Once upon a time there was a place called "Baseball City." They had a nice ballpark there, where the Kansas City Royals played every spring, and where other baseball tournaments, like the women's league Citrus Blast, took place. And they had a theme park--in that land of theme parks that is Central Florida--with a rollercoaster just beyond the left field fence.

I never saw that version of Baseball City, which didn't last. After a while, they tore down the rollercoaster and demolished the boardwalk, but they left the baseball facilities alone. Not for long, though. Next year, the Kansas City Royals will join the western exodus and take up training in Arizona in February, and Baseball City will be no more.

I'm glad I got to see it at least once before its demise. On my annual Grapefruit League pilgrimage to see the Yankees this year, I scheduled my trip to coincide with one of the Yankee games in Baseball City. I was looking forward to seeing the place, and also to seeing Chuck Knoblauch perhaps they only time I'd see him all year, now that he is with KC. Unfortunately, seeing Chuck was not to be. On the Tuesday before I left for Florida I read that Chuck's father, who had battled Alzheimer's since 1997, had succumbed. On the night I arrived in Baseball City, Chuck was in Texas for his father's funeral.

Insert my usual musings here about the connections between family and baseball. I was at the game with my own family, my parents now retired to Florida, corwin my boyfriend/life partner/significant other, and we picked up my brother and his fiancee in Tampa on our way to the game. We left the Tampa area around 4pm and headed East on Interstate 4 toward Orlando.

There's not a lot between Tampa and Disney World -- mostly orange groves and Waffle Houses. You notice the Waffle Houses when you are hungry. You notice the orange groves when you get out of the car and the sweet perfume of all the orange blossoms hits you. We could see the lights of the stadium as we pulled off the highway, the stanchions standing tall above the flat landscape. The sun was setting and the sky was pillowed with gray, threatening clouds, the green of the orange groves and undeveloped land on all sides making it seem as if we were finding an outpost in the jungle.

As my family went to get their seats, I went to start my latest adventure in baseball writing, picking up my media credentials and heading to the field where the Yankees were taking batting practice.

Joe Torre had told the media a few weeks back that his plan was to start ramping up the intensity after March 19th, when the Grapefruit League schedule had its one off day. The regulars would play just about every day after that, he had said, and this night was no exception. Despite the hour-plus bus ride from Tampa, Torre put something close to his starting nine on the field, including Jason Giambi and Derek Jeter. Torre had also brought a full complement of coaches along, including Don Zimmer and Reggie Jackson.

When I arrived, Torre was sitting in the dugout (photo), surrounded by the regular beat writers, giving his daily update. Music was blasting through the stadium PA, making for a lively batting practice, but it was difficult to hear what the soft-spoken manager was saying. It's even more difficult to read what some of my notes say now... my hand was shaking a bit as I was writing. I guess three hours of sleep, a 7am flight, a slight cold, and to suddenly be in the presence of the Yankees was a little much for me.

Among the things Torre talked about, in response to reporters' questions: how Jason Giambi was fitting in with the Yankee clubhouse, how the clubhouse was since the departure of the not-named Ruben Rivera, and more. Of what I CAN read of what I jotted down: "I think the makeup of the clubhouse is fine."

About Roger Clemens pitching in Game 3 of the World Series and throughout the postseason with a hamstring pull: "For a power pitcher dealing with your legs, he knew just going out there was not going to be good enough. We needed a pitcher. If he was hurt the thing that made that start tough was that he had to pitch that day. And he came through."

About using the bench: "We haven't really pinch hit for a lot of people on this team. Maybe a Chili Davis for a Scott Brosius once in a while. This year, maybe a Coomer could be it? Or VanderWal, or Spencer on a tough righty? Even though I don't use the bench a lot, I like to have that weapon. It affects how guys manage against us." Also: "Spencer is on record as saying he wants to play every day. VanderWal is very comfortable coming off the bench."

About Juan Rivera, who had been tearing up the place with hitting and great defense in the outfield: "When Bernie came up lame we brought him back up, I've seen Gerald [Williams] and [already] knew what he could do." Torre then brought up a play Rivera made in Lakeland where he "almost went over a fence."

About the outfield situation in general, with Bernie limping, Rondell White still out with his ribcage pull, and Ruben Rivera released from the team: "Remember Strawberry diving for that ball in left field in the 1996 World Series? Left field has been a question for us many times in the past. For sure we're not as deep as we've been. You don't realize it until it's not there--without Paul O'Neill."

So who's going to play the outfield Opening Day? "I think that's what we're going to have to find out." If Bernie can't go, or Rondell's not ready? "What I've seen of Juan Rivera, he's not going to embarrass anyone. Marcus [Thames] too. We have coverage. That's all you need if it's a short term problem."

