For Minnesotans, there is one truth so painful to admit that, in the interest of collective sanity, few natives ever acknowledge it publicly. The unspoken truth is this: Wisconsin is a better-looking state than Minnesota. Yes, it is home to the hated Packers, to Dahmer, to Ed Gein, to Tommy Thompson, to welfare reform, to hunting "accidents," to countless alcoholic benders. Yet the simple fact remains. Wisconsin is prettier than its neighbor to the west, both in terms of its flora and, especially, its small and mid-sized towns. The explanation? That is a matter for the sociologists, architects, and historians. In the fish wrap business, we just consider the case in point: St. Croix Falls. Located directly across the St. Croix River from Minnesota's Taylors Falls (tourist trap), St. Croix Falls is the wholesome Midwestern river town straight out of central casting. Cruise down the main drag on a lucky day and you will stumble across a senior garage sale where, for a pittance, they will just happen to be selling a commemorative album of music that was recorded at the East Coast church where your parents were married. Beyond such serendipity, there is the physical beauty of the place. North of town, you can get lost putting around on the gravel and sand roads. There are several lovely, unimproved picnic spots scattered along the east bank of the river. Get good and lost and you'll find them.

If you polled a few hundred well-traveled Minnesota motorists and asked them to identify the most beautiful drive in the state, chances are a plurality would cite the stretch of Highway 61 that runs from Duluth to Grand Marais. It is a natural pick. With its panoramic views of Lake Superior, dramatic rock outcroppings, and pleasing mix of evergreen, birch, and poplar, the North Shore drive is pure eye candy. These days it can also be depressing. If you hit the road at the wrong time--say, during peak leaf-peeping season--there is a good chance you'll be jockeying for position with an armada of speeding Hummers and Suburbans barreling north to their red pine McMansions. So here's a better suggestion: Take the North Shore drive but cut west when you see the sign for Highway 1. Stretching from the bucolic, still undespoiled hamlet of Finland to the edge of the Boundary Waters, Highway 1 wends through some of the most drop-dead gorgeous landscape the Superior National Forest has to offer. The winding, two-lane road is sparsely traveled, especially in the fall. So you can drive slowly and pull over pretty much anyplace to check out the beautifully glaciated landscape, typified by babbling brooks, rocky lakes, and a mixed forest of fir and spruce. One word to the wise: There is a move afoot to straighten this curvy highway, so you might want to take the drive sooner rather than later.

You end up at the bottom of a steeply raked field filled with blackbirds and horses. There's a river valley spread out far below you in the distance, an old church steeple climbing up from the greenery. It's a certain kind of sturdy American beauty you see here, the kind of image you might find in the photo calendar of a small-town college. It might be Utopia. It might also be Shakopee. And you can't help but feel astonished to realize that you can bike here on a protected path all the way from downtown Minneapolis. The pleasures of the Cedar Lake Trail are already known to most city cyclists: the wildflower prairies, the coffee break at the railroad depot in Hopkins. But this is generally where most urban souls loop back home. Riding a few blocks through the streets of Hopkins deposits you on a 10-foot-wide, packed limestone trail, which snakes 11-odd miles along the old St. Louis and Minneapolis railway. This path takes you first through schoolyards and backyards, then by parks and lakes, and ultimately right through the pretty heart of exurbia. Here's your chance to sneak into the gated Bearpath community, which the SW LRT trail bisects. It's also your chance to bike through bogs and farm fields, until you find yourself on a scenic crossing, perched high above the Minnesota River Valley. Ambitious souls can follow a few arteries to rural county Highway 13 and the northern arm of the LRT trail system in Victoria--which leads back to Hopkins and Minneapolis (some 43 miles round-trip). Cut out of work early on a weekday afternoon and you can be out in the country, down by the river, on the shores of Lake Minnetonka, and back by dinner--without ever having stepped on the gas pedal.

