We're second to nobody in our appreciation of the grand artistic statement. Ambition doesn't even have to be commensurate with talent; the world would be a very boring place if people didn't try to fling a rope around the moon occasionally. But there are, of course, limits. If you can barely run a roller of Dulux over the bathroom wall without applying a matt coat to the carpet or glossing the cat, you'll probably raise eyebrows if you grow a Salvador Dali moustache especially for the job. If the only song you can play on the piano is Chopsticks, it's for the best if you don't form a prog rock band and position yourself on stage behind a bank of 15 synthesisers sporting a wizard's cape. And if you're a garden-variety Scottish league team, playing dress-up in the distinctive jerseys of the reigning European champions is positively begging for karmic humiliation.

For the duration of the 1972-73 season, mid-table Scottish First Division side Heart of Midlothian opted to ditch their all-maroon shirts, and play in white tops with a single thick maroon panel running down the middle. They were the spit of Ajax, who had won the 1971 European Cup. Ajax, who had won the 1972 European Cup. Ajax, who were about to become only the second side in history to win the European Cup three times in a row, elegantly laying Bayern Munich, Real Madrid and Juventus to waste on their valedictory march. The 1972-73 season would also see them win the Dutch league, the Uefa Super Cup, and the Intercontinental Cup.

Hearts, by comparison, would be bundled out of the League Cup in the early group stage by Berwick Rangers, Dumbarton and a monumentally inept Airdrie, the latter nevertheless also knocking them out of the Scottish Cup. They finished the season in 10th place, having only won once in their last 14 matches. And they suffered perhaps their greatest humiliation in the club's history, losing 7-0 at home on New Year's Day to bitter Edinburgh rivals Hibs. Not exactly Ajax, then. An unfair comparison, perhaps, but then we didn't force them into that garb.

Yet as we inferred earlier, just imagine how much great art would have remained unmade had certain folk not wildly over-reached themselves. And Hearts' preposterous get-up inspired them to one moment that, while not quite qualifying as Total Football, was nonetheless totally fantastic, a goal the Dutch masters would have been proud to score themselves. In early December, Hearts were getting thoroughly worked over by Rangers at Ibrox, but the home team had failed to score. With four minutes to go, the ball was worked out to Tommy Murray on the left wing. At which point a light bulb turned on above his head.

Murray recalled a game between the two sides the previous season, which Rangers had won comfortably. As the game died out, Rangers winger Willie Johnson sat on the ball to goad opposing defender Ian Sneddon. Haw haw haw. Now, Murray decided it was payback time. He – in the words of STV soccer sage Arthur Montford – "had a seat on the ball" himself. The mist descended on Rangers right-back Sandy Jardine, who came charging towards Murray with the battle fever on. Murray quickly got up and flicked Jim Brown into the space vacated by Jardine. Brown crossed to the far post, where Donald Ford headed the winner. "A sensation," cried Montford. Murray celebrated by skittering back down the pitch flicking Vs at the home support, who in fairness kept their responses to phrases beginning with EFF and EFFING CEE, as opposed to crying like big bairns to the polis in the modern style.

Rangers had lost a game they should have won. They'd lose the title to Celtic by a point. Murray's showboating, as well as salvaging something from Hearts' heartbreaking season, had cost Rangers dear, though they'd not suffer similarly ever again: an SFA committee quickly banned "having a seat on the ball" and made it a bookable offence for ungentlemanly conduct. Another triumph for the dust-caked burghers of Hampden! Scott Murray

No doubt because of their origins as servile, forelock-tugging peasant folk who were expected to know their place, showboating of any kind by jockeys plying their trade in the occasionally snooty world of horse racing has long been frowned upon. Frankie Dettori may be renowned for his celebratory flying dismount, but celebrating – or even acknowledging – a big win in the shadow of the winning post is a relatively recent and rare phenomenon; witness eight-times champion jockey and former BBC pundit Peter Scudamore's obvious irritation when his son Tom occasionally stands in his irons to salute the crowd with a wave of his whip while cantering past the post.

