Sail-surfing, is that it?"

	Herbert Knosowski, Associated Press Fal Firdman and the magic gold. Click photo for larger image.

Forgive Dorothy Berger for being slightly unfamiliar with the sport. Who knew Windsurfing Mistral Sailboard would become such a monumental Olympic event, such an eternal flame of an Olympic moment? Yet there it was, in the Saronic Sea, on worldwide television, an anthem that resonated from ancient Greece, across all parts of a five-ring planet and into a certain Shaker Heights, Ohio, living room.

"I was just thrilled," Berger said over the telephone. "Oh, yes, I think it's so wonderful. I know what David would say."

A gold medal for Israel?!

Her son David was an American weightlifter competing for Israel when 11 members of that tiny country's 1972 Olympic team were slaughtered in a terrorist act at Munich. He was in one of the helicopters when Black September members tossed grenades inside, killing the last of the men who came to those purported Summer Games of peace merely to represent, to officiate, to compete on mats and in gyms -- nothing political there. The International Olympic Committee still hasn't publicly recognized the slain athletes, and Dr. Ben Berger writes them every year, asking simply for a moment of silence.

Thirty-two years, and nothing.

Fifty-two years as an Olympic nation, and no gold.

Some things still have to wait, but this delicious medal ceremony couldn't go without great song.

The moment came, coincidentally enough, 11 days into these historic Athens Games. It came in a country that didn't recognize Israel's independence until 1990. It came in an Olympics where an Iranian judoka avoided taking the same floor as an Israeli, such contact being expressly forbidden in Iran -- again with the politics. It came at a time when the Israeli newscasts broke into regular programming not because of another bombing, not because of another rift in the Palestinian conflict, not because of some tragic news, but rather for national cheer.

For once, a flag wasn't lowered at half-mast but raised to the top of an Olympic pole.

The winning windsurfer is a 28-year-old named Gal Fridman. He is a two-time medalist now, having earned a bronze in the same discipline at Atlanta, having become the first Israeli to nab more than one. His first name means wave in Hebrew. He has a brother Yuval, or Tributary, and a sister Ma'ayan, or Spring. So water truly runs in their veins.

He won in remarkable fashion, baiting back in the pack a Brazilian (Ricardo Santos) whom he needed to beat by four places, only to grab a stiff wind and fly to a golden finish. He draped himself in the Star of David flag and belted loudly along with dozens of giddy Israelis to their national anthem, Hatikva, which means hope. He sat on his board and told the media afterward about how the entire nation's delegation, before every Olympics, visits the Tel Aviv memorial to the fallen 11.

"I didn't even know they did that," David Berger's mother was saying haltingly from suburban Cleveland, sitting just a few feet away from a miniature replica of that sculpture.

In no way will this wash away the sorrow. The Bergers cannot watch the opening ceremonies. Not weightlifting, either. Yet it's so much more cleansing to shed a tear of joy, at long last.

This isn't merely a feel-good tale for families and friends. This isn't merely a Wednesday to remember for Israelis.

This is an Olympic moment for the world.

There is no other sporting event that unites the globe, that brings athletes -- in theory, anyway -- together as brothers and sisters for 17 days every quadrennial. Sure, politics and commercialistic greed have stomped out civility and amateurism. Once each four years, though, the Games deliver a brief respite from the crass and a brief reminder of the purity, be it a New Guinea swimmer or an Aborigine runner.

Now, to our rescue, comes surfin' Gal Fridman and his tiny nation. Remove any political underpinning to Israel and imagine in its place Andorra, Narau, Palau, Zambia, anybody the geographic size of New Jersey or less. The president and the prime minister telephone their congratulations, the fans swarm past the billion-dollar security to mob their champion, the wreath and the flag and the unabashed smile look so warm and wonderful. Games are games again. We can feel their athletic joy. We can sing their Hatikva.

Our hope is not lost.

"I'm afraid," said Berger, who is preparing, at her family's expense, to move her son's Cleveland memorial from a closed Jewish Community Center to another, "An awful lot of people don't remember."

I'm afraid they forget not only that tragedy, but the Olympic spirit lost on the world over the past 32 years. Every now and then, we all need a memorable moment to ride a wave.