Love the game, not the player

CALL it another of my prejudices if you like — I’ve already commissioned mugshot t-shirts for everyone on the sports desk to wear — but I’ve never quite understood one particular breed of sports fan.

The kind who supports an individual sportsman or woman.

I’m not talking simple admiration. Or patriotism. We’ve all urged on Sonia, ducked for Dunne, fretted over Harrington’s latest swing reconstruction, winced at word of a fresh boil on Kelly’s behind. And we can all hail individual greatness when it presents itself. Michael Johnson’s impossibly elegant posture, Woods’ pre-fire hydrant dominance, Federer pre-twins.