance this year earned him his first spot on the American League All-Star team. In last year's League Championship Series against the Cleveland Indians, Pedroia batted .345. In the seventh game, he hit a two-run homer at Fenway Park and had five runs batted in to lead his team into the World Series.

Along with fellow rookie Jacoby Ellsbury, Pedroia got the Red Sox off to a tremendous start in the fall classic. On the first pitch of his first World Series at-bat, Pedroia homered over Fenway Park's Green Monster. In helping Boston take the first three games of the series, Ellsbury and Pedroia, batting first and second in the Red Sox lineup, combined for seven hits and seven runs. Boston took game four and swept the Colorado Rockies to give the team its second World Series title in four years (before 2004, it hadn't won an MLB championship since 1918).

It was predictible that Pedroia would do so well in the majors. During his ASU career, he hit .384, with 71 doubles, 14 homers and 146 RBI — phenomenal stats for a college player. But he wasn't just an offensive marvel; Pedroia was named 2003 National Defensive Player of the Year while at ASU, and has been a stellar infielder as a pro.

Chuck, run for governor of Arizona instead of Alabama. Please! We need you in this state, where all but a handful of Democrats are Democrats in name only. We know you used to be a Republican, but then you denounced that party for its B.S. You would inject some life into the political scene here, just as you have into the NBA sportscasting. Frankly, we don't know what we would do without you on TNT. Ernie Johnson and Kenny "The Jet" Smith would be nothing without you. Even Magic or Reggie can't match your spunk. You crack us up.

Sometimes we figure you're drunk or stoned when you pontificate perversely from the right-hand corner of the screen, but we love it. We loved it when you said that Nellie Ball, which Mike D'Antoni persisted in reinventing, has never worked and never will. You were talking about the proverbial Don Nelson, lately coach of the Golden State Warriors, who invented the small-ball, run-and-gun system that D'Antoni's Suns employed to not enough avail. Somebody needed to freakin' say it, especially when D'Antoni was so badly botching it after the arrival of Shaquille O'Neal. Entertaining honesty!

Sir Charles has got to be the most quotable SOB in sports:

• "I don't care what people think, people are stupid"

• "I love New York City; I've got a gun"

• "Just because I dunk a basketball doesn't mean I should raise your kids"

• "My initial response was to sue her for defamation of character, but then I realized that I had no character"

• "We don't need refs, but I guess white guys need something to do"

• "Somebody hits me, I'm going to hit him back. Even if it does look like he hasn't eaten in a while."

The former Round Mound of Rebound has been entertaining us in Phoenix for going on 20 years; his 1993 Suns team was the last to play in an NBA Finals. When he retired eight years ago as the fourth player in history to rack up 20,000 points, 10,000 rebounds, and 4,000 assists, we knew we hadn't seen the last of him. We in Phoenix knew more than anybody what a hoot he was; now he's the most entertaining guy on sports television.

We wish he were the new coach of the Suns, but let's give Terry Porter a chance. Doug Collins has head-coaching experience out the you-know-what, having led a young Michael Jordan with the Chicago Bulls and an old Michael Jordan with the Washington Wizards. He also coached the Detroit Pistons, played on the 1972 U.S. Olympic team, was a first-round draft pick of the Philadelphia 76ers out of Illinois State, took (along with Julius Irving) the Sixers to the NBA Finals against Bill Walton's winning Portland Trail Blazers in 1977, was a four-time NBA All-Star, and is the best basketball announcer in sports. After a stint with NBC earlier in his career, the Valley resident has been with TNT for four years doing color commentary. Collins is known for his insight into the game and for his understated sense of humor.

We really thought he would be named the Suns' new coach, since he often sat beside Steve Kerr during TNT telecasts, before Kerr abandoned the microphone to take on the GM reins for our NBA franchise. The two are pals. During the off-season, Collins was also rumored to be up for the Chicago Bulls coaching job. But when the Suns job went to another Kerr buddy, Porter, and the Bulls job went to Suns assistant GM Vinny Del Negro (Collins reportedly took himself out of the running), we were glad that we'd continue to see him on game broadcasts.

Unlike Walton, who bested him in that championship series back in the '70s, Collins is a reasoned broadcaster who never fawns over star players, much less jabber just for the sake of jabbering. Along with fellow TNTer Charles Barkley, he was righteously critical of the Suns' lack of defense during the Mike D'Antoni era. As a Valley resident, he spoke from the vantage point of fan as well as sports analyst. And analyst-supreme Collins has always been. The insight into the game he's gained through years of coaching and playing alongside the best nabbed him the coveted job of Olympic basketball coverage this year. That and a calm, avuncular style that makes the beer and popcorn go down all the more smoothly.

