AFTER 9/11, THE WORD HAD ALMOST BEEN ERADICATED FROM SPORTS' VERNACULAR. BUT ATHLETES - AND A RACEHORSE - HAVE SHOWN IN THEIR SPECIAL WAY, WE CAN STILL CALL THEM... HEROES.

Byline: KEVIN MODESTI

I write today to ask you for permission to use a four-letter word in this sports column.

The word is ``hero.''

This request is made in honor of Barbaro (who died Monday), Nolan Ryan (who strutted past the Big 6-0 on Wednesday), and the star of the Super Bowl (whoever that turns out to be Sunday).

Among the ways the world got a little darker on 9/11, sports lost one of their sunniest words that morning.

In the sports pages of 9/12, writers conceded the insignificance of fun and games next to the horror of the Twin Towers, and some punctuated the point by surrendering the language to terror.

No longer, they said, should a long pass on the football field be called a ``bomb.'' No longer should a strong offense in the field or the court be called ``explosive.'' No longer should a man or woman who does nothing braver than shrug off a fastball in the ribs by called ``courageous.''

And no longer should an athlete, some guy doing nothing more important than chucking a ball through a hoop, be called a ``hero,'' not when firefighters risk their lives in burning skyscrapers and soldiers dodge bullets in the Middle East.

It's a point that deserved to be made.

But it could have been made without stripping ``hero'' of its happiest meaning, without denying Kirk Gibson or Magic Johnson or Joe Montana his heroic glow, without determining that heroism cannot exist outside the shadow of disaster and tragedy and fear.

The result is that, for five years now, sports stars have rarely been called heroes without twinges of guilt.

And so it is that when Barbaro was called a hero in some eulogies this week, there was outrage over attaching such a consecrated word to a sports star -- and a mere racehorse at that.

Some writers jumped on a statement by David Switzer, executive director of the Kentucky Thoroughbred Association, that ``this horse was a hero.''

``I thought after the 9/11 attacks that our definition of `hero' had changed,'' wrote John Stolnis at phillysportsline.com. ``Firefighters and police officers are heroes. First responders are heroes. Soldiers fighting battles in Iraq, Afghanistan and everywhere else our nation asks them to fight are heroes. ... (We should) save that moniker for the men and women in this world who truly sacrifice themselves for the good of others.''

``Thanks to a non-story becoming a nationwide media flashpoint, a horse became a `hero' whose legacy was blown way out of proportion,'' wrote Lawrence Benedetto at Chicago's nbc5.com.

``By using `hero' and `horse' in the same sentence, Switzer has practically ruined the term,'' wrote Zach Baker at blogcritics.org (presumably meaning the term ``hero,'' not the term ``horse'').

No, the people who have ruined the term are those who rob it of the happy connotations of no-hitters and buzzer-beating jumpers and -- yes -- the qualities of horse and horsemanship that produce the most convincing Kentucky Derby victory in 60 years.

This takes nothing away from soldiers and FBI agents and emergency-room doctors. When we say a particularly clutch athlete is a hero, we're using a slightly different definition. Just as, if I think the people who don't get this are soulless idiots, I don't literally believe they have IQs under 20.

My dictionary has five meanings for ``hero'' ranging from ``a mythological or legendary figure,'' to one ``noted for special achievements in a particular field,'' to ``a large sandwich ...''

Somewhere in that range is room for a man who risks looking bad on two injured legs and winds up hitting a home run that sets a town aglow in red brake lights.

Or a basketball player who steps out of his usual role and carries a team to a championship. Or -- sure -- a thoroughbred whose teamwork with a slightly unorthodox trainer and cooperation with veterinarians awaken emotions that have gone dormant in this automotive, metropolitan age.

Benedetto, the Chicago blogger previously quoted, notes that had Barbaro ``been any other thoroughbred on any other day (than Preakness day), he probably would've been put down while he was still on the track.'' True, there was a difference between Barbaro and the average racehorse that inspired the efforts to save him, but it's not that he would have been worth tens of millions of dollars at stud. It was clear, for months before Barbaro's death, that he would never be strong enough for the rough act of breeding.

No, Barbaro became special because, as silly as it may seem to professional cynics, people watching on TV were inspired by the Derby dominance resulting from his work with trainer Michael Matz and saddened by the Preakness pain of the horse and his people.

Much as, as insignificant as a sports championship is in the big picture, fans can be inspired by players who suppress their egos for the good of a team (or, in the case of Kobe Bryant and Shaquille O'Neal, crowds can be not particularly inspired even as they cheered for Lakers titles).

This week has shown there are two kinds of people: those who cheer heroism only while waist-deep in ashes, and those sunnier souls who can find heroism in a horse, a right-hander or a field-goal kicker.

I know which group I'd rather hang out with.

heymodesti(AT_SIGN)aol.com

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CAPTION(S):

5 photos

Photo:

(1 -- color) PEYTON MANNING

(2 -- color) KIRK GIBSON

(3 -- color) NOLAN RYAN

(4 -- color) BARBARO

(5) Sympathy cards and flowers are seen at the New Bolton Center for Barbaro, who was euthanized Monday.

Matt Rourke/Associated Press