Summers, we see a lot of the triple-A PawSox over in Pawtucket and the double-A Portland Sea Dogs when they visit New Britain, but the only player I recognize is Hanley Ramirez. He’s the number one prospect in our farm system, a shortstop with speed and power. He’s only twenty, and rumor is he might be promoted from single-A Augusta to Portland, with an eye towards taking Nomar’s place in 2005. One problem is he made 36 errors last year and hit only .275 after batting over .330 at lower levels. Another is that he’s a hothead, earning a ten-game suspension for making an obscene gesture to the crowd. Here, in practice, he moves like he’s already a superstar, cool and loose and slouchy.

There are three seniors watching with us, a woman and two men, one of whom is wearing a Springfield Elks cap. The woman has a camera, a couple signed balls and a handful of minor league cards. She wants to get Jamie Brown to sign his. She knows all the players taking batting practice. This is what they do, she says. They’re mad at the Sox for forcing them to buy ticket packages that include three crummy games to get the one good one against the Yanks, so now they just come to the complex and watch the kids.

BP wraps, so we ramble along the road beyond the last field. It’s hot, and Steph’s cheeks are red. We’ve circled the entire complex, and walk through the lot just as two women in a ’69 Firebird convertible pull up. They’re older than any of the guys here, but beach-tanned and gym-tight. I don’t think Steph’s seen Bull Durham or knows what a Baseball Annie is, but he probably wouldn’t be interested anyway.

We come back in the players’ entrance, which has a Boston Globe honor box beside it. The batting alleys are full of guys getting extra swings in. By the backstop, the old lady is getting Jamie Brown to sign. We’ve only been here a few hours, but it’s enough. It’s only our first day and we’re already wilting.

After putting in some beach time, we get caught in traffic and are nearly late for the night game. Hammond Stadium holds only 7,500, but it seems they’ve all brought their cars. The Twins have elected to park the overflow on the outfields of their practice facility. We just shrug and follow the soft ruts in front of us and nose it in against the 330 sign by the foul pole.

“The temperature at game time here in Fort Myers is seventy-nine degrees,” the PA announcer informs us, to applause. “In Minneapolis, it’s thirty-four with a mix of rain and snow.”