During the second week of the 1988 Olympics in Seoul, South Korea, an Australian man sat at the bar of a nightclub in the Itaewon section of the city and nearly had his throat slit by the barmaid. It was no accident. It was like something from an "Indiana Jones" movie. I saw it all.

The guy was deep into his umpteenth barley malt. His tongue was connected to his brain, which was dialed into his beers, which weren't helping him think clearly. He started berating the woman behind the bar. He didn't stop for 45 minutes.

He didn't stop, in fact, until the Korean barmaid calmly grabbed an empty bottle of OB, the local brew, and slammed it on the bar. Pieces of glass orbited the room. By the time the shards settled, the barmaid was holding the neck of what remained of the bottle. Specifically, she was holding it underneath the Aussie's chin. There is fear. And there is the jagged edge of a broken beer bottle aimed at your carotid artery.

It's always something at the Olympics, because we are always human, never more so than at the Summer Games, where a cross-section of the world gathers to compete in a cauldron of rivalry, nationalism, jingoism and pride. It brings out the best and worst in all of us.

I don't know what to make of this Olympics. I'm going with a sense of wonder leavened by a trickle of dread. This is my sixth Olympics. I have learned not to preconceive. An open mind and a mother's patience are as important as a working cell phone.

Because I have been advised not to look like an American, I'm foregoing the backpack bearing the logo of the Flying Pig Marathon. I'm not wearing Gap or Champion or Eddie Bauer.

I have a hat, sent to me by a soldier-friend serving in Iraq, that bears the words "Operation Iraqi Freedom" across its bill. I won't be taking that. I'm not sure what this advice means, 'don't dress like an American.' I only know I gave up my lederhosen long ago, and I surrendered the burqas when the guys on the playground started laughing at me.

On the eve of the Athens Games, I also know this:

The athletes will save it. They always do.

It is fitting that those with the winged feet, the hydraulic arms and backs, the iron fists, and the ability to fly, if only briefly, should save us from ourselves. They'll march into the Olympic Stadium Friday night bearing the hopes of relatives, friends, lovers and nations, and they will captivate our spirit for the next 17 days. Their burdens will be heavy. They'll bear them lightly.

The great majority of them have given up something to get to this point. That includes every Greater Cincinnatian that is competing. We long for our jocks to be more like we are. We yearn for them to possess the same sense and sensibilities, to understand the way we do how the world works.

Well, here they are.

The rower Bryan Volpenhein works at Home Depot. The gymnast Mohini Bhardwaj waited tables. Greg Ruckman, another rower, is a 30-year-old Harvard graduate who has put off making his fortune for another chance at something priceless. This is his second Olympics. Why?

"There is nothing I will ever do," he said simply, "that compares to the Olympics."

They are 22 or 24 or 25 now. They have been planning for this moment their whole lives. "Nine or 10," says John Ketchum, father of Dan, 22, potential medalist in the 4x200 meter freestyle relay. Nine or 10 is when Dan first voiced the notion he'd like to, one day, give the Olympics a try.

How many of us have said that? A lot more than have done it.

Ron Siler Jr. has made it. He has overcome the world to get to the Games, and now he will box the world for a chance to show the world what you can do when discipline breaks bread with talent and opportunity. Siler always had boxing, even when he had nothing else.

His bookend buddy is Rau'Shee Warren, all of 17 years old, the youngest American boxer. Warren's Olympic life is only beginning.

Every picture tells a story, which is why we should watch soccer defender Heather Mitts and synchronized swimmer Becky Jasontek.

Mitts is calendar-girl handsome. If the U.S. women reach the medal round as expected, figure her face to light up your TV. Jasontek's might not; synchronized swimming is a fringe event, even at the Olympics.

But courage never exists on the edges.

Jasontek ruptured an ovarian cyst five years ago. She almost died. To her, competing is an expression of life.

As it should be for all of us.

Ruckman has spent some hours studying the prevailing winds off the Aegean Sea. They are expected to lash the rowing venue every afternoon. The competition is supposed to begin early each day and end before the wind kicks up.

But TV might have other ideas.

"Just about every middle of the day is unrowable," Ruckman says. He has an idea to fix this: "They should race every night at midnight, when the water is flat. Bring all the cars up to the course and have them turn their lights on."

Failing that, the rowers will just have to bail the water from their boats. Nobody said being an Olympian was a day at the beach. Unless he played beach volleyball.

They will overcome. Overcoming is a permanent Olympic condition.

Watch the Games. Celebrate those who would show us the best of ourselves.

And stay away from barmaids bearing beer bottles.

E-mail pdaugherty@enquirer.com