Time - Man of the Year/Time_Man_of_the_Year_Compact_Publishing_3YX-Disc-1_Compact_Publishing_1993.iso/moy/072792/07279931.000

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                                                                                OLYMPICS, Page 56

1992 SUMMER GAMES

GYMNASTICS: Don't Call Them Pixies!


Kim Zmeskal may be tiny and cute. Her rival Shannon Miller may
be perky. But don't be fooled. The two American medal contenders
are as tough as any world-class athlete.

By JILL SMOLOWE/OKLAHOMA CITY


    They are so young and so tiny that spectators want to pat
them on the head. When their eyes narrow and their faces
scrunch up with concentration, audiences go squishy with the
adorableness of it all. Sports commentators cooingly label them
pixies and tots, then reach for adjectives like huggable, perky,
cute. Sort of like puppies. Always they are described as "the
next" Olga or Nadia or Mary Lou, as if anyone so small couldn't
possibly have standing in her own right.

    Let's get real. The young female gymnasts who will vie for
medals in Barcelona are among the world's toughest athletes.
They are not only strong, powerful and agile, but they also have
a discipline, determination and dedication that would put many
other athletes to shame. Two times daily, six days weekly, year
after year, they labor in airless gymnasiums to master and
reinvent the most difficult flips, twists and spins. Often they
work in spite of painful strains, sprains and stress fractures.
And always they work with the dark knowledge that the slightest
bobble or a judge's caprice could mean the hundredth-of-a-point
deduction that robs them of their glory.

    This year the U.S. has produced two of the top picks for
all-around gold honors in Barcelona -- an unprecedented American
pair at the top. Not surprisingly, both are known for their
doggedness and tenacity. Kim Zmeskal of Houston, the reigning
world all-around champion, battles persistent pain from a stress
fracture in her left wrist and the psychological pressure of
being the person everyone else wants to beat. Shannon Miller of
Edmond, Okla., who was sidelined in late March with a dislocated
left elbow and bone chip, recuperated from surgery in record
time, and is now stronger and more confident than ever.
Spectators who favor a dynamic, explosive style will want to
wager on Zmeskal. Those who appreciate technical brilliance and
high-level difficulty, however, will prefer the graceful Miller.

    But bettors beware. Hungary's Henrietta Onodi has a fluid,
elegant presentation that pleases audiences as well as judges.
And as always, the former Soviets of the Unified Team are
formidable. Several of the competitors -- 1988 gold medalist
Svetlana Boginskaya and the two Tatianas, Gutsu and Lisenko --
have a shot at the all-around title, and there may be some
stealth talent in the wings. Nonetheless, in American gymnastic
circles many think this is the year the U.S. women could upset
the long dominant ex-Soviets for the team gold. "The Soviets are
weaker financially and spiritually, and don't know who they're
representing," says Steve Nunno, Miller's coach. "They don't
have the emotional fire."

    Zmeskal, 16, and Miller, 15, would find a kindred spirit
in the other if their paths ever crossed long enough to find
out -- an unlikely prospect, given the tense rivalry between
their respective coaches. Zmeskal is giggly and seems more
inclined to listen than talk, but next to the admittedly shy
Miller, whose tiny voice barely rises above a whisper, she is
positively gregarious. Though both are 4-ft. 7-in. standouts,
neither is a prima donna. Each enjoys a reputation for being
"sweet" and "friendly," two words not used casually in the
hypercompetitive world of gymnastics. Unlike the many gymnasts
who must train far away from their families, Zmeskal and Miller
work close to home, enabling both to enjoy the steadying
influence of their parents and two siblings apiece.

    During training, both have a reputation for being "all
business." Each works in silence with steely concentration,
coming down hard on herself when a move isn't going right and
sometimes getting teary with frustration. Away from the gym,
both are straight A students who particularly like math. Each
is compulsively neat, and both are so well organized that they
answer every piece of fan mail by hand. Favorite TV shows are
mutual: Cosby and Arsenio Hall. Zmeskal thinks an appearance on
Arsenio would be cool; all color drains out of Miller's pale
complexion when the possibility is mentioned. Both are religious
(Zmeskal is Catholic, Miller a Christian Scientist), but it is
not a subject either carts out in public. Come competition time,
they have ferocious concentration, composure and consistency.
Though neither is exactly fiery off the mats, both can electrify
audiences.

    But there the similarities stop. Whereas competition is an
acquired taste for Miller, Zmeskal thrives on the audience
adulation and pressure. "Since she was little, she was always
liking to be watched and admired," says Zmeskal's Romanian-born
coach, Bela Karolyi. "She was always a little showgirl."
Zmeskal's boosters are confident that, win or lose, she will
perform at her best in Barcelona.

