LIHUE, Hawaii – This is probably what it looked like back in 1920, on the courthouse steps in Chicago, assuming the story we have heard handed down from generation to generation is true. Assuming that kid with the apple cheeks and the angel voice really did get a good look at the disgraced hero, Shoeless Joe Jackson, really did say what we always have believed he said:

“Say it ain’t so, Joe.”

That is what the three darling daughters of Jeremy Frank looked like the other day, walking on a beach on the island of Kauai, all of them clad in T-shirts bearing the iconic picture of Michael Phelps. Eight gold medals draped around his neck and a got-the-world-by-the-you-know-whats look in his eyes.

They are nine years old, seven years old and five years old. And their father had just broken the news that their hero had just gotten himself into a world of trouble, thanks to a photograph rapidly circulating around the world capturing him partaking in something other than the Breakfast of Champions.

“I mean, the youngest, what am I supposed to say to her?” Jeremy Frank said, shaking his head. “The other two, they were crestfallen, and the youngest just acts the way her sisters act but, seriously: If you can’t let your kids believe in this guy, who do they believe in?”

The oldest, Melissa, shrugged her shoulders. She’s a swimmer herself, back in Shaker Heights, Ohio.

“He’s still a great swimmer,” she said. “But he made a big mistake.”

“A BIG mistake,” said the middle one, Linda.

And one more time, we are reminded of the problem inherent with the Olympics, inherent in trying to keep alive the ancient standards of what used to be (in theory at least) the greatest collection of amateur athletes in the world every four years.

There was a time when some of those stories were even true. When Rafer Johnson had to turn down acting jobs because the AAU threatened to take away his amateur status, when Bruce Jenner had to live hand to mouth training for the decathlon because taking a real job would mean compromising his ability to train for the decathlon.

Even Mark Spitz, the original Olympic cash register, earned his post-gold-blitz windfall only after swimming in obscurity for years, after failing miserably in the 1968 Games in Mexico City. Spitz saw his seven golds as a way to pay himself back for all the toil. It was hard to blame him when he cashed in on it all.

But those days are so far gone now, so far in the past. They have nothing to do with Phelps, who came of age in a time when Olympic athletes no longer know poverty, when world-class athletes live world-class lives and elite athletes are treated like young royalty.

There have been some who have wanted to cut Phelps a break the past few days, remind everyone he is just

23 years old. They want you to ask a question which is always worthwhile to ask: What were you doing when you were 23 years old, without the hassle of worrying about who’s got a cell phone camera or a hidden lens somewhere.

But that doesn’t apply. Because from a very young age, Michael Phelps was groomed not only to be a champion, but a human ATM machine. Do not for one second believe the only motivator for Phelps was golden glory. This was always about the payoff and the payout with Phelps, going all the way back to Athens in 2004.

Now, there is nothing wrong with making money, as I’m sure publishing entrepreneur J. Paul Torre would tell you. There is nothing wrong with paying what the market will bear, and a post-Olympic market always rattles silver and gold for the brightest stars (unless you forget those days when you couldn’t turn on a TV set without having Mary Lou Retton smiling back at you). Phelps had every right to make as many commercials as he wanted to, even if he never looked as comfortable acting in them as, say, Jimmy Stewart might have.

But he knew what the unwritten contract with the rest of us was, and he knew what the unspoken law was. He more than anyone else should have, because four years ago he was arrested for DUI, and his image took a major hit, and he said all the humble hosannas about learning his lesson and wanting to be a role model and yadda yadda yadda. It made for a nice chapter in the up-close-and-personal saga we got daily at Beijing.

Only, clearly, it really was just that. Really was just yadda yadda yadda.

Is Phelps the first 23-year-old to take part in the devil weed? Of course not. Is he the first one to get caught? Stand up if you know someone who didn’t in his day. Should he be crucified for this? Of course not, though it is worth wondering if he posed more of a risk to his community by taking a bong hit in 2009 or driving drunk back in 2005.

But there’s no need to shed tears for him, either. He knew the deal. He knew the arrangement. He knew that in 2009, you had better make sure whatever you do, do it in private, away from cell phones and hidden microphones and anything else. He knew. And was just another athlete who figured the rules applied to everyone else but him.

He doesn’t lose the golds. Just something much more important.

Mike Vaccaro’s e-mail address is michael.vaccaro@nypost.com. His book, “1941: The Greatest Year in Sports” is available in paperback at bookstores.

VAC’S WHACKS

I still am disappointed that Joe Torre agreed to do the book. But if it had to be done, it was entrusted to some masterful hands, hands belonging to Tom Verducci.

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You know what would have been neat? If the loudest of Eric Mangini’s new best friends in the New York press had spent even 15 minutes around the team the last three years to see what his regime was really like. That would have been neat.

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After this week at the Garden, is there anyone out there who still thinks the Knicks can do what they need to do without getting a cornerstone player?

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I would have no problem getting my uniform dirty for Mike Tomlin (right).