My retreat from this sporting world bothers me. It comes at a time of life when the average sports-mad lad I used to be is settling down comfortably in front of his telly and lapping up every bit of athleticism or skill it has to offer.

It is true that I have plenty to do with my time and am still sufficiently active to regard too much spectating as self-indulgence, not to say indolence. Whether I would feel the same if I were housebound is another matter.

But I doubt it. I have to confess that I am jaded. It is not so much with the spectacle or the drama, though heaven knows every striking moment is endlessly repeated and analysed, but with the sports industry itself.

Now let's be clear: some sports have never set me alight. I regard motor racing of any kind the equivalent of watching paint dry, though I wish Lewis Hamilton every success.

But whether it is Formula 1 or speedway, the crowds surely don't go there just to watch processions flashing by. They must live in hope of spectacular crashes. This takes us back to the Coliseum – and that's not for me.

For that reason it is a very long time since I took the slightest interest in boxing, even if it is "the noble sport". I should, therefore, be dead to the appeal of Rugby Union since it is a very violent game. Perversely, it is – along with Rugby League – one of the few sports left that sparks in me a flicker of enthusiasm.

It has perhaps more to do with an atavistic scent of battle, of chivalry and of Henry V before Agincourt than the actual grinding attrition since, we are told these days, it's all won up front. By contrast Rugby League is more open and athletic. It is also perhaps the best run professional game now on offer.

I can take or leave darts, snooker, bowls, golf, tennis and horse-racing – and, mostly, I leave them – while recognising the calculus in all six.

For the first time for years, I shall not see a county cricket match this season, though but for illness I would have willed on Yorkshire at Canterbury.

But, even if I wanted to watch cricket on TV, it is not open to me on my terms. Cricket is one of those national sports that have been sold off to the highest bidder and to hell with the genuine supporter.

Maybe it's the old Yorkshireman in me, but I am damned if I will pay on top of my BBC licence fee to catch a glimpse of even my favourite summer sport. That means I miss a lot of other sports, too. But there it is.

Principles can get in the way of enjoyment, assuming I would derive any from the abomination of Twenty 20 cricket, a classic case of
sporting prostitution.

This brings me to soccer where, off and on for the past 42 years – and mostly on – I have had a seat in the stand at Crystal Palace with my family and a neighbour. My continued patronage owes, I fear, more to loyalty than to enthusiasm.

So what is knocking the old enthusiasm out of me? Is it the endless chatter, the off-the-field pre-occupations, that drive its reportage? Well, they don't half witter on. Often the sport seems incidental to the babble.

Is it the gross commercialisation? It doesn't help feeling that the real effort is not to serve up good football, witness the boring, ritual passing across soccer defences, but to persuade you to part with every penny you own. This is no doubt necessary since, given their ludicrous wage bills, most soccer clubs would be adjudged bankrupt on a strict reading of the rules.

Is it the mercenary nature of today's sport? The only amazing thing is that we can field an international team in any sport given the number of footloose and fancy free "slaves" from all corners of the earth who represent, for example, Arsenal or Liverpool.

It is all these things. It is the conviction that what we are offered today is no longer sport but a racket, with a professional Olympics no less, drugs and all. Rackets are for busting not watching.