We've had our differences with Jerry Colangelo over the years. There were times when we felt the Valley public sector was bending over frontward to financially enable this sports entrepreneur/developer. But, Jerry, we've forgiven you, because you are indeed a pillar of not only our sports community but the world's. You proved your prowess as a sports executive beyond compare with your takeover of troubled USA Basketball. That the team returned to Gold Medal form says it all. In summer Olympics past, we've wondered why multimillionaire NBA players couldn't win the gold against less-accomplished international teams, and now you've proved that they can. Money players prevail, as the Good Lord intended! We guess it just took the right man at the top to make this happen again.

Your great moments in Phoenix sports are legendary. As the original general manager and, later, head honcho of the Phoenix Suns, you may not have won a championship, but you came close a couple of times. Without you, there would be no U.S. Airways Center. But your greatest accomplishment was bringing major-league baseball to us — and three years later, fielding a World Series champion Diamondbacks team in 2001. Beating the New York Yankees in the aftermath of September 11 was something special. Much of the nation was (finger down throat) praying for the Bronx Bombers to prevail as a "healing" measure for America, but the team you assembled (with pitchers Randy Johnson and Curt Schilling in their primes) made sure that didn't happen. Boo-hoo for the red, white, and blue. We say bravo for sticking it to the rest of America in '01, and then helping the U.S. stick it to the rest of the world in '08.

How many times did we see Boris Diaw drive to the goal and then, inexplicably, pass the ball back out? Way back out? How many times did we see him wide open for a lay-up yet nervously not take the shot, instead choosing to pass to an incredulous teammate. (That is, the teammate couldn't believe his eyes when Boris refused an easy basket, the result being a bobbled ball and a turnover.) Diaw may be getting paid mega-bucks, on the heels of his most-improved NBA player trophy for the 2005-06 season, but he's too shy to be a major NBA player.

We're saying, how many times must he fail to impress before the Suns trade him to somebody who wants him — say, Mike D'Antoni's New York Knicks? D'Antoni, who failed to win a championship with his system, owes us that much. We're not one to lash out at the French, but Diaw's the kind of player who makes you wonder whether the whole country's made up of a bunch of sissies. Hey, it's not that he hasn't played well on occasion. The guy's had three triple-doubles. Last year, in game four of the first round of the playoffs against the San Antonio Spurs, Diaw almost achieved another one (20 points, 10 rebounds and eight assists) in 44 minutes.

Why he hasn't turned in performances like this regularly is a mystery; he's avoided serious injury. We think he lacks heart, intensity, confidence. He surprises even himself when he plays well and hasn't the swagger to carry the success into the next game. The idea that the best man to fellow basketball Frenchie Tony Parker (Mr. Eva Longoria) could play point forward regularly and allow Steve Nash major breathers is just crazy. How many turnovers can the team stand? How many missed opportunities for easy buckets? Please, Suns, put Boris out of our misery.

For Alvin Adams' sake, he's 7 feet tall and he's a defensive specialist! Could this 255-pound bruiser out of Stanford University actually be playing for the Suns? Well, you freakin' betcha! General manager Steve Kerr went out and got the team a big man, to spell not just the aged Shaquille O'Neal but Amaré Stoudemire, as well. His being a primo defender in the paint in college should be a big plus. Maybe he can teach Stoudemire how to do it, and maybe Amaré can teach Lopez how to pick up his scoring. The guy's a monster on the court who blocked 73 shots during his freshman season. That was not only the most shots blocked in the Pac-10 Conference that year, but it was a school record at Stanford (which has sported some incredible basketball teams).

Lopez is young (20), having entered the NBA draft after his sophomore season, but he will add muscle to the Suns' D. Not that we give a crap about his twin brother, Brook (drafted by the New Jersey Nets), but the Lopezes together blocked more shots than seven Pac-10 teams in the 2006-07 season. And don't think Lopez can't score. Though his brother was the more offensive player in college, Robin turned in two double-doubles in his sophomore season and has scored in double figures in NBA summer league competition. But the most interesting thing about him is his red Afro. (That and the rumor that he dated pro golfer babe Michelle Wie.)

