In Like Flynn

He doddered, darted, acted addled and hurried, slunk through tiny spaces and sped through unguarded ones. He was Frogger Senior. He never stopped walking and never started hearing. He nudged his way through the masses at the first security checkpoint and ticket check, waited until a young guard (he always looks for the youngest) had her head buried in a bag, sidestepped past her and through the one-foot gap between the metal detector and a fence. Then he buttonhooked a distracted wand man, did a pirouette around a bored National Guardsman that would've made Fred Astaire weep and then beat it up a ramp. He was never security-screened. Thank God he's on our side.

Now he had to get by the ticket rippers. He found a bank of unmanned doors locked from the inside, waited until a supervisor came barreling out of one, lithely slid his loafer into the gap before it closed and stepped through it as casually as if he were entering his own kitchen. "When am I going to learn never to bet against myself?" he said, grinning.

Make it 33.

Memo to NFL commissioner Paul Tagliabue: $7 million wasn't enough. Memo to Salt Lake Olympic Committee: He'll be there this week.

I didn't hear from Dion again until midnight. He called from inside the Rams' postgame party, gobbling free gumbo and sipping gratis merlot. Hey, at least they had one winner in there.