Premature celebration in the saddle can be perilous, a lesson famously learned by Irish jockey Roger Loughran, who stood, whip hand triumphantly in the air while recording what he thought was his first winner as a professional on board a chaser named Central House at the Leopardstown Christmas meeting in 2005. Considering he'd just recorded his maiden success as a jump jockey in a televised showpiece, Loughran had every reason to be jubilant, except one: he hadn't crossed the finish line. Instead, the hapless jockey had mistaken the end of a running rail for the winning post and still had nearly 100m to go when he rose to bask in the cheers of encouragement from the crowd. It was adulation that quickly gave way to bewildered, stony silence as his mount was passed by two rivals on the run-in. On an otherwise slow festive news day, the story made national headlines and the unfortunate Loughran's humiliation was complete.

Perhaps the most ostentatious example of showboating from a horse's pilot was staged by Anthony Knott, a west country dairy farmer and occasionally amateur jockey who could be forgiven for celebrating his first ever winner after 28 years of trying. Booting 7-1 shot Wise Men Say around the course with his legs dangling so long in the stirrups he rode the horse only marginally more elegantly – to borrow a gag from Blackadder – than another horse would, Knott found himself in front with a furlong to go and began waving to the crowd with the breath of several pursuant runners and riders still hot on his neck. Luckily for him, the brave Wise Men Say managed to maintain his lead to the line, despite the best attempts of his jockey to put him off his stride with celebrations so exuberant he almost fell off as the weary winner paddled home in testing conditions.

"Twenty-eight years I've been waiting for that," said the exuberant Knott in a post-race interview that went on so long he almost forfeited the first win of his career by forgetting to weigh in until reminded to do so by his interrogator. Earlier, upon being asked if he'd begun his celebrations early after mistaking the furlong pole for the winning post, Knott was most indignant. "No," he said. "I thought I'd give a salute on the way in."

Racing buffs will recognise Knott as the owner of Hunt Ball, a seven-year-old steeplechaser that was bought for just £400 before going on to win an astonishing litany of prestigious prizes, including one at this year's Cheltenham Festival. Despite leaving the job of riding his horse into the ranks of the jump game's elite to jockey Nick Schofield, Knott could be found showboating at Wincanton once again in January, when he was fined £100 for clambering up to join Schofield on Hunt Ball's back as the victorious horse and jockey made their way to the winner's enclosure after one of many unlikely victories the pair notched up this year. Barry Glendenning

Context matters. Context is why Zlatan Ibrahimovic's stunning overhead kick against England last month is not the greatest goal of all time because, to put it in context, it happened in the last minute of a friendly against England, Ryan Shawcross was playing and Joe Hart was already on the plane home, which means the Swede's moment of magic does not compare to Diego Maradona against England in 1986, Dennis Bergkamp against Argentina in 1998 or Lionel Messi against Real Madrid in 2011. Without wishing to downplay how difficult a skill Ibrahimovic mastered, they all did it when it mattered. All goals are equal, but some are more important than others.

Just as context matters for goals, so it does for the showboat. Ibrahimovic once said that what John Carew can do with a football, he could do with an orange yet while he may well be right, skill alone does not make a footballer. No one gave Mr Woo a professional contract because he can do tricks in the centre circle at half time, no matter how entertaining they are.

A few years ago, the next big thing to emerge from Brazil was supposed to be YouTube sensation Kerlon, the inventor of the seal dribble, whereby he would scoop the ball up on to his head and keep it balanced there with his nose, just like a seal, and the only way to stop him was to foul him. Which is precisely what Atlético Mineiro's Dyego Rocha Coelho did in 2005, flooring the performing seal with a vicious elbow, earning himself a red card, a five-game ban and an inauspicious place in football folklore.

Yet the problem for Kerlon, now 24, is that he is only known for one thing. A high-profile move to Internazionale did not work out and he has failed to live up to his potential. Showboating only has so much value, because professional sport throws so many obstacles in the way of those trying to make it to the top. Johan Cruyff is known for more than his signature turn.

