In this circus, even Peter Pans have to die

IN an enthralling men's individual gymnastics competition at the Georgie Dome on Wednesday night, the world champion Li Xiaoshuang of China stole the prize after being pushed to the very edge by the young Russian Alexei Nemov.

It was a head to head which meant, almost when we weren't looking, that the most resplendent gymnast of the modern era, if not any, Vitaly Sherbo of Belarus, had to take his leave of the Olympics with just the bronze souvenir. Li was carried away in triumph by his coaches in an excited jabber. Nearby, Sherbo picked up his bag of clobber and melted away with just a single wave.

It is the way of things, and the way of the world when you are in at the death of a Titan. The minutest difference in decimal points and Sherbo would have equalled Mark Spitz's all time record of seven Olympic golds. Sherbo had six.

On Wednesday night, the scores were Li 58 43 Nemov 58.374, Sherbo 58.197. Afterwards, the old champion did not give best "I am not saying that I was under judged nor even that other persons were over judged. There is still some competition left in Atlanta so I don't want to speak about judging until that is over."

Li is 22, the son of a former Hubel lorry driver. He study's at Beijing gymnastics college. He announced his challenge with a vengeance at the World Championships, and so it turned out that it was a real one. But Nemov, two years younger, showed that, even if Li reigns long, he will not reign easily.

Sherbo was a junior product of the old Soviet system which cleaned out the gymnastics world comprehensively until the Wall came down. Nemov never competed at any level for the old USSR but he shows the sport is still obviously healthy under other flags, the new red blood is prime stuff, whether Belarus, Russia or any other name.

This is different stuff to the wretchedly misbegotten and mis-named "women's" gymnastics and its sad eyed, star spangled circus ponies being asked to beat back puberty. That may have been the hottest ticket by far in this town, but the adult men's stuff is the real thing with the six ancient disciplines. This is serious circus come to town. Sherbo's parents, for instance, were both acrobats in the travelling shows out of Minsk.

He has now travelled, of course and how. He has been enrolled at the US State College, in Pennsylvania, where his wife still lies injured after a road accident. They are planning to open this autumn a gymnasium and health club on the Las Vegas strip. A long way from Minsk to be sure.

The men's final is confusing to report, but tremendously theatrical. Everything happens at once in every corner. Six disciplines and six stations, each with its bright blue mattresses which make up the rectangular circus "ring" in can not often have been held such a breathtaking stadium as this one is, all right, the sheer mountain grandeur of this vast auditorium emphasises the scene and if you take a lift to the highest point in the bleachers you look down on the tiny ants in their various national colours strutting their ritualised stuff. It could be a scene from an opera directed by a Peter Brook or a Zeffirelli. You could get three or four Albert Hall interiors into this five tiered coliseum, no problem.

The 36 qualifiers draw jots for their groups of six. Each do their stuff at one station then troop off in the same rotation six pack, carrying all their gear, to the next place of work the march accompanied by stirring music and hand clapped applause in time. Like gigantic musical chairs,

The Olympic Games are really quite nonsensical most of the time. There was no British participation. Of the 36, the EEC was well enough represented with three competitors from Germany and Italy, two from France, and one from Spain and Austria. A German was seventh, the rest nowhere. Two of the three Americans did mighty well to finish in the top 10, but they scored, as you can imagine, thunderously more on the clapometer than they did in the judges notebooks.

Sherbo had come in, his blunt scissored mop of honeyed hair bobbing, his deep blue eyes bright. At the warm up an American friend pointed out his swagger. "Look at him, a Mick Jagger in stirrup pants." But, as the evening wore on, the eyes brooded more in their sockets. His smudge of stubble seemed to grow on his chin noticeably in the 90 odd minutes.

Once Nemov had, to all decimal points, slaughtered him in the high bar, Sherbo must have known the game was up with only the floor exercises to come. But two minutes was enough for Belarus's Peter Pan at least to show the acclaiming audience for one last time that, well, man could actually fly. Mind you, simultaneously on the neighbouring mat Li from China hoisted his 9.8 which must have clinched the title. Even Peter Pans have to die.