So, what are we blokes supposed to do now - sit around and start talking about our feelings? It is an appalling vista, this world without sport.
Because basically the whole darn shooting match was set up to help fellas skip the dreaded emotional stuff, which we're about as good at as Peter Kay was at high diving in that old beer commercial.
It serves no evolutionary purpose that we can see at all. We just ended up with it, sitting there in our brains for no apparent reason, like the nipples on our chest.
We didn't need to be getting in touch with our inner Ed Sheeran when we were out chasing animals on the African savannah and bringing them back to the cave for a feed of antelope tartare.
And who, after all, was Phil Taylor, at the oche with a dart in his hand for bull, but a direct descendant of the chap in the long grass with a spear in his hand for the buffalo? I mean, they don't call the darts "arrows" for no reason. 'The Power' was a hunter-gatherer in his own way too.
In fairness, he might have had to shed a bit of timber, perhaps, to take the Sid Waddell Trophy ahead of the other top hunters on the Serengeti, but even in his ample polyester shirt he was at one with his Palaeolithic homies when he was nailing tops for the set at the Ally Pally.
The lineage was immaculate, the circle unbroken.
As long as man is doing, rather than feeling, he is a reasonably happy camper. A simple soul, maybe, but easy enough pleased, in the grander scheme.
He'd sooner be kicking a ball round a field than holding it up at arm's length, like Hamlet gazing at Yorick's skull, and seeing in it a metaphor for the universe.
And when he gets too old to be kicking it around himself, he'd prefer to watch other young people kicking it around, rather than wistfully contemplating in poetry the passing of time's winged chariot.
It goes to the core of the idea behind the men's-shed movement that began in Australia, naturally enough, in the 1980s.
Somehow they sensed that a certain type of male wouldn't be mad about looking into his soul when he could be looking into a tractor engine instead.
Granted, he might be glad to have a reason to get out of the house every once in a while, if he felt the walls closing in on him and had no one to talk to but the dog. But it would help if he could bring his trusty old Stillson along with him too.
However, he'd probably prefer to be talking to Shep at home than have to open up about his taciturn father in front of a load of other blokes in a room.
He could go to the pub and no one would bother him about that. Indeed he could look at the footy and the cricket and the rugger down the local and talk to his heart's content about these life-or-death matters.
Anyhow, a few practical Aussies decided there had to be another way.
And they figured that fellas needed to be doing something together, and in doing something together they might unconsciously start talking to each other about more personal issues. Such as tractor engines and footy and cricket and rugger.
The concept took off around the world. Their slogan was "Shoulder to shoulder", an abbreviation of the idea that fellas don't talk face to face but shoulder to shoulder.
But organised sport was the original and greatest men's shed. It became so popular so quickly that millions of blokes worldwide were soon flocking to stand in actual sheds, shoulder to shoulder, cheering their teams and getting lost in the action.
Obviously, the fact that these occasions were usually devoid of women spectators was another manifestation of the colossal societal injustice of the day. But men didn't notice.
And to this day there is a vast swathe of the female population who will correctly claim that men still don't notice, not just the fundamental imbalances in sport, but all sorts of other considerations from the domestic to the global.
Which is one reason among many why we need to cop ourselves on to new ways of thinking, and feeling, even if we're stumbling through a tunnel, with blindfolds on our eyes, towards this uncharted paradigm.
Oh, the world becomes so much simpler when it is reduced to a field game with fixed dimensions, defined rules and hallowed rituals.
Here, the practitioners on the pitch don't have to communicate with words at all. They can read each other's thoughts without the need of a relationship counsellor.
They know a teammate's movement just by the way he drops a shoulder. And suddenly the ball is on a plate for him. They have connected. It is a form of mutual and intuitive understanding that eludes many relationships on civvy street.
In fact it is common enough for players who have this telepathic understanding to have no relationship at all once they leave their work behind them. But they don't need words to achieve this easy harmony. It is fine by them.
And it is fine by us too. We are watching them to see what they can do, not to hear what they have to say. We are watching them to escape into this fantasy world of physical, non-verbal, drama.
And it is here where we can vent a certain kind of emotion, maybe containing within it the deeper emotions we bury back in the real world.
"What sad lives we have led, to demand this release at the football," wrote Keith Dewhurst, the playwright and former football correspondent, in 1968. "And what dreams we have dreamed, to see their noble shadows in an athlete."
It was true then and it is true now. Please mister, can we have our ball back? We promise to be good boys this time.
Sunday Indo Sport