SOMEWHERE, one might like to imagine, a line in the sand marks the ultimate limit of sport's moral decline: a boundary competitors will not cross, an ethical imperative. But let's not bet upon it.

Defining such a frontier is problematic, for this is less about the laws or rules of sport, but relates more to spirit and ethos. Some professional competitors can find no place for fairness, integrity, or respect. They're driven by an amoral notion that ethical codes are somehow suspended in the arena.

Consider the furore over a tiddler of a putt not conceded at the Solheim Cup. Alison Lee picked up her ball, losing the hole and then the match. All absolutely within the rules, yet a drive and a No.2 iron outwith the spirit of the game.

Don't get mad, get even. An inspired USA rallied to deny Europe the trophy. I was unsurprised to feel justice had been done. A too-belated apology from Suzann Pettersen confessed she had: "Put the single match and the point that could be earned ahead of sportsmanship and the game of golf itself."

Amen. One prefers the contrast of a bygone age: Jack Nicklaus conceding a more missable putt in 1969 to Tony Jacklin, which might have handed the Ryder Cup to the USA. Yet Nicklaus was reviled by countrymen for having done so.

I applaud no-quarter competition founded on respect, but fear I may have graduated to "old fart" status in feeling the principle of sport (especially professional sport) for the game's sake is almost an anachronism. We are engulfed by a win-at-all-costs mentality in which there is no honour. It makes our lives the poorer.

We could fill many columns with a catalogue of infamy without even specifying instances of gamesmanship (legal) or doping (illegal).

There are two types of bad sportsmanship – spontaneous, opportunist shamefulness: like the Solheim incident, Diego Maradona's "Hand of God" against England in the 1986 World Cup, boxer Mike Tyson biting off a chunk of Evander Holyfield's ear, Michael Schumacher deliberately taking out Damon Hill in the final race of the 1994 F1 championship, and Australian captain Greg Chappell instructing his brother, Trevor, to deliver the final ball of a one-day match under-arm, making it impossible for New Zealand to score the winning runs. Again within the rules, but counter to the spirit. Then there's sledging, footballers taking a dive or feigning injury, batsmen who don't walk, covert fouls.

The second type is more calculated – premeditated and planned: tanking (throwing matches), illegal betting, tampering with equipment, faking qualifications or ages, even injuring rivals. Like Tonya Harding who was famously convicted of conspiracy to injure 1994 Olympic skating rival Nancy Kerrigan.

Yet I can't help finding the tale of US jockey Sylvester Carmouche almost laughable. On a misty day in Louisiana he rode 23-1 Landing Officer to victory, hiding in the mist and re-emerging to win by 24 lengths. Stewards were not amused. He was banned for 10 years.

A great deal of what causes offence is not simply money. The sporting labourer is worthy of his hire, but increasingly ridiculous rewards appear to distort sport's moral compass and encourage cheating, doping, and unsporting conduct.

Contractual obligations do not help. The drive for win bonuses, and impact of defeat on sponsorship and TV rights revenue is constant.

Andy Murray is between a rock and a hard place while deliberating whether to take a break before the Davis Cup final or fulfil mandatory obligations to the ATP World Tour finals – possibly worth more than £1m. But he could face a year's suspension from the ATP Tour if he ducks the final in order to prepare for the Davis Cup.

It's tempting here, as a requiem for lost values, to quote Henry Newbolt's Vitai Lampada, The Torch of Life:

[italic]

And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,

Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,

But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote

"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

[end italic]

However, this poem does not just applaud the notion of the game for the game's sake. It commends a life philosophy, giving a commendable deeper meaning to sport.

Don't despair. Examples of selflessness remain: English yachtsman Pete Goss had a chance of winning the Vendee Globe round-the-world race until he picked up a mayday call in the southern ocean. A French rival was wrecked, but Goss sailed to the rescue in hurricane-force winds. He was awarded the Legion of Honour.

After defending Olympic 200m champion Shawn Crawford finished fourth in 2008, the second and third runners were disqualified for leaving their lanes. Crawford was promoted to silver but gave his medal to disqualified rival Churandy Martina with a note: "I want you to have this, because I believe it’s rightfully yours."

Calling a foul or shot on oneself (snooker and golf) is not unusual. Or in fencing. Judy Guinness was about to win Olympic foil gold in 1932 when she called two hits against herself which had escaped the notice of judges.

Encouragingly, the habit of returning a ball, say after a throw-in, is not dead in football. One especially recalls Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger being so disgusted at the way Marc Overmars had scored after Sheffield United had put the ball out of play because of an injury that he had their FA Cup tie replayed.

And former Celtic player Paolo di Canio. He was no altar-boy, but his refusal to score for West Ham in an open goal with Everton goalkeeper Paul Gerrard writhing, redeemed earlier transgressions.

We pray such examples help keep erosion of that fragile line in the sand at bay.