Yes, the Minnesota River is a sick river. Fouled by agriculture (it has the misfortune to run through the farm belt), the Minnesota is the most polluted waterway in the state. Despite some recent improvements, it still makes the lists of the country's most endangered waterways. This is a real shame. Stretches of the Minnesota--mainly, those west of Shakopee--are among the most beautiful and wild places in the metro area. (And we do mean wild; a few years back, a mountain lion was discovered hunting deer in the river valley near Savage). Because the water quality is so notoriously shitty, the Minnesota receives remarkably little pressure from anglers. And therein lie its great virtues. On a hot summer afternoon, you can launch at Shakopee, cruise 10 miles upstream (watch out for deadheads and sandbars), and only encounter a handful of humans. You might see a yahoo on a jet ski or a few kayaks, but mainly your fellow river users will be shore-fishermen. Catfish, both channels and flatheads, are the river's chief attractions. Yet the Minnesota also holds populations of some 70 other species of fish. There are the usual game fish: walleye, northern pike, white bass. But for the curious angler, the river also offers another enticement: a long-odds chance at laying into two of the strangest-looking, most prehistoric fish species found in all of Minnesota, namely the gar and the paddlefish.

It is a given that the best canoeing in Minnesota, and some of the best canoeing in North America, lies in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. If you are serious about canoeing, you already know this. There is little point in singing the praises of the place to you because you've already scheduled your annual trip. But if you are a normal, car-dependent, lazy person--in other words, a regular Minnesotan--you probably want a less demanding experience. It's not that you don't enjoy a beautiful day on a remote, wild waterway. You're just not much for portaging or overnight camping or complying with the BWCA's stringent food and drink regulations. You're looking for something along these lines: You want to spend your day on a river that has serviceable access for the drop-off and pick-up car. You want to paddle for five or six hours. Come evening, you want to strap the canoe to the roof of your car and head back to your house or cabin or motel, where you can ruminate on the grandeur of nature while not being menaced by biting insects. In other words, you want to take a day trip on the St. Louis River. For the novice or intermediate canoeist, the St. Louis offers a perfect range of options. Most of the middle stretches of the river--say, in the vicinity of Floodwood--are relatively slow and easy to navigate. But every few miles brings a set of rapids. In low water conditions, your average spaz can handle the river with little trouble. When the water is higher and moving faster, you might want to make sure your partner is both competent and relatively sober. From the Twin Cities, it takes about three hours to reach Floodwood, so expect to spend a good chunk of time in the car.

New rule: A beach is only as good as the water is clear. If we can't see our perfectly manicured toes when standing tit deep, we want nothing to do with it. Okay, so Square Lake is not technically in the Twin Cities, and you're going to have to pay one of those fees we're always griping about to get yourself within dipping distance (county park vehicle permits cost $5 per day or $25 for an annual pass). But with underwater visibility of 15 to 20 feet we're willing to fork over an Abraham Lincoln. Above water you'll find picnic tables, spotless restrooms, a canoe launch, and a fishing pier. Feeling adventurous? Plan ahead for a scuba session and get a glimpse of the underwater attractions, which include sunken boats and canoes, a variety of fish, and the tail section of a plane. Finally, we recommend that you pack a picnic, because they've replaced the pleasant concession stand with less agreeable vending machines. Oh, and Fido is gonna have to sit this one out. No pooches equals no poo.

How fitting that our favorite movies-in-the-park series would devote its latest season to the films of Hollywood's consummate outsider. Nicholas Ray remains best known for his mid-'50s teen angst epic Rebel Without a Cause (screening August 1). But the director's whole jittery oeuvre is about put-upon rebels--strung-out patriarchs, misanthropic screenwriters, bull-dyke cowgirls, Jesse James, Jesus Christ--who struggle to express themselves in a stifling climate: Not for nothing is one of Ray's trademark works called In a Lonely Place (July 25). The communal vibe one feels in front of the Loring screen will make the movies' own poignant search for community seem, in the words of another Ray title, bigger than life.

In the power struggles of Minneapolis city politics, none are as contentious as those surrounding the Minneapolis Park and Recreation Board. The City Council is constantly looking askance at the board, which is always rife with infighting and controversial decisions. But one fact remains: The city's park system is among the best in the country, and it seems, for the most part, bureaucracy-proof. Lyndale Park Gardens, which neighbors the Roberts Bird Sanctuary, is really four gardens: the Perennial Garden, the Perennial Trial Garden, the much-needed Peace (Rock) Garden, and the Rose Garden. All of these areas are lovely, but it's the Rose Garden that makes the place special. Designed by Minneapolis Park guru Theodore Wirth, the Rose Garden is the second oldest in the country, having been constructed in 1907. The roses begin blooming in June, and some variety or another can be seen flowering until late September. There are guided tours, but we appreciate the way a mellow stroll will take you back in time. There are many parks--not to mention the chain of lakes--that now double as fitness centers; we'll take beauty over brawn any time.

