Mickey Harte was right about one thing...

IT was all the more reprehensible — and hilarious — because he was sucking deeply on a cheap cigar when he said it.

Admittedly, it was uttered late at night and after a couple of drinks while a pair of old friends (plus me) listened intently but his unguarded comments spoke a truth that could never appear on the record.

“The only thing fans are good for is putting petrol in my car.”

This was an Irish international and journeyman pro who has spent the majority of his ongoing career in English football’s second tier.

Although those 2006 fuel prices are a distant memory now, his simplistic view of the world of football finance had a grain of validity: in percentage terms, Sky TV money bought his cars and properties while clicking turnstiles tiled his bathroom.

But of course he was suffering from a myopic disregard for the key ingredient of what attracts TV audiences to a live sporting event: the crowd atmosphere.

If Lionel Messi wasn’t surrounded by 70,000 or 80,000 punters, ratings would dip sharply. And as great as Messi is, the response he generates from those who worship him is surely worth the entry fee alone.

The same can be said for any sporting memory we retain from our youth. Long after we’ve come to terms with the fact that we’ve misremembered the brilliance of a certain goal or a dramatic point or a winning try, what will always endure are the sounds and the smells of those sat or stood around us.

I’m not sure how much that’s worth but it’s definitely more than a tank of unleaded.

Over on this side of the Atlantic, the NFL lockout shares a few traits with the above attitude to bums-on-seats.

Fans continue to find themselves sidelined by the ongoing dispute. Rarely does the debate — which just about falls down on the side of the locked-out players — venture towards the fear that some analysts have expressed: will there come a point when increasingly impressive live coverage of games draws cash-strapped supporters away from the wintry inhumanity of Chicago’s Soldier Field or Green Bay’s frozen Lambeau? It’s not unique to the NFL that people are being priced out of spending a long day in traffic, in queues and on plastic seats. But spare a thought for those diehards watching helplessly as the billions of dollars get carved up between the owners and the players.

Sport will keep evolving but it will always need its noise and its chaos. No matter how much those at the top try to paper over the cracks with the Black Eyed Peas, every game has its own unique crowd sound, its own anticipation and potential energy.

Queuing for a hot dog at Yankee Stadium recently, I missed a home run but I heard the crowd reaction: organic and unmistakable. The initial crack of bat off ball is greeted by a surprised “Oh!”, like 30,000 incredulous Tony Sopranos. Then it subsides, replaced by half a second of relative silence: “Will it clear the fence? Will it? Yeah!!” The ball sails over and fear is replaced by relieved pandemonium.

In football, the away goal is a thing of wonder, even if your team is at the receiving end. It’s that surreal moment of silence after the ball hits the net way up the other end. Initially unsure as to why the rest of the ground is deathly silent, the away fans suddenly realise, with the help of their celebrating players, that something significant has happened.

Silence plays a bigger role in tennis, of course, and the culmination of the French Open highlighted a very Roland Garros quirk: the self-policing spectators, hushing themselves during every exciting rally.

This past weekend, I was forced to depend on sporting sounds more than usual. And in doing so, I rediscovered its primitive joy.

The prized market that is the Irish-American community ensures that big sporting events like Republic of Ireland matches and GAA Championship games are pay-per-view. I can’t even watch The Sunday Game highlights online — a cruel blow when you’re far away, trust me.

So I spent a pleasant Saturday afternoon in the company of Gabriel Egan and Eoin Hand while Sunday was a confused mess of RTÉ and Newstalk.

I’m not going to venture down the well-trodden road of extolling radio commentary. No form of media will ever surpass it. Nor will I wade too deep into the Brian Carthy row, tempted though I am. Mickey Harte was right about one thing though (just one): it is a unique medium and an incredible skill to paint that picture for the listener.

It wasn’t the end of the world to be denied the opportunity of seeing Macedonia’s new stadium or watching Robbie Keane’s historic strikes. Mr Egan and Mr Hand do a fine job and indeed the former is in grave danger of becoming a national treasure. Soon, I’m going to have to work out my championship Sundays. But the sounds, for now, fill my tank better than you’d imagine.

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