When the verdict was read in the civil suit absolving Derrick Rose of sexual assault on Wednesday, Rose “kept his head down and hands clasped.”

Good. If only he could keep his head down a little longer, my son won’t ask why we have to turn off the radio whenever 1010 WINS mentions him.

For those who didn’t follow the sordid case, Knicks guard Rose and two of his friends were accused by his ex-girlfriend of gang rape. The accuser claimed that a month after she and Rose ended a long-term relationship, the three broke into her apartment and had sex with her while she was incapacitated. Rose and his friends claimed it was consensual.

Her story, which was never believable, was that she first came to his house — already drunk on two vodka drinks and wine, and soon to imbibe 3?¹/2 shots of tequila — and brought a friend with her (a “massage therapist” to “surprise” Rose), as well as a sex belt called the “Munkey Barz” and plenty of lubricant.

She told him she bought the belt from a “girl-on-girl store” instead of explaining that she had received it from a nightclub promoter because “I didn’t want him to think I was re-gifting it.” Yuck. Apparently after some good times at Rose’s house, the two parted ways.

She says she went home and passed out, and when she woke up she was half-naked and covered in lubricant. Her roommate told her that Rose and his friends were there. In fact, she had texted Rose a number of times during the night, including one message that read: “I left my belt and s–t n yo bathroom. And u need to come to me right now.” Which Rose, not surprisingly, assumed was an invitation to sex.

Rose is, of course, only the latest in a long line of athletes whose names I dread hearing at dinner.

“Hey, Mom, did you know that OJ Simpson was the greatest running back of all time? Can I get an OJ Simpson jersey?”

“No. He was a very bad man. Eat your broccoli.”

“Hey, Mom. They’re talking about Ray Rice coming back to the NFL. Why did he leave?”

“He’s not very nice to girls. Eat your broccoli.”

“Hey, Mom, my new football cards have a Jameis Winston. Isn’t that awesome?”

“Forget the broccoli. How about dessert?”

And now there’s Rose.

The jury returned a verdict in favor of Rose within hours, and minutes later he was happily posing for pictures with fans (including jurors on the case) outside the courthouse. I’m sure he’s relieved he won, but does he need to be smiling quite so widely?

Just because he won the case doesn’t mean the whole affair absolves him of the expectation to show a little humility, even embarrassment.

When the intimate details of your sex life make it into the newspapers, it may be time to just go home and practice your three-pointers.

We don’t want to know about the threesomes and the massage therapists and the sex toys. And we don’t want our kids to know about them, either.

Rose makes more than $20 million a year. I know money can’t buy taste, but maybe it can buy discretion. For that matter, you’d think it would help you find a girlfriend for each of your buddies without having to share.

Most professional athletes are perfectly decent people, and obviously none of these other folks have been accused of killing anyone else. Though at least murder is pretty straightforward. Do I need to be talking about gang rape and wife-beating on the way to school? At least no one asks me what the Munkey Barz are.

One solution is to prevent your kids from idolizing individual players — keeping their sports paraphernalia limited to team insignias and shirts with the names of long-dead legends. But these star athletes will come up in conversation with friends. Plus, the announcers during games will make not-so-oblique references to the athletes’ behavior off the field.

Parents, meanwhile, are left at the mercy of athletes who seem to have no sense of shame. Thanks, guys.

Naomi Schaefer Riley is a senior fellow at the Independent Women’s Forum.