In the name of what are we doing this? A question that occurred to me more than once as England completed four home Test matches against West Indies before June was halfway through. There was no requirement to play this series, so why was it being played?

The West Indies players didn’t want to be here. They were freezing to death, depressed to the roots of their being by the weather, their own cricket politics and the drubbing they were taking. Misfortune dogged them, most notably when an accident to their captain, Ramnaresh Sarwan, ruled him out of most of the series. It happened because he recklessly flung himself into advertising hoardings in an attempt to save a single run. Is that, I wonder, the perfect symbol of modern cricket: a celebration of brainless athleticism hopelessly compromised by the forces of money?

What did England gain from the series? A feeling that they are better than they are, because they beat a side with a high-sounding name. What did we, the supporters, gain? In truth, little enough: mostly, a feeling of hopelessness as we watched West Indies sink ever closer to the level of Bangladesh and Zimbabwe.

So why was the series held? The reason, as Sarwan discovered through his damaged shoulder, was money. Well, I hear you say, all professional sport is about raising money in the end, isn’t it? Ah yes, but it’s a question of priorities. When raising money is more important than the pursuit and occasional capture of excellence, sport itself is destroyed.

The England-West Indies series spelt out this principle, because the image of the frozen, miserable and unutterably pissed-off West Indies was so vivid. But in truth, Test match cricket is a pretty lightweight contender when it comes to the false priorities in sport.

Every time a sporting committee sits, its members should go through a preliminary ceremony. They don’t have to say a prayer, though that might help, but they should at least attempt a self-examination. Each should ask: in the name of what are we doing this? What is the priority here? Is it revenue? Or excellence?

These two things can be pursued side-by-side, but the instant money tilts the balance, sporting excellence suffers. Money must never win, money must never come first: for every time it does, sport itself cannot help but fail.

The cricket World Cup was a classic example. It had far too many teams and took far too long. The ICC said it needed the money to promote the game, but it is not money that promotes a sport, it is the spectacle of sporting excellence. A brilliant competition does more to promote sport than the fattest of fat bank accounts.

But it is unfair to pick on cricket. Obviously, the biggest offender is football. The past two World Cups have been deeply disappointing. Who was the star? Which was the great team? What are the abiding memories? What will you tell your sporty grandchild when asked: what was the World Cup of 2006 like? Sorry, it’s all rather slipped my mind; England were disappointing, weren’t they, and didn’t somebody head-butt somebody? Can’t remember who won.

Footballers play too much football. As a result, when they get to the biggest occasions, they are knackered. A sport that valued excellence above revenue would make sure the players played less, but instead, the system wrings every last drop from box-office names before they are clapped out.

The finest example of a competition invented in direct defiance of excellence is, of course, the English League Cup. Meanwhile, the accursed penalty shoot-out dominates football across the world. On Wednesday night, we came close to the ultimate absurdity after a 32-penalty exchange between England and Holland in the European Under-21 Championship. England, according to long and imperishable tradition, lost heroically.

The penalty shoot-out is so far the only recorded example of a sport coldly and deliberately selling its soul to commerce. Television likes such bogus happenings, football willingly supplies them. All that is lost is footballing excellence: these days, teams play for the draw and then try to win the lottery. Excellence is for wimps.

The rugby union World Cup will last damn near two months this autumn. The competition includes Georgia, Namibia and Portugal: why? Answer: the more boring matches a competition offers, the greater the revenue, so bring on the blow-outs. At the last World Cup, I went to Australia for the last three weekends of competition. I missed the first four weeks, and did so without even noticing. It didn’t seem to matter that I missed England 84 Georgia 6.

Meanwhile, if anybody wants to see what happens to a sport that is entirely, unambiguously and unapologetically driven by considerations of revenue rather than excellence, look no farther than professional boxing, a sport that is dying by inches in front of our eyes.

There are always promoters ready to come up with a gimmick to “improve” sport and sell tickets. There was, for example, the infamous 150 metres race between Donovan Bailey, the Olympic 100 metres champion, and Michael Johnson, the Olympic 200 metres champion, in 1997; after a lot of talking, Johnson pulled up injured after 100 metres and Bailey got the prize of £1.5 million. It was a damp squib, and its inevitable failure came about because its priority was not excellence, but money.

It is not exactly surprising, then, that the events that most often bring out sporting excellence are those that were devised before big money came into sport: Wimbledon is a perfect example, Ashes cricket is another. The Olympic Games still manages the feat, despite its eternal battles with money-maniacs determined to get golf into the Games, having already, ludicrously, had their way with tennis.

But sport can still invent thrilling competitions that make money. The Premiership is an obvious example, even if the lack of parity of competition makes for a lot of longueurs. The Champions League is a better one: its expansion has genuinely improved the old European Cup and made it the world’s premier club competition. It is worth remembering here that Fifa’s attempt at a Club World Championship in 2000 was a money-making exercise pure and simple, and an inevitable failure.

The question that the money-men ask here is: well, does it matter? Is excellence really so frightfully important? The answer to those of us who merely watch is: yes, it is everything. But if you can’t understand that simple fact, then hear this: without excellence – without the possibility of excellence – we will stop watching.

It is excellence that has us in thrall to sport. And the more sport retreats from excellence, the less we will want to watch it. The more dull events we see, contested by worn-out athletes seeking less than wholeheartedly after irrelevant goals, then the less we will be inclined to watch. And when sport is deserted by its paying audience, where is the revenue then?

It is sport’s duty to seek after excellence. If it does this, everything else, including money, will follow. But when sport has priorities other than excellence, sport dies.