It would be nice if professional athletes were able to come up with enough ways to cheat that people gave up watching or caring, causing the death of spectator culture at any sport except those played by friends and/or family members. Sadly, this one doesn't think that'll happen. They'll use eugenics, implants, cloning, androids, then touchable holographic competitors, to set endless successions of records with planned obsolescence, and people will keep noting the incremental progress toward the 0.9 second hundred meter dash and then the one-minute marathon, and it will remain a peevishly petty act to wonder why exalting in the comparatively pitiful exploits of a weak fleshy ape, operating under an insanely unnatural rubric that attempts to patch-proxy imaginary natural competition, ever mattered.
Competing to see who can put one's shoes on the fastest is, in its own way, inoffensive, even when a community analyzes the statistics of foot-shape and finger dexterity and coaching philosophy and life history and this season's required shoe stable as part of watching. Inoffensive, that is, compared to the indescribably sicker notion of grading the artistic merits of timed shoeing, graceful socking, and flamboyant tying. Yet, though the attempt to produce an accountancy of freestyle dance is sicker by far than World Cup riots, the two are connected in a dirty way; the fumbling toward vicarious eroticisms of collectively individualized mass achievement, in goals made or salchows landed, is a fouler dissolution of the responsibility to maintain a productive soul than the milder, perhaps even slightly admirable, pride one may feel when the museum's roof is completed.
In the comparison between a people's finest architecture and their champion's knockout blow, we see that imbibing advertisements is a form of tithing for the new steeple, whereby one joins the rugby squad in becoming incrementally less mentally capable in order to share in the besting of a self-defined barrier.