NICE IS NOT ENOUGH; WARTS WORK BETTER AS SPORTING HYPE.

Byline: KAREN CROUSE

Central Casting? I.M. Hype here. I think it's time we talked.

With all due respect, I have some serious reservations about the athletes you've designated for sport's starring roles.

From which pool, exactly, are you culling your talent? And don't tell me the one in St. Croix that was ravaged by Hurricane Hugo years ago. Look at some of the names in neon lights and tell me you haven't gone off the deep end:

Tim Duncan, Mia Hamm, Terrell Davis, Derek Jeter.

David Duval, Cynthia Cooper, Paul Kariya, Barry Sanders.

Pete Sampras, Dot Richardson, Tony Gwynn, Lindsay Davenport.

To a person, they're decent, humble, sincere . . . and miserably miscast as performers in leading roles. May I speak candidly? If I serve these athletes up to the public, I'm looking at an increase in cavities, not consumerism.

The athletes can be sugarcoated but not the truth. It's numbing as Novocain, I know, but in today's society, nice is a four-letter word.

You want modest? Buy a sarong or a robe.

Today's public is voyeuristic. It clamors for sports stars who bare all, who flash something besides flawless teeth and skin. It worships warts.

Take the just-completed NBA Finals. Friday night found hosannas raining down on Latrell Sprewell, purveyor of the most famous chokehold this side of the World Wrestling Federation. The Madison Square Garden crowd could barely bring itself to acknowledge that it was Duncan, the St. Croix swimmer-turned-San Antonio superstar, whose team reigned supreme.

But of course. Sprewell is your Garden-variety exhibitionist. He sprayed in shots from all over the court, using all manners of contortion, on his way to 35 points in the decisive Game 5. He was a highlight reel ready to be cued.

Duncan was more like an instructional video, his 31 points coming on bank shots and bit baskets, the beauty of which is clearly lost on a generation weaned on video games and MTV.

Okay, so Duncan does have tattoos and a pierced tongue. But anymore those things hardly register on the outrage scale. What does: New York's loose-tongued Larry Johnson weighing in on the Knicks, dubbing them a bunch of ``rebellious slaves.''

That oughta be good for an endorsement or two. As for Duncan, he'll be lucky to get a milk mustache.

Duncan could hang out this summer in bars with Charles Barkley and it wouldn't matter. Hipness today is an attitude, not an acquired trait.

You can break up with an actress before the French Open and still be a big yawn, as Sampras has discovered. Sampras, who recently ended a two-year relationship with Kimberly Williams, is closing in on his 12th Grand Slam title this week at Wimbledon, a number only slightly less stupendous than his six consecutive year-end No. 1 rankings.

And yet it should be obvious to you by now that you've got the wrong American in tennis' male leading role. I mean, everybody says that spending time with Sampras is about as exciting as watching the blades grow on his favorite playing surface.

And here's the thing: Dull is definitely another four-letter word in today's society.

Andre Agassi, recently separated from actress Brooke Shields, is the American lapping up the tabloid's share of attention. He is No. 1 in people's hearts. It's his compensation for years of having been colorful on and off the court while Sampras was consumed with being consistent on it.

Next to saying not much of anything, the worst thing you can do if you want to be top dog with the public is be quoted as quipping, ``I'm Howard Hughes,'' as Sampras allowed in a recent interview with ``Tennis'' magazine.

That should pretty well cook his spruce goose, popularity-wise, no matter how many more times he wins Wimbledon. The public today doesn't have the patience for an ascetic, no matter how aesthetically engaging his game.

You saw that with Duval during the recent U.S. Open at Pinehurst, N.C. As solid a citizen as he is a ball-striker, Duval was aiming for the only target in golf he hasn't stuck (a victory in a major).

So where was the fan who yelled ``You're my role model'' during an early round? Not following the indomitable Duval, that's for sure. He was in the gallery of John Daly, a recovering alcoholic who, when lubricated with liquor, has been known to strike women who are now his former wives.

Duval's only domestic scrape has been with a tea kettle. If he let off steam sometimes instead of internalizing everything, he'd probably be as hip as those Tommy Hilfiger clothes he endorses.

And that battle being waged right now in major-league baseball, do you really expect anybody outside New York or Boston to go Tarzan over it? Why you insist on making headliners out of players who aren't home-run hitters is a mystery to me. It's like putting Rupert Everett in a scene with Tom Hanks and expecting the audience to notice the range of Hanks' character.

Heading into this final weekend of voting, the Yankees' Derek Jeter was playing Mark McGwire to Nomar Garciaparra's Sammy Sosa in the All-Star balloting for the American League's starting shortstop.

And all people could talk about was Jose Canseco's homer binge. Face it, it's the long ball people dig, not a long range. Jeter gets on base nearly every game. He just doesn't clear them with near the frequency of McGwire or Sosa or Canseco.

That makes him less interesting. Of course, the public surely would forgive him his somnolent steadiness on the field if only he'd live a bacchanal bachelor's life off it.

Alas, his public persona is nearer that of Joe DiMaggio than Joe Namath.

The problem, as I see it, is really pretty simple. You've assembled a great cast for a morality play. The only thing is, sports today is almost exclusively burlesque.