Minneapolis celebrates its lakes (the motto is "City of Lakes," after all), but the truth is those modest little puddles in ritzy southwest don't offer half the pleasures of the dirty old Mississippi River. In terms of fishing, boating, and the prospect of escape, the Miss has the lakes beat. And it also has better picnic grounds. Sure, you can always grab a table by the pavilion at Lake Harriet. You'll probably enjoy yourself, too, especially if you like the roar of the airplanes, enjoy breathing exhaust from the constant stream of cars looping the parkway, and want to check out the latest models in luxury baby strollers. Or you could grab your picnic basket and head for Minnehaha Park and actually enjoy yourself. The great virtue of picnicking at Minnehaha is choice. Feeling lazy? You can walk 50 feet from your car to a picnic table, mow down the chow, take a gander at the Falls, and motor back home. Feeling like throwing an outdoor party? You can reserve any of three picnic sites at Minnehaha Park, which come complete with rain shelters and pleasing riverfront vistas. Feeling adventurous? Then you can scramble down the gorge and locate more remote spots where you can inhale the grub. Given the generally lax police presence, you might even chug a brew.

See the parade of SUVS on a Saturday morning, pulling boats with 800-horsepower engines, clogging the interstates on a lemming-like journey northward? This should be your cue to follow the compass in the opposite direction. Ninety-odd minutes southeast of the cities lies the less trafficked Frontenac State Park--a bluff site on Lake Pepin that is ridiculously rich in regional history and birdlife. It also offers a few vertiginous hiking trails that might just leave your thighs burning. The first North Americans to lose their wind winding up these switchbacks came from the Hopeswellian culture some 2,000 years ago. Dakota and Fox Indians followed, finding sacred status in an area surrounding the giant In-Yan-Teopa rock. In 1727, René Boucher threw together a few twigs and named it Fort Beauhamois, in honor of the Marquis de Beauhamois--the governor-general of New France. (Today, we call it Canada.) Where guns go, Jesuits follow, and it's likely Frontenac hosted the first church in the state. (Archeologists have yet to find the precise site.) In the next century, the little town would flourish as a quarry, timber, and resort town, attracting riverboat dandies from as far away as New Orleans. Today, the park is more likely to host such distant visitors as the sanderling and the ruddy tumstone, wading birds that commute--make that migrate--from the far stretches of South America up to the Arctic. You won't be walking so far. There are only 13 miles of hiking trails here, but it's a short, steep slide down to the smooth stones at the water's edge.

We are the luckiest landlocked runners in the world, especially this time of year. But runners, joggers, and walkers have a four-season love affair with Harriet. For as you get in your miles, you can take your mind off your sore Achilles by ogling the bods on main beach in the summer. In the autumn, you may find yourself eavesdropping on the sorts of conversations that only happen near the bandstand ("She's really starting to get her shit together"; "I just want to move on"; "The election took all the wind out of my sails"). Winter presents the temptation of sprinting across the frozen desert with its oases of icehouses. And spring? Well, spring is spring, and needs no further advertisements. The paved walking path is 2.75 miles long and ideal for runs or walks. But if you're looking for a softer place to fall, you can cut over to the dirt path or grass. When the nice weather hits, Harriet can be busier than 35W at rush hour, but after six months of running in cold and silence, all that humanity is a welcome distraction.

As the snow banks recede and the T-shirts and shorts start to come out, most Minnesotans begin the yearly trek to the nursery to get their recently thawed hands on a vanful of colorful annuals. But it's often too early to plant those little suckers, since even the hardiest of plants will shrivel up at the first sign of frost. (On average, the last-frost date in the Twin Cities is May 9.) But we're not always ones to rely on the Farmer's Almanac or our local meteorologists to tell us the weather. It's often better to rely on the senses, and the nose always knows when spring has finally sprung: All of 38th Street East smells like it's been slathered in Ted Cook's BBQ sauce. The effluvia of dead fish and thawing goose poop hangs over the city streets like a storm cloud. Grand Avenue in St. Paul is like an open curry market, while the wafting smoke of grilled steak along Nicollet Avenue makes even a vegan's stomach rumble. Finally, after devouring the foods of the Twin Cities (minus a stinky dead fish or two), it's time to stock up on combination planters and coleus.