    The husband-and-wife coaching team of Bela and Martha
Karolyi have produced several Olympic champions, among them
Nadia Comaneci (1976) and Mary Lou Retton (1984). Zmeskal was
among the first 200 students to sign on when the Karolyis opened
their Houston gym in 1982, and they fully expect her to bring
home the all-around gold. Bela says that of the more than 4,000
girls he has coached in Romania and the U.S., not one of them
can touch the competitive drive of the one whom he early on
dubbed the Little Pumpkin, and now calls Kimbo. "She has an
outstanding capability to pull herself together and perform
consistently under pressure," he says. "You can see on her face
that she'll do it, no matter what." Not even pain stops her. At
the 1991 nationals, the stress fracture in Zmeskal's wrist ached
so badly that she couldn't grab the uneven bars. Come
competition time, though, she nailed every routine.

    Such determination and poise have made the blue-eyed,
strawberry blond a three-time U.S. champion and the first
American ever to secure an all-around world title. That
triumphant moment, in the fall of 1991, was soured by grousing
from the Unified Team that Zmeskal had won only because the meet
was held on American turf, in Indianapolis. The following April
in Paris, when world competitors duked it out for medals on the
four individual events, Zmeskal coolly answered her critics by
capturing gold on both floor exercise and the balance beam. To
date, it is her proudest achievement.

    Zmeskal's fantasy of Barcelona is telling. "I imagine it
being really bright," she says. "I'm like this little person,
and the whole world is watching." How is she faring under the
bright lights? "I'm just doing my thing, pulling it off."
Spectators who expect another bubbly Mary Lou will be
disappointed. "She makes me nervous when I watch her compete,"
says Retton, both a friend and mentor. "Kim doesn't show any
kind of emotion." Instead, the 80-lb. Zmeskal wears a glassy
stare and becomes intensely quiet, turning all her strengths
inward.

    For her part, Zmeskal describes herself as stubborn (her
mom says she gets this from coach Karolyi) and perfectionist
(this from her dad). She is mildly irritated when people mistake
her silence during competition for shyness. "I'm not quiet,"
she says. "I like laughing and being with my friends." Away
from practice and performances, there is a teenager who has
graduated from New Kids on the Block to Boyz II Men, likes to
hang out in malls and thinks it would be fun to act in a soap
opera. As down-to-earth as she is, though, Zmeskal is just
superstitious enough to bar trophy cabinets from her home until
after her competitive career is ended.

    Miller, by contrast, has had to make her peace with the
attention that attends world-class competition. "Shannon's
always had the talent, but would never take her eyes off the
floor," says her balance-beam coach, Peggy Liddick. "She's had
to overcome her shyness and learn to play to a crowd." Miller
masks well the ego that helped get her to this point. She does
not read her own press clips and refuses to watch videotapes of
her performances, except for training purposes. "I would rather
do gymnastics than watch it," she says.

    Talk of winning is not her style, even with Barcelona
approaching. "It's about each of us going out there and doing
our best, not beating one another," she politely insists. On the
other hand, ask Miller how she'd like to be remembered in the
sport and her answer is firm: "Gold medalist, all-around." She
claims not to be thinking about what it will be like under the
kliegs in Barcelona. "It should be the same as anywhere," she
says. "A beam's a beam." Instead, she keeps her mind focused on
her routines and tries "not to think of anything negative."

    There is something almost otherworldly about the
hazel-eyed Miller. Her ghostly paleness and thin frame give her
a misleadingly fragile appearance. She conveys a sense that she
doesn't speak unless spoken to; her favorite answer is, "I don't
know." When working out, she constantly looks as if she might
break into tears. It was that very look that initially attracted
the attention of Steve Nunno in 1986 when both were visiting a
gymnastics camp in the Soviet Union. "Shannon was trying so hard
and getting extremely frustrated," he recalls. "I felt, There's
a kid I can help if I can channel that frustration into a
positive energy." Conveniently, both were from Oklahoma, and
Miller soon took up training in Nunno's Oklahoma City facility.
"Shannon is the hardest worker in my gym," he says, "and always
has been."

    American coaches who have watched Miller at competitions
describe her as a "machine" because of the methodical way she
practices her moves over and over and over. "What I respect most
is her work ethic," says Liddick. "If I say do something 20
times, she does 30 and asks what's next." That discipline
enabled Miller to recover from elbow surgery in five weeks'
time, where a minimum of eight is usual. During the downtime,
she was able to give other injuries a rest and develop strength
and new skills. What could have been a career stopper has worked
to her advantage, says Liddick. "She is fresh and ready to
compete. Other kids are a little tired."

    And, of course, they are kids. So go ahead and call them
Kim and Shannon. Or Henrietta. Or Tatiana. But when one or more
of them join the ranks of Nadia, Olga and Mary Lou next week,
just remember: they didn't reach those Herculean heights by
being Tinker Bells. That's not fairy dust they sprinkle on
their hands.