Every year, late February's warm, languid air and a sudden burst of flowers means the end of a Los Angeles winter and the start of baseball's spring training. The Dodgers trek to Florida, an odd, inconvenient remnant of their Brooklyn heritage, praying that they can build a championship roster in time for their April 2 season opener. In nearby Arizona, Disney's Angels dream of staying in a pennant race for a few weeks after having been utterly routed by last season's record-setting Seattle Mariners.

At almost the same moment as the major leaguers were being delivered, first class, to their training facilities, my 10-year-old son nervously crouched in a dusty Little League batter's box, hoping for a good, clean hit. It is his first year at Little League.

Like many contemporary families, it had long been our daughter who read the sports page, begged to see games and played competitive athletics.

My son would have none of that. He and his friends are video game addicts. They never go to the park and throw a ball or play a pickup game. Neighborhood fields, in fact, are typically empty of anything but ruthlessly organized sports like soccer or picnickers with young kids. Only the basketball courts still seem to host the informal, play-till-you-drop games that occupied so many of my generation. Even there the number of players is falling year by year.

So it was something of a surprise when my son announced he wanted to play baseball again. We hastily found out how to sign him up, located a suitable mitt, and bought some balls and a bat.

It took a bit to get up to speed. "He's got to wear a cup," the coaches told us, shocked he didn't already have one. Then my son needed spikes and sliding pants. "Got to have the right gear," they admonished. We used the wrong belt for his uniform on opening day. "Need a real elastic one," we were scolded.

I slowly rounded into shape. Meanwhile my boy, after years of learning how to precisely tweak a controller to grab a golden orb or evade a ruthless alien attack, was learning to deal with catching a hard-thrown baseball in his leather glove and cherishing the sweet sound of a bat colliding with a fat pitch.

"I'm terrible," he said after flubbing a hard shot to right field in his team's first exhibition. "I can't even get on base." Visibly ill at ease, he struck out in his first at-bat, grounded out in his second, and walked in his final plate appearance.

"You're doing fine," I told him, recalling a long fly ball he'd hit that only just went foul. "You're learning how to play again after years of playing video games." I said I was proud that he, unlike virtually all of his virtually focused friends, was willing to go up against boys who'd been playing for three or four seasons and give the game a shot. That, and a vanilla cupcake baked by the manager's mother, cheered him up a lot.

Things seem just as rosy in Vero Beach, the sleepy eastern Florida coastal town just 31 miles from Yeehaw Junction where the Dodgers have done their spring training for decades. It's true that two of the team's veteran starting pitchers are coming off major arm surgery, and another megabucks hurler is still out of action despite nearly a year's recovery. An untested rookie from Japan and veteran retreads with little to show for the last few seasons round out the rotation.

Still, everyone says, the pitching looks great. Even those who can't even throw from a mound have terrific movement on the ball. It's perhaps the strongest staff, some speculate, that the Dodgers have assembled in years!

The offensive prospects are also appealing despite the Dodgers' trade of their best hitter, a reputedly poor clubhouse influence, for a mediocre outfielder and pitcher. That leaves Shawn Green, the right fielder who lofted a team record 49 homers in 2001, without a big-hit threat to protect him in the batting order. And the lineup still doesn't have a true leadoff man, someone who can bunt and scamper around the bases like the legendary Maury Wills. The Dodgers also lack a center fielder and a reasonably good hitting shortstop.

No problem. Dodger sages are certain the team will score plenty of runs--not that the terrific pitching staff, of course, will need much support. It's perhaps the strongest group of bats the Dodgers have assembled in years.

But there's much that is really positive. Manager Jim Tracy seems to be the real deal. Just recently he made his living by delivering newspapers and setting up store product displays. Delivering homilies with a down-home Jimmy Stewart sincerity, Tracy appears overjoyed, but not overawed, to be in charge of a premier major league team. Somehow he gets his cast of millionaires to respond.

We'll also get to see catcher Paul LoDuca, whose breakthrough 2001 season inspired even the most cynical observers. "All his resume was lacking," Tracy says, "was opportunity." Flush with adoration from the baseball world, and stories in places like Time magazine, LoDuca now has every chance for greatness.

Ross Porter, the Dodgers' broadcaster who will forever be eclipsed by the incomparable Vin Scully, is back behind the microphone. He had to go off the air last year late in the season when a serious sinus problem required surgery. Porter's propensity for oddball statistics and his trademark drawl inspire countless jokes and parodies. Yet, even a casual pressbox visitor cannot help but see that no one has a bigger heart or kinder manner.

And so baseball begins anew in local fields and big time training centers. Everyone from my son to a superstar dreams of hits, making great plays and winning big games. It's a long way, of course, from the major leagues to little league. Sometimes, however, under the soft spring sun, there's not that much difference at all.