The peace garden at Lake Harriet is just that: a trickle of waterfall and stones etched with one-word philosophies that offer solace and refuge. The rose garden is just that: a cornucopia of quiet, explosive beauty. And the 13-acre bird sanctuary that sits tucked behind the two is just that: a haven where we go to see warblers, vireos, woodpeckers, soras, and great blue herons, not to mention all the binocular-wielding humans they attract, like monks to a flame. Now, shush. What's that up in that fir tree, by the branch that looks like a slingshot?

In case you haven't noticed, this is a state with a frigid climate and more than 12,000 lakes. Add in the various hockey arenas and hose-watered park rinks and it's obvious that places to skate are as plentiful, idiosyncratic, and (in many cases) as convenient as your neighborhood laundromat or hardware store. So we'll pitch this pick to the uninitiated skaters, the tots, or the transplants from other parts of the country. Unlike the Milwaukee Depot, a beautiful, enclosed rink in downtown Minneapolis, Centennial Lakes Park has no admission charge. Skate rentals are relatively cheap at $4 a day, and bladed, seat-backed ice sleds--which can simultaneously support your slippery slapstick and provide your recalcitrant kids with a strollerlike ride--rent out for $5 per day. The lake itself is a 10-acre expanse, groomed daily for skating, and divvied up into three ponds connected by narrow passageways. In other words, enough room to fall down without causing a chain collision, but sufficiently confined to allow you to keep a running head count of the people in your party. The warming house has indoor and outdoor fireplaces, lockers, refreshments, and a vast window facing the lake. If your child has a winter birthday, it's a great setting for parties, and for first dates, mutual physical awkwardness can be a real, ah, icebreaker.

What distinguishes a truly memorable sledding experience from just another excuse to get tired and cold is a bit of danger. Nothing, except maybe television, unites families, friends, and lovebirds quite like the possibility of severe bodily damage. At Kenwood Park's "Suicide Hill," sledders must navigate several rather imposing old trees, the fence of the park's tennis courts, and the ramps and bumps built up by the hill's Evel Knievel set. Conscientious parents rest easy: We've never actually seen anyone suffer any serious injuries on Suicide Hill. But we've smirked at many unglamorous wipeouts and more than a few folks bailing from their vehicles far too soon (premature ejaculators, these cowards are often called, though not around the children). On a good sledding day, Kenwood Park gets to be pretty crowded, but you never have to wait too long to make your next plummet, and you can always pass the time dreaming of hot chocolate and marshmallows.

Twin Cities golfers are a star-crossed breed, blessed by so many courses and so little time. Never mind the private courses you'll never get to play. We'll confess to driving slowly, in the fallow month of February, past Interlachen and Spring Hill, thinking, "Just once...." If this lust for opulent golf strikes a chord, you owe it to yourself to steer the old Buick down to Willinger's this season. Dollar for dollar (a round costs $30 weekdays, $35 weekends), there's not a better golf experience to be had between Blue Earth and Biwabik. By all means, enjoy the well-groomed driving range and spacious clubhouse, but the golf course is the main attraction here. Shot makers will find plenty of options, and slashers will find their ruin. The front nine at Willinger's recalls the best of coastal Carolina, minus the gators. Still, it's got plenty of teeth. Well-struck shots will sometimes land you on the wrong side of the hole. On the backside, prepare for dramatic elevation changes and more than one trompe l'oeil composition: Witness the tricky, par-four 11th and the short 17th. Much like at that other converted tree nursery, Augusta National, local knowledge pays off at Willinger's. Which is reason enough to play it more than once.

