No tall tale: Gymnasts can be sized up in short order

SYDNEY - Tonight at the King's Table smorgasbord of human athletic endeavor, we are fortunate enough to visit women's gymnastics, which take place in the SuperDome at Home bush Bay.

It's the highly anticipated team finals in "artistic" gymnastics, as opposed to the more rough-and-tumble "brutally sadistic gymnastics," which has yet to be recognized as a medal sport, but seems to be gaining favor in former Soviet-bloc nations and on Southern-based American cable networks.

This sport is performed by squadrons of tiny girls covered entirely with cornstarch, making them look as if they are all ready for the deep-fat fryer at KFC. Actually, the powder serves a practical purpose: It prevents the girls from sticking together when they are placed back in their gallon-sized Ziploc bags for transport back home.

The most distinctive thing about the gymnasts is their size. All of them combined would clearly weigh less than a Costco-sized bundle of Charmin.

Interestingly - and if you watch closely, you can see this on TV - the girls march into the SuperDome in rows, arranged, like drink cups at Starbucks, tallest to shortest.

"Tallest" is a relative term, of course, as the most hulkin' female gymnast, just like Bob Costas is only slightly taller than a Quaker Oats cylinder and could easily by stowed for landing in the overhead storage compartment of a 767.

At this very moment, our own red, white and highly over-exposed Team USA gymlets have entered the building, causing several thousand American fans to begin that highly inventive "U-S-A" chant that makes us so favored abroad.

The American team was assembled by legendary coach Bela Karolyi. His hand-picked munchkins - who look like they haven't slept in approximately 14 months - are over on the balance beam. Right across from them are the Lilliputian gymnasts from Romania, where Karolyi used to coach before he discovered that America had nicer golf courses.

The Romanians are scampering about on the floor-exercise area, leaving little powdery footprints on the dark blue canvas, exactly like mice who have just broken into a box of Hostess O's left on your new black cement kitchen countertop. They are sprinting and tumbling and leaping and - whoa! Who knew any non-Slinky item could bend that way?

Meanwhile, Amy Chow of Team USA is on the balance beam, a cruel torture device developed here by British penal-colony leaders to transport prisoners across swamps infested with saltwater crocodiles.

Oops. Chow peformed flawlessly, but nearly fell over on her dismount, which reminds us of another near disaster:

Long-suffering readers who are true gluttons for punishment may recall a column from the Olympics at Nagano where yours truly and a sleep-deprived colleague accidentally kicked renowned French figure-skating hunk Phillipe Candeloro out of his arena seat, and then, to top off a night of near international incidents, nearly flattened renowned figure skater and Games torch-lighter Midori Ito in a collision in the aisle.

So there we were at the Sydney Aquatic Centre the other night, trying to think of inventive new ways to offend our overly sensitive Canadian readers, when - wham! - an unknown person of Japanese descent rams into us from the back. We turn around and discover, in total astonishment - and this is so true it hurts - none other than Midori Ito, who, having recovered from our previous collision, now works for a Japanese media outlet.

It was both humbling and sad to know such a nice, not to mention tiny, person could go from lighting the torch to being one of us folks in only two years. Nevertheless, we exchanged pleasantries and agreed to collide once more in Salt Lake City.

Other stuff on our mind:

Perspective: One of the very best things about the Olympics is that every day, a quarter-million people file through Olympic Park who, as they say here, "don't give a stuff" what Vin Baker thinks of Paul Westphal, or why.

This just in: The Chinese softball team has been located. And it's steamin' mad. Apparently, players and coaches from the People's Republic of Short Straws in the bus draw are now blaming their shoddy performance in a loss to Japan on traffic. Try using that one with your boss next time you fail to meet a sales goal.

Froggy went a huntin' and he did cry, uh-huh: Editors around the globe caught on to the Sydney Organizing Committee's "Green Games" theme, including the story of a rare frog that nearly scuttled the development of the Olympic Park at Homebush Bay. This was the source of much chagrin to journalists, especially the photographer calling home on his cellphone on the bus the other day: "No, I'm serious. They actually sent me out in the bush looking for a (expletive deleted) frog!"

Party on, mates: The Games aren't even half over, but Sydneysiders already are congratulating themselves on a party well-thrown. Aside from the occasional - and expected - traffic snafu, the biggest complaint about the Games in local papers is the excess of advertising during Australian TV coverage. Everyone seems to be getting into it, realizing with each day that passes without a disaster of some sort, "Hey, we can do this!"

In spite of its staggering costs and headaches, the Games seem to have given residents a common frame of reference they've never had before.

The Games so far are a smash, and we can't wait to see another part of them.

So, as the Romanian munchkins accept their gold, the Russians accept the silver, the Chinese accept their bronze, and Team USA leaves here with nothing but cornstarch between its toes, we're taking off, too.

In which direction, we're not sure. But we plan to stick the landing.