James Lawton: Henmania reflects sad and poisonous lack of sportsmanship

The question provoked by the seething cockpit of unbridled, street-level passion and raucous partiality otherwise known as the Wimbledon Centre Court can be split neatly into two. Is the world, with England to the fore, going sports crazy? Or just crazy?

Indicators in SW19, which have so far have confirmed a tide of what increasingly began to resemble strident nationalism in the World Cup in Japan and South Korea, strongly suggest the latter conclusion. Good manners at Wimbledon are in free-fall. Matrons are not just dressing up in union flag outfits. Their faces are lined with longing. It seems that the prospect of defeat has become a personal affront, and, if you yell enough, if you get hysterical enough, maybe it can be turned away.

It used to be said that sport was a metaphor for life. Now there must be a suspicion that it has become a replacement. Some kind of filling of the emptiness. Princess Di died, so who would fill the front pages of the tabloids? The Beckhams have done it mostly, and if David cannot win a World Cup this time he can talk about winning it another four years, and the Prime Minister can praise the brilliant achievement of finishing eighth, and it can be proposed that we should have a celebration in the streets, an extension of the Jubilee.

At Wimbledon a winning shot by Tim Henman is cheered no more fiercely than a mistake by his opponent. A denizen of Henman Hill tells an interviewer proudly that he has queued for hours to join a few thousand other saddos cheering their hero, the repository, apparently, of all their most pressing dreams, on the big television screen.

Wimbledon, let's be honest, has up to now always been rather silly and sentimental and patronising, with a sense of humour that might have been refined at a thousand meetings of the WI and the parish council.

It meant that when a young mad bull like John McEnroe came strutting along, his screams to the heavens were greeted mostly with excited chatter, rather as though the vicar's tea party had taken a boisterous turn. It was more amusing even than a pigeon waddling along the service line.

But something is happening to the old place and it is, frankly my dear, not very nice. Even McEnroe, now the wise old head of the commentators' box, is bound to register on the obsessions being unleashed.

With supreme irony, it is of course the ultimately pleasant and impeccably bred young Henman who has done the damage.

Well, not Tim, who would give up his seat to a lady as quickly as Superbrat used to mouth an expletive, but the sustained and destabilising frisson he happens to work on the spirit of the English sports fan when he engages their interest for the best part of two weeks each summer.

The effects are plainly escalating. In some extreme examples they are becoming quite poisonous. The old affection for the no-hope British challenge has turned into something quite different. It is streaked with desperation and, horror of horrors, an outright lack of sportsmanship. There is a frenzy in the air.

But it is not just the air of Wimbledon. The corrosion is happening all across the face of sport. In the old days failure by an Italian World Cup team would lead to the coach being pelted with bad eggs. Now the prime minister talks officially of conspiracies against the nation. The Spaniards reacted in similar fashion. The Germans, the nation with the best World Cup record after Brazil, have staged nationwide demonstrations of joy and celebration – for finishing second.

In England the consequence of World Cup failure is denial. David Seaman, who like Paul Gascoigne 12 years earlier in Wembley, wept at the moment of defeat and was greeted not with some sympathy and a touch of embarrassment but the instant status of national hero. Beckham said that he was the best goalkeeper in the tournament, which he plainly was not, and there was scarcely a questioning word. If England had beaten Brazil, we were told, we would surely have gone on to win the trophy, and why did England lose? Not because they played like drains against 10 men, failed to muster a shot, lacked for even basic tactical adjustment by their £2m-a-year coach, but because Seaman was beaten by a "fluke" goal from the young Brazilian star Ronaldinho.

The suggestion that patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel may have been superseded. Maybe in sport it is the home of the fool – or the sad pursuer of some meaning to his life.

Certainly the old, easy pleasure of watching sport, of acknowledging achievement, of saluting a good winner or a brave loser, is receding fast. What we have now is a draining imperative to win, however you do it, and, if that cannot happen, well, you then find an excuse, an alibi, which will preserve the belief that your representative, the man with the ball at his feet or a racket in his hand, this very extension of yourself, will one day win it all.

The other day in Phoenix Park, Dublin, a vast crowd turned out to cheer the Irish team, who were knocked out in the World Cup round of 16. Some of the players were reluctant to take their bows. Though pleased with their efforts in the Far East, they thought such celebration inappropriately excessive. Phoenix Park is a place which has hitherto celebrated patriots who died for their cause. One of the players said privately: "Jesus, it would be better if we had won something." But, of course, the players acknowledged the cheers and the yearnings of their nation.

At Wimbledon Tim Henman has been fulfilling a similar role. Can anyone really blame him for needing a touch of the smelling salts? Or question the possibility that maybe he was not the only one in need of clearing his head?