He may be 0 for 2, but love’s all around in New Mannyco

Manny Ramirez’s arrival here is the biggest thing since Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon, heard to mutter under his breath, “Are you sure we didn’t land in New Mexico?”

He’s back, all right, and while baseball won’t allow him in uniform when the gates to Dodger Stadium open, here in the hinterlands, the Isotopes have hit the jackpot, selling a record number of tickets because Ramirez was caught using drugs and needs to rehab somewhere.

The hair is longer, the laugh just as loud and the pants bright white because they haven’t been worn now for the last 45 games. But the ball still comes off the bat with a mighty whack, a sound that draws a crowd around the batting cage.

He arrives here Monday, third row on Southwest Airlines, middle seat between his uncle and Manny Mota, allowed on the plane 15 minutes before anyone else -- and so much for calling 24 hours ahead of time hoping to land seat A-1.

He signs autographs, poses for pictures while dropping off his luggage, and “is just great to people,” says Mota, nary a negative word heard, and yes, they still love him.

When Ramirez arrives in Albuquerque, a limo is allowed on the tarmac, frustrating the local TV stations waiting to document his arrival. Fortunately for everyone, I’m sure, someone’s cat got stuck in a tree, video at 10 on Albuquerque Live.

ESPN’s Colleen Dominguez reports Tuesday afternoon that Ramirez orders pasta. She does not follow him inside even though that’s why she’s here, because she needs to go to the empty stadium to do a report for ESPN.

“I didn’t see him order pasta,” she says later in explaining her exclusive, “but I feel comfortable with my sources.”

Dodgers’ PR guy Josh Rawitch cannot confirm Ramirez ordered pasta, “because I wasn’t there.” That doesn’t seem to matter to Dominguez.

Rawitch is also here to tell the media that Manny doesn’t want the media “banging on the batting cage while he’s inside,” so everyone needs to move to the field or the clubhouse.

The Times’ Dylan Hernandez appears disappointed, all his life wanting to come to Albuquerque and bang on the batting cage while Manny’s inside trying to hit a ball off a tee. Manny can hit a 94-mph fastball in front of 50,000 screaming fans, but for some reason Hernandez unnerves him while facing a tee.

A nation awaits more breaking Manny news, Dominguez confirming “it was spaghetti.” She also spots him carrying “six bottles of water.” Nothing gets by her.

At the ballpark, it is standing-room only, reporters from L.A. and other media outlets here, the governor of New Mexico also expected. They are selling $6 standing-room-only tickets.

ESPN News has plans to go live each time Manny bats, Manny explaining before the game, “people love me everywhere.”

Hard to argue, or for that matter feign Gary Matthews’ Jr.-like outrage, Manny more charismatic, more talented and more interesting than Matthews.

The wife and daughter maintain no one cares what Manny did, more interested in what he’s going to do from now on, so why fight it?

They are right -- something that has never been written here before. Manny is fun, a thrill with a bat in his hands, and while one should be consistent and rip Manny if trashing Matthews for years, get your own column.

I like Manny, the Dodgers more entertaining with him in the lineup, which explains why they doubled the crowd here for a normal Tuesday night in June.

If he’s the same goofball, the same compelling hitter he was last season, then let’s go, the party is about to begin, but first a few more questions just to see if he really is the same guy.

Initially, he is not, and that’s before he strikes out to begin the game and before he grounds out. Thanks for the Isotope memories.

Word arrives before the game that Manny will not be speaking to reporters while in Albuquerque, the media flying two hours to get here, and “so, Jason Repko, tell me about yourself.”

Before it comes to that, reporters make several runs at Manny. “Are you going to hide all day long?” someone asks, and you know who.

He’s so serious about avoiding the media, though, he even takes fly balls in left. Right now someone in Boston is saying, “told you so.”

But this is L.A. Manny, a different guy from the one everyone talked about in Boston, L.A. Manny listening to some advice offered by Mota and then stepping forward to say, “Let’s go -- let’s talk. What do you want to know?”

So the media crowds around him, the ESPN cameras not allowed in the clubhouse, but he did have spaghetti for lunch.

“So where are you mentally right now?” he’s asked.

“I’m just getting myself ready to come back,” Manny says.

“What do you want to accomplish here?” the softball questions coming one after another.

“I want to feel . . . how my legs are going to respond.”

Before the next question is asked, Manny takes over, reminding everyone why he’s such a hoot, why he will be so hard to hassle over time.

“I’m waiting,” he says with a laugh. “I know you’re going to throw me the slider. I’m waiting. I’m waiting.”

“OK, so did you use steroids?”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” he says, asking for the question and then dismissing it.

“That was the high hard one,” he’s told.

“You throw me a couple of fastballs so I can see them, and then I knew you’d come with the slider. That’s why I stayed back,” he says, while swinging an imaginary bat.

“Where are you in terms of being sorry?”

“I’m not talking about that anymore. I already said what I’m going to say. I’m here to do my rehab . . . “

As bad as it went when he left Boston, he’s reminded now that everyone in L.A. was in love with him before being suspended.

“They still are,” Manny says. “They still are.”

Go ahead, try and tell me he’s got it all wrong.

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t.j.simers@latimes.com