Torre says things like this to the writers every day. The writers, for the most part, roam around in a flock. After Torre's talk, there was little to do other than watch batting practice and talk with each other. Most of the writers are blase about BP--they've seen it a thousand times. But I still love it. It's one of the reasons I love going to Fenway Park and Camden Yards when the gates open--to see the visiting Yankees take BP. If I had to choose between arriving early for BP and missing the late innings of a game, or missing BP to see the whole game, I'd be hard pressed to choose, even in the regular season. I got chatting though, by the dugout, with some of the other writers, and with a forlorn-looking guy with a microphone and a "Radio Disney" shirt. He looked about as out of place as I felt, so I felt sorry for him and went to say hi.

Turns out he's working for Radio Disney on a feature they do called "Out of Left Field" where they ask baseball players various off the wall questions. He had already done a bunch of other teams during the Grapefruit League season, but this was his first crack at the Yankees. "They're a hard nut to crack, aren't they," I asked him. "Yeah," he agreed. The Yankees are so pursued, and so covered to the hilt by the media, that they tend to try to fend off some of the attention, rather than being hungry for it like some of the smaller clubs. But at the same time, Yankees players seem to know and understand that talking to the media is also a part of their job. "Just grab them," I told him. "You have to just walk right up to whoever you want to talk to and ask if they have a minute. If you wait for them to come to you, you'll never catch them." "Yeah, I know." A few minutes later he tried to snag Jason Giambi, but Jason was about to get a bat(photo) and start hitting. "Maybe later," he was told. I did see him get Robin Ventura, though, as he came in from hitting. There you go.

As Giambi went up and down the dugout steps I did a double take. I knew he had shaved and all that--I've seen the pictures, the appearance on Letterman. What I didn't know was that he had really slimmed down, or so it seemed. Well, he had said on Letterman that pinstripes are slimming, but here in Baseball City he was wearing the un-striped road gray pants and the blue BP jersey. I had seen him in person several times last year--at an Angels/A's game in Anaheim, at two games in Oakland, and in the ALDS at the Stadium. Granted, I never stood next to him, but he always looked like his bulging muscles were about to burst out of his uniform. He looks much less bulky this year to me.

Then it began to rain. As we took refuge in the dugout--writers, players, bat boys, coaches, everybody--the grounds crew ran out and covered the infield with a tarp. Most of the players then headed for the clubhouse, and most of the writers headed for the dining room. (One of the perks of being a major league writer is they feed you dinner every night.) But not all. I sat down on the bench next to Reggie Jackson and Willie Randolph. Luis Sojo sat down next to some scouts from Venezuela. And then Reggie began to talk.

I idolized Reggie Jackson when I was a kid. In the seventies, when the Yankee pennants of 1976, 1977, and 1978 forever cemented my love of the team, my four favorite players were Reggie, Bucky Dent, Ron Guidry, and Thurman Munson. When I had to write a book report in fifth grade, I wrote it on a biography of Reggie. When the teacher told me later in the year I had to read and report on a biography of someone who wasn't a contemporary sports figure, I did Willie Mays, who seemed to me like the closest thing to Reggie Jackson in the historical section of the library.

You know how sometimes you idolize someone and then when you meet them all your illusions are shattered? Well, this was not one of those times. Not when what Reggie talked about was facing pitchers like Luis Aparicio and Bob Welch. And did you know that Reggie speaks Spanish? Reginald Martinez Jackson held court in the rain-delayed dugout, speaking in English and Spanish, to me, the Venezuelan scouts, and all assembled, about how Bob Welch drilled him in the back with a pitch. One of the scouts asked him, in Spanish, if he had faced Welch again later in his career. Reggie admitted that he did, twice. And the same thing happened both times. "Bombas," Reggie said, miming his swing with his hands. Home runs.

I was almost sorry to see the rain lift after that. But the tarp was pulled back, the field raked, and it looked like the game was on. I skipped dinner in the press dining room... too excited about everything, I guess. I went up to the press box to pick up the game notes and lineups. But I didn't stay up there. I had seats for me and corwin in the third row behind home plate. This was the first baseball I'd see live since Game 5 of the American League Division Series and I wanted to be as close to the action as possible.

When I arrived in Florida, the Yankees were on a tear. After winning their first three games of the spring, they had lost something like eight in a row. But then, for no particular reason, they began to win again. And win, and win, and win. Normally we expect the Yankees to sputter in the spring, as veterans work out the kinks, and Torre and the coaching staff put untested players into many situations to see how they will do. But who can complain when they win?

One thing the Yankees have been doing with frightening regularity this spring is score runs in the first inning. That night in Baseball City was no exception, as Alfonso Soriano led off with a single, moved to third on an E4 (allowing Nick Johnson to reach), and then scoring on a Jorge Posada single. In the bottom half of the inning, El Duque looked sharp, striking out the first two Royals and retiring the third on a pop up to third.