Kerlon's improvisation is perhaps one of the most remarkable ever seen on a football pitch but it will never be regarded as legendary because it is highly unlikely he will ever replicate it on the grandest stage. By contrast, Gerrie Mühren's ball juggling at the Bernabéu is nothing special. But context matters. This was a European Cup semi-final against Real Madrid at the Bernabéu and Mühren, who scored the only goal of the match for Ajax, was taking the mickey out of the Spanish giants in their own stadium. Mühren claimed he was merely being efficient, buying time while he waited for his team-mates to join him, and no Madrid player went to challenge him. It must be an Ajax thing; in 1997, Richard Witschge rubbed Feyenoord's nose in it during a 4-0 thrashing by juggling the ball down the wing.

Dutch footballers like to talk a lot but Mühren's humiliation of Madrid spoke volumes for Ajax's Total Dominance of the era. They were, after all, on their way to winning their third successive European Cup, the win over Madrid followed by an admittedly turgid victory over Juventus in the final. David Winner, author of Brilliant Orange, suggests it was the most memorable moment of Ajax's golden generation. "It was the moment when Ajax and Real Madrid changed positions," Mühren said. "Before then it was always the big Real Madrid and the little Ajax. When they saw me doing that, the balance changed." And rather than wave the white hankies, the packed Bernabéu crowd applauded – as they did when Ronaldinho eviscerated them with Barcelona in 2005.

If only Nani had been so fortunate when he tried a similar trick in an FA Cup tie against Arsenal in 2008; he ended up being booted through the air by Justin Hoyte and everyone agreed he deserved it for not showing nuff respect.

The Dutch are cooler than us. Jacob Steinberg

Chances are you don't know much about Dave Mohammed, unless, that is, you're a particularly keen student of the history of mediocre West Indies wrist spinners. Mohammed played five Tests in the mid-2000s, took 13 wickets at over 50 runs each, and had a similarly underwhelming ODI career. He may not have been blessed with all that much talent, but Mohammed compensated for it with his ludicrously inflated sense of self-worth and a repertoire of celebrations which he appeared to have spent an inordinate amount of time honing on his own at home in front of the bathroom mirror.

Playing for Trinidad & Tobago against Jamaica in the final of the 2008 Stanford 20/20 beano, Mohammed produced a performance he had been working towards all his life. And bowled OK too. Mohammed took four wickets for 20 runs. The second of them saw Danza Hyatt charge down the pitch, swing and miss at a googly, and get stumped by the 'keeper. As Hyatt trudged off, Mohammed whipped off his shoe, held it up to his ear, and started conducting an imaginary telephone call. His team-mates, who were just as baffled as everyone else in the crowd, tried to hug him but Mohammed broke away and ran off so he could carry on holding a conversation with himself. "I was just trying to give my fax number to Mr Hyatt to call, because he mistook my googly," said Mohammed afterwards. "He answered in the pavilion." There was, it is worth remembering, a $1m jackpot at stake. Which may explain why he was so excited. Though it's best not to ask where Mr Allen got the money from. Andy Bull

Rumours that this week's Joy of Six was convened solely for its writers to spend the week humming songs from Hammerstein and Kern are false, but if Pietersen rhymed with Bill, well, that would've been handy. It doesn't, though; typical arrogance.

Between February and July 2008 England's cricketers played two series against New Zealand, neither of which especially exercised anyone. Still, there were some memorable moments: Andrew Strauss's career-saver, Tim Southee's career-starter, Ryan Sidebottom's hat-trick and various efforts from Pietersen, all upstaged by the inaugural switch-hit.

The moment came during the first ODI of the second series, when, with Pietersen on 68, Scott Styris ran in to bowl. In the time it took him to hurl a sphere of cork-covered leather 22 yards, Pietersen pirouetted en pointe, switched from right- to left-handed stance and slurped a glass of Amarula, before humiliating the ball over the boundary for six. Shot!

By way of context, humans have redeemed the species via the game of cricket for several hundreds of years – yet it took this particular variation to conceive, attempt, and execute the switch-hit. Play every ball on its merits, says the truism. Play every ball on my merits, said Pietersen.

Given cricket's duelling, repetitive nature, its potential outcomes are relatively few and apparently finite, leaving little that's new and even less that's positively shocking. And yet Pietersen found both, subsequent debate regarding the shot's legality polishing its status; not just reimagining the technical manual but bothering