TIME: Almanac 1995

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<text id=92TT1681> <title> July 27, 1992: Gymnastics:Don't Call Them Pixies! </title> <history> TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1992 July 27, 1992 The Democrats' New Generation </history> <article> <source>Time Magazine</source> <hdr> OLYMPICS, Page 56 1992 SUMMER GAMES GYMNASTICS: Don't Call Them Pixies! </hdr><body> 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. </body></article> </text>