Things didn't go so smoothly in the second. Light rain began to fall again, and this time Hernandez struggled, walking leadoff man Mike Sweeney. Then he slipped on the wet rubber during his windup and Sweeney was awarded second base on the balk. El Duque slipped again two pitches later, this time resulting in a wild pitch and Sweeney took third. Michael Tucker walked, and Raul Ibanez hit a sac fly to score Sweeney and tie the game. Joe Torre came out to insist that drying agent be spread on the mound, and the grounds crew hurried to comply. After that, El Duque escaped the inning, but his rhythm had been broken and the pace of the game slowed.

Perhaps, the Yankees figured, if the wet conditions gave Hernandez trouble, the Royals' pitcher, Paul Byrd, would have just as much trouble. Well, he did issue a lead off walk, to the patient Nick Johnson. Derek Jeter and Jason Giambi followed with back to back singles, Jorge walked, and Robin Ventura blooped a broken bat single into the outfield. After John VanderWal added a sac fly, the Yankees had plated the first four men to come to bat in the inning, and the score was 5-1 Yanks.

I leaned over to the scout with his stopwatch and clipboard across the aisle and asked him if he thought Giambi looked slimmer this year. He said he wasn't sure--he didn't get that close to him last year either. Hmm.

El Duque never quite got back the snap he'd had in the first, giving up two home runs, but striking out three more men in the fourth and fifth. Meanwhile, the Yankees continued to tack on runs, threatening in most innings, and chalking up two more in the fifth. And the relief pitching was strong. Randy Choate came sidearm from the left, striking out three over two innings, Jay Tessmer (back with the Yankees after a trip around the league) came sidearm from the right, and Mike Stanton came over the top with his big curve ball. Those three faced the minimum over four innings and did not give up a hit, nor a run.

Once the bullpen had the game well in hand, I went back up to the press box to see if any news had broken up there. Brian Cashman was there, chatting with some of the writers. Gene Michael was there, too, watching. One of the writers asked Cashman why he had let Jason Giambi ride his motorcycle (it's in his contract that he's allowed to). Cashman said something suitably quotable like "We feel Jason is a responsible enough individual to protect his career" or something like that, but once he realized no one was taking notes he dropped his speechy tone and told an anecdote instead about how he, Cashman, almost got a motorcycle himself when he was in college. Almost. He had two roommates who were into motorcycling and was considering getting into it, too, when one of them advised him that "there are two kinds of riders. Those who have been down, and those who are going down." Thus, the young Brian Cashman was dissuaded from such thrill-seeking. (And, I guess, got an internship with the Yankees instead.)

I went back to my seat and listened to the two young girls in front of me -- they could not have been more than 8 years old -- talk baseball. I wish I had brought a tape recorder so I could reproduce now the absolutely charming conversation these two youngsters had. I must have been a lot like that when I was their age, before I learned to score and before I really learned to follow a game. Back then, baseball was full of these pleasing but mysterious moments, when you cheer because everybody cheers, because you know something wonderful has happened even if you don't know exactly what it is. I'm thinking in particular of the night my father and grandfather (on my mother's side) took me to a ballgame at Yankee Stadium. We got last minute seats behind home plate--that was the first time I had ever sat behind the screen. Bobby Murcer came to the plate with the bases loaded and then he hit a home run. And then, after all the screaming and leaping up and down was over, my Dad got to explain to me what the words "grand slam" meant. You mean all three of the guys on base score, too? Awesome!

Anyway, these two were about at that stage. At one point during the third inning rally, one of them said to the other, "Hey, how did we get three more points?"

"That's because DEREK came all the way around," the other one explained. They were, of course, fascinated by Derek Jeter and always wanted to know where he was on the field. (photo)Their father never tired of pointing out where he was, and never tried to explain too much. And they offered their opinions of the new Yankees we didn't know so well, but who stood so close to us in the on deck circle we could talk to them if we tried. On the eight-year-old girl scale of measure, Robin Ventura gets a thumbs up.

The rain had moved off, and beyond the glare of the stadium lights there was nothing in the sky but blackness. No skyline, no glow of urban landscape, no planes or spotlights. (photo)Looking over the outfield fence, where there was once a rollercoaster, I had the feeling the entire ballpark was suspended in space, surrounded by nothingness, isolated peacefully from everything.

Thinking about it now, about the little girls giggling through the game, about Reggie reminiscing, about Chuck saying goodbye to his father for the last time, and about all the people who were saying goodbye to that ballpark for the last time, I almost wish it were time, rather than space, that was distant from Baseball City. But time does not stand still. In the course of a game, a season, or a lifetime, it gives us moments to remember, but it always moves on.

After the game, we moved on to Waffle House. And in the morning, to Dunedin to face the Blue Jays.