The Big Four. The Williams sisters. Schumacher. Tiger Woods. Would football, tennis, F1 or golf really be the same without them? Why is it that we so often go into a tournament or match knowing who’s going to win and then leave satisfied that they did? Surely there was something satisfying – leaving aside England’s heartbreak – in an Australia-New Zealand World Cup final.

The question goes to the very heart of sport. Every project needs a face, every sport needs an embodiment. Often it’s a single individual. One line from the recently released film The Program, about Lance Armstrong’s doping success, reads: “He is transforming your little Eurosport into a globally significant brand.” Recovering from cancer and winning seven consecutive Tour de France championships may be an impossible feat, but the story and the man made cycling an international sport. Just think about it – name one of the leading non-British cyclists now.

There is something deeply satisfying in this repetition, the security in identity which sport so often provides. Take golf. For the last 18 years, Tiger Woods has been golf. One headline from a leading golf publication reads: “US TV ratings slide without Woods in contention”. Television networks estimate a 30 to 50 per cent boost in viewership when he plays. Winning time and time and time again made him necessary. There was just enough risk that he wouldn’t always win – can’t be too predictable – but he was good enough to ensure he would win most times. Thus his fall from grace was golf’s fall, too. In his absence, no one has taken up the mantle. Since Tiger last won a major back in 2009, there have been 21 different winners in the men’s majors out of 30 tournaments. This points to another vital aspect for sports – rivalry. If sport is an outlet for modern society’s lack of warring generals – a twenty-first century game of Risk – then leading figures are vital. A two- or three-way war is interesting – when it’s twenty-way though, people tend to lose interest. That’s why every golf outlet is desperate to play up a McIlroy-Spieth rivalry that has yet to materialise.

Together, these factors explain tennis’ success over the past ten or so years. In the women’s game, the dominance of Serena Williams has given a personality to the sport – a dominant figure who can be relied on to perform regularly, and one who has reached near-legendary status. This is a name to draw in the crowds. The same was true of Roger Federer for a long time. But when his powers receded, tennis did not dim as golf did. Rather, the four-way rivalry with Nadal, Djokovic and Murray has sustained, even improved the sport. Tennis fans still have the assurance of top-quality sport and predictability – but also an unknown element of excitement and variation.

This is what football has, and golf crucially lacks. Over the years the dominant composition of English football has gradually changed, but never too suddenly. Manchester City’s money-fuelled rise was steady, rather than immediate. Ditto with Chelsea 10 years earlier. Each year you know roughly which of the same group of teams will be in contention for the title. You get odd anomalies like Blackburn Rovers in ’95, but you can rely on a set group. There is excitement and drama, but also predictability.

This is where other sports struggle. World Cup Rugby and Formula 1 both have dominant teams; they lack the rivalry that characterises football or men’s tennis, and the dominant personalities that are a feature of women’s tennis or Woods-era golf. The predictable World Cup victors failed to inspire us.

So what do we really look for in sport? As always, it’s a mixture of human faces and repetition-fuelled identity. We like the danger of surprise, and, most of all, we love the security of predictability.