If we'd given a Best Of for incredible hair (past winners include Eric Byrnes and Steve Nash) this year, he'd have won it, tresses down. To say he hears the beat of a different backboard-pounder would be an understatement. The round-ball giant, along with his brother, is queer for Greek mythology, Michael Jackson music, and anything Disney. The only other way he's light in the sneakers is as a rebounder (he averaged six boards a game in college, and the Suns are expecting more out of him in the, by comparison, wide-open pro game).

As the Springsteen lyric goes, "Man turns his back on his family, well, he just ain't no good." Which some in his family say describes legendary former Phoenix boxing manager Danny Carbajal. The confidant and trainer of brother Michael Carbajal, the world champion Phoenix flyweight and silver medalist in the 1988 Seoul Olympics, Danny was sentenced in February to almost five years in prison for stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars in retirement accounts and properties from his late ex-wife, Sally. He is also under investigation by Phoenix police in the murder of his ex-wife and her boyfriend, for embezzling more than $1 million from his mother, and for steering his trusting brother Michael, whose financial affairs Danny handled as his manager, into financial ruin.

"I have no assets," Michael, long retired from the ring, said at Danny's sentencing. "He left me broke, with nothing, Judge!" It was not always so between the brothers; Danny trained Michael from a kid to the boxing success he enjoyed, which involved winning more than $7 million in purses over his career. The two were best friends; at least, Michael thought so. These days Michael, who in February asked that Danny get a maximum 10-year sentence, is dependent on his girlfriend to survive. "I would have given him anything. Anything!" Michael, now 41, said to the judge. But that was then.

If you've been to an Arizona Roller Derby or Arizona Derby Dames match, you've seen Joker. Or heard her. She's the chick with the glasses and curly Mohawk who positions herself behind a team bench or right out on the rink, screaming her head off. Sometimes, she's dressed in the colors of a particular team (with face paint to match), and other times, she's just wearing buttons or T-shirts that proclaim her team spirit. But no matter how she's dressed, she always acts the same — she'll scream at refs for "bad calls," shout encouragement at players, and slam her fists against the rink floor or bench ledge. Since the local roller derby leagues were founded more than five years ago, Joker's rarely missed a match in either league, and she can recall incidents from games five years ago with all the clarity of a fan who's watched the same footage over and over. She's even made her way into video clips of the Arizona Derby Dames, by virtue of just always being around. And though roller derby has its share of devout fans here, none of them is as enthusiastic and downright lusty as Joker. For her, even seeing the Derby Dames selling brownies outside Bikini Lounge on First Friday qualifies as an event.

Now, we've got lots of sports legends living in the Valley: Muhammad Ali (he's still alive, isn't he?), probably the greatest athlete of all time; Wayne Gretzky, the greatest hockey player ever; mouth-from-the-South Charles Barkley; Iron Mike Tyson. And quite a few sports legends have died here: George Mikan, the first legitimate NBA big man, and baseball's Kirby Puckett. But there's one who never lived here or died here, but whose body and head (separated for storage) are frozen here in the hopes that one day, when medical science has achieved a God-like proportion, the two can be rejoined and rejuvenated into a live and well Ted Williams.

Even dead, the great Boston Red Sox slugger is bigger than life. Nary a year goes by when a major publication or broadcast outlet doesn't marvel at how Ted's noggin wound up at Alcor Life Extension Foundation in Scottsdale in "cryonic suspension." One story is that Williams scribbled a note on a napkin that he wanted to be "put in biostasis" after death, another is that he stated in his will that he wanted to be cremated and his ashes scattered over a favorite fishing spot. There were legal rumblings among family members over what the baseball great really desired, but Williams and his head have been at Alcor since shortly after his death on July 5, 2002.

Now there's nobody in the Valley who's more legendary than Teddy Ballgame. He played 19 seasons with Boston and is considered by many the greatest all-around hitter in baseball history. He was Most Valuable Player in the American league twice, led the league in hitting six times, had a lifetime batting average of .344 and hit 521 home runs. He was the last major-leaguer to hit over .400 (.406, actually) in a single season (1941). He always went out with flash: on his final at-bat on September 28, 1960, he hit a home run. In addition to his baseball career, he was a distinguished Marine Corps pilot in World War II and the Korean War.

When Bob Costas once asked Williams whether he realized that he was a real-life John Wayne hero, Williams responded: "Yeah, I know." We sincerely hope that medical science is someday able to revive a hero of such egocentric proportions, that a youth serum has been invented to return Williams (who was 82 when he died) to his youthful form, and that he struts into left field for the Diamondbacks. Though he never won a World Series during his playing days, we're sure that (even coming back from the dead) he'd be come closer helping our boys in cleats do it than Eric Byrnes.