Unlike such popular pursuits as nose picking and lovemaking, tennis is best done outdoors. But in Minnesota, as you've undoubtedly noticed, tennis under God's big top is only practicable for about five months out of the year. But you needn't let your ground strokes, lobs, or awesome net game go to seed just because there's snow on the ground and you can't afford the dues at a fancy tennis club or exercise facility. At this inner-city dome, nonmembers can rent courts by the hour (not cheap at $17.60 per hour but not terrible, and of course you're likely to be sharing the costs), and the seasonal registration fee, which allows you to reserve courts and participate in leagues, is a manageable $60 for individuals. There's also a small but smartly stocked pro shop and a number of patient and effective pros available for individual and group lessons (including some for kids.) If you're looking to play competitively and maybe meet some new people, you can join one of the center's leagues--and don't worry, the NTC folks will help you determine which level to join so you won't be humiliated or bored squaring off against players of significantly lesser or greater ability. Plus, the center's marshmallow ceilings seem to do acoustical wonders to those grunts you might like to emit while delivering an untouchable first service to your hapless opponent.

There are 30-odd bowling alleys in the Twin Cities metro area, and the most astonishing thing about most of them is how overwhelming they are from a sensory perspective. This is especially true of the big places. You know, the ones with 32 lanes, full-service bars, dozens of TVs, and overloud music. The sort of place that gives your epileptic friend seizures. Don't the fools in charge know that a bowling alley is supposed to be a laid-back place? (Ask yourself: Would the Dude, from the greatest bowling film ever, The Big Lebowski, want to bowl here?) If you are chasing excitement and loud music, don't go bowling. Go to a rock show. Or an orgy. But if you are seeking a particular state of 10-pin slacker Zen, bowl in a place that promotes a feeling of inner peace. For our money--both literally and figuratively--the best lanes are typically the small, quiet, out-of-the-way ones. Places with hamburger grills and 3.2 beer. Places with mellow customers. Places with liberal open-bowling hours. Places with low, low prices. In these regards--and the intangible virtues of a generally pleasant vibe--we find no place better for complete relaxation and utter enjoyment than Airport Bowl. To be sure, it is a modest in size--just 12 lanes. But that makes for a nice cap on noise. Come in after 9:00 p.m. Sunday through Wednesday, and it's open bowling at an eminently reasonable $1.75 per game. Thursday night open bowling is the real steal: 99 cents a game.

If your idea of a night of stick is to order up a couple of pitchers and stack quarters in the slots to free up the balls, by all means, don't go to Jimmy's. Owned and operated by former World Champion Jimmy "The Kid" Wetch, Jimmy's treats the game--and those who play it--with the utmost respect. The house cues are straight and true, the lighting low and perfectly focused, the tables as spotless and well manicured as the greens at Augusta. With 26 tables, 15 of them nine-footers, the place strikes the right balance between spaciousness and intimacy, allowing competitive games of eight-ball, nine-ball, or one pocket to flourish long into the wee hours of the morning. Obviously there are games where more than pride is at stake, but there are also customers who simply want to indulge their love of the sport under the best possible conditions. The cost is reasonable at $3.25 an hour per person from 11:00 to 6:00 during the day, climbing to $4.75 per person from 6:00 in the evening to 4:00 in the morning. (There's a special of $10 per person for a 6:00 to 11:00 p.m. stint.) And yeah, there are even two coin-operated tables. But no alcohol.

In recent years, Minnesota fight fans have had to swallow more than their share of disappointment. It's a familiar story: A local prospect builds a shiny record by pummeling underpaid tomato cans trucked in from Milwaukee and Indianapolis. The fans get whipped up in a lather. They start talking about how their guy is a "contender." Eventually, the day comes when the hometown hero has to climb in the ring with a legitimate fighter. Just like that, the dream is over. Truth is, some national boxing experts break into peals of laughter when they hear the words "Minnesota fighter" and "contender" uttered in the same sentence. The one recent exception to this career arc--the immensely talented junior flyweight Will Grigsby--did manage to win a world title a few years back; alas, Grigsby's career was derailed by a prison stretch. So who is the Great Minnesota Hope now? It's another diminutive St. Paul fighter, the lanky 21-year-old junior lightweight Jason Litzau. After an extremely impressive amateur career, Litzau turned pro in 2002. Since then, he has amassed 13 straight wins, all by way of knockout. True, the baby-faced East Side tough guy hasn't accomplished this by taking on any world-beaters. Just five of those KOs have come against opponents with winning records. Still, Litzau has done some of his finest work on the road, an accomplishment that separates him from most of Minnesota's other supposed contenders. Also to his credit, he has stayed busy, fighting a total of seven times in 2004.

