BARBARA CASSANI is not a clubbable man. That is why she resigned as leader of the London 2012 Olympic bid. “I cannot say that I have two gold medals hanging around my neck and I do not have sporting credentials,” she said. “It’s a world where if you have been part of it, you have a special advantage.”

She is replaced by Lord Coe, who does have two gold medals hanging around his neck. He is not smarter than her, not funnier, not more charming, not better company. Indeed, there is a certain aloofness about him, a certain withholding of himself, traits that reveal the self-sufficiency that drove him to that unforgettable pair of medals.

But Coe can do the funny handshake and Cassani cannot. He may not say anything more interesting than Cassani, but what he says gets listened to in Olympic circles. He’s an insider: a member of the inner ring.

He has a better chance of doing the job for London, but not because he is better than Cassani at organising, negotiating and decision-making. He used to be better than Cassani at running. Running doesn’t help you to negotiate, but winning medals for running makes you a member of the club. A club defines itself not by those it includes but those it excludes. And Cassani is not a member.

I met Cassani at Badminton the other week. I offered her a funny handshake. It was accepted. We talked, therefore, with great warmth. This was a different freemasonry altogether. I set it up by asking: “How’s your horse?” My love of the subject was as obvious to her as hers was to me. A different club: two paid-up members.

A lot of sport is about joining. About joining in; about being excluded. The fat kid who wants to join the playground football game traditionally buys his admission with a ball. It is the boys who don’t make the school team that makes being in the team so precious.

A liking for sport is itself a freemasonry. I have seldom discussed religion with British Muslims, but I have often talked cricket with great shared delight. I have talked baseball across the United States; everywhere else in the world, there is football. An instant link, an easy bond.

There is a human urge to create such bonds. A lot of sport is about the creation of groups within groups within groups. Admission to the inner ring requires a gold medal or two, but anyone who has a mind to can belong to the peripheral groups.

Come with me to the Open Championship. Watch the fellows out there at the sharp end hitting little balls with sticks, all wearing polo shirts and chinos. Now come to the press tent; everyone is wearing a polo shirt and chinos. And out on to the course; every single spectator is wearing a polo shirt and chinos. Hell, most are wearing spiked golf shoes as well, so as not to slip in the bar.

At the golf, the urge to belong is almost painful. Everywhere you go, you meet people desperate to give the impression that they really, really do know about golf and golfers. Golf is the most clubbable sport of them all.

I used to drink with a neighbour and we often talked about playing snooker. He had access to a proper table. We never played — the table was in his golf club and good mates though we were, he couldn’t afford to be seen in his golf club with a person such as myself as his guest.

Go the Lord’s Test today; see all the MCC members wearing their egg’n’bacon ties to show that they are members and (although they are too polite to point this out) you are not. At both institutions, the golf club and MCC, the inner Groucho opens his throat and roars.