"You'll never beat Joe Warren" is the chant often heard during Minnesota Thunder games at James Griffin Stadium (a.k.a. The Jimmy). Last season--Warren's second as the soccer team's top net-minder--the boast was almost literally true. The Thunder's 31-year-old goalkeeper notched 15 shutouts (one short of a league record), yielding just 20 goals in 27 matches. That works out to an average of .69 goals per game, the second stingiest ledger in the league. At one point, the St. Thomas University product and Minneapolis native went seven-plus games--an astounding 777 minutes--without conceding a goal, a franchise record. Warren's ball distribution out of the back can be erratic, but he's an absolute beast inside the penalty box. He utilizes his 6'5", 220-pound frame to clear out any threatening balls and physically punish would-be scorers. With Warren returning for the upcoming season, the Thunder will undoubtedly once again have one of the toughest defenses in the league.

To the true sports fan, there is nothing quite so enticing as a sentence that begins, "Have you heard about this kid...?" It is what gave legs to Darcy Frey's The Last Shot, which chronicled four prep stars (including future NBA all-star Stephon Marbury), and what led one local daily newspaper to label then-high school puckster (turned U of M hockey star) Natalie Darwitz "The Phenom." We are in awe of all that potential and organic athleticism, which is what we've got here in Tayler Hill, an eighth-grade point guard who starts for Minneapolis South High School. There are certainly more accomplished high schoolers (Braham hoops icon Isaiah Dahlman, for one), with more awards and accolades. But Hill--the only eighth-grade girl to be selected to the Star Tribune's All-Metro team--is the one we'll pay to see over the next four years. She led the metro in scoring with a 22.1 points-per-game average, led her team to the state tournament this year, and has vowed to win it next year. At press time, 30 Division I colleges had contacted her. That slurping sound you hear coming from Williams Arena is Gophers coach Pam Borton salivating. Only time will tell whether Hill blows up or flames out, but starting next October we'll head over to the South gym as often as possible, so we can say we saw her when.

A year ago, the Gopher men's basketball team had hit rock bottom in the basketball food chain. The Timberwolves were driving toward a possible NBA championship, the Gopher women were on their way to the Final Four. Even the addled Lynx, long mired in mediocrity and plagued by personnel changes, were more familiar to local hoops fans. By the middle of this season, all of that had changed, and the U of M--with a roster of anonymous players--was suddenly in the throes of March Madness. Impossible. The surprise transformation simply would not have happened without Vincent Grier, a Charlotte, North Carolina, native who played last season at a junior college in Utah. Grier was noticeable from the start of the season, with the Pippi Longstocking braids he wore, Sprewell-style. (He shed the locks halfway through the season--a move Spree should have followed.) But soon the more salient impression of Grier was that of a defensive stalwart and slashing driver who had an unorthodox left-handed shot. A pivotal moment came in a mid-season game at Ohio State, with the Gophers down by eight in the late minutes. The 6'5" junior, who plays guard and forward, single-handedly made up the point difference, and the team bagged a brutal Big Ten road win at a crucial point in the schedule. By the end of the season, Grier was named to the first team all-Big Ten, and the Gophers were hanging tough against number-one rated Illinois in the conference tournament. A failing program had been resuscitated seemingly overnight.

Ron Gardenhire and the Twins are not the only overachieving underdogs around here. Up on the frozen tundra at the University of Minnesota, Mike Hebert has created a women's volleyball program capable of competing for national championships against the traditional copper-toned powerhouses from Hawaii and southern California. In 2004, Hebert led the Lady Gophers to their second straight Final Four appearance, where they beat USC in the semis only to bow to Stanford in the final. A year earlier, Hebert's 13th seeded squad became the biggest long shot in the history of NCAA women's volleyball ever to reach the championship weekend, earning him National Coach of the Year honors from Volleyball Magazine. But it isn't just the numbers that make Hebert impressive. In the late '80s, he made his reputation by taking the University of Illinois to back-to-back Final Fours on the strength of his "Primary Hitter System" (described in his book, Insights and Strategies for Winning Volleyball), which was designed to relieve pressure on inexperienced setters. But last year, Hebert was flexible enough to mold his attack around the U of M's two outstanding setters, which is akin to having two point guards or two quarterbacks. He also treats his players with the utmost respect, coached 42 Big Ten Academic All Americans in his first eight years in Minnesota, just landed four of the nation's top 50 prep recruits to bolster next year's team, once protested against America's involvement in Vietnam, and has never scalped Super Bowl tickets.

When Katie Smith went down with a knee injury in July, the prospects for the final third of the Lynx's season looked bleak. Up until that point, the veteran guard had pretty much been the team's sole consistent scoring threat, averaging 19 points a game. In fact, she was the Lynx's top scorer in 18 of their first 23 games. But after Smith's season came to an abrupt end, rookie center Nicole Ohlde emerged as a budding star. Over the team's final 10 games, the Kansas State alum led the Lynx on an improbable playoff run, squeaking into the postseason for the second straight year. For the season, Ohlde averaged 11.7 points a game, was second on the team in rebounding, led the squad in blocked shots, and finished third in WNBA rookie-of-the-year balloting. With Smith returning to the lineup this summer, the Lynx should feature a formidable scoring duo.

Last year, as a few readers will surely recall, we bestowed this award on Ndudu Ebi. But given that the young Nigerian played in a mere two NBA games, we'll have to herald another straight-outta-high school forward in his stead. We do it regretfully, as Garnett hasn't had much of a year. He only led the NBA in rebounding and efficiency (an equation that evaluates points, assists, steals, blocks, and rebounds against shots missed and turnovers). And he finished in the top 15 for minutes played, points per game, free throws, and a handful of other categories. The notion that this kind of performance could be seen as a bit of a drop-off testifies to KG's astonishing skill set. (It's as if the team's scouts and management, back in 1994, decided to draft for athleticism, court smarts, skill, and heart--and then congratulated themselves on a job brilliantly done by taking the next 10 years off.) The Wolves--for now and the foreseeable future--are Kevin Garnett and whoever else is on the floor. Next year, the team will surely be shedding some familiar faces--while keeping Ebi around, we hope, to reclaim this award next year.

After Santana fully recovered from off-season elbow surgery last season, he produced the kind of ridiculously dominant campaign usually associated with Hall of Famers like Koufax and Gibson. He yielded only 14 hits the entire month of July and just two earned runs in five September starts. He fanned 165 batters in 129.1 innings while compiling a 1.39 ERA the final three months of the season, winning his last 13 decisions. A unanimous choice as the American League's Cy Young Award winner and the consensus pick as the best starting pitcher in baseball, the 26-year-old left-hander was deservedly rewarded with a four-year, $40-million contract this winter, proving that even stingy Twins owner Carl Pohlad has a few brain cells left. With three dominant pitches at his disposal--fastball, slider, and change-up--Santana can still shut down opponents without his best stuff. He is the primary reason Twins fans hold out hope that their small-market club can finally take that next step into the World Series this year.

As usual, the 2004 incarnation of the Minnesota Vikings failed to meet the high expectations established by a jackrabbit start. After opening 6-1, the team finished with a mediocre 8-8 regular season record. For several years, the late autumn swoon has been the curse of the Vikings. Maybe that explains the relative dearth of fan accolades for Daunte Culpepper, who is arguably the second-best quarterback in the NFL. Last season's numbers tell the story. Pep threw an astounding 39 TD passes, amassed 4,717 yards through the air, completed 69 percent of his passes, and finished the season with a magnificent QB rating of 110.9 (fourth-best in league history). He accomplished all this despite myriad handicaps: a cheap owner, a meathead head coach, and a wretched, collapse-prone defense. Throughout the season, Culpepper--unlike pretty much everyone else on the team--was relatively consistent in his play. Still, when the team skulked into the postseason as a road wild card, everyone expected a quick exit. So what did Culpepper do? He swaggered into hostile Lambeau, threw four touchdown passes, zero interceptions, and led the Vikings to a rare postseason victory. From a fan's perspective, the victory was arguably the most satisfying win since the Jerry Burns era. Yet, if you spent the season listening to much sports radio, all too often you heard the besotted fan crying out for the need to promote (now departed) journeyman Gus Frerotte to the starting role. The explanation for this? An astonishing percentage of Minnesota sports fans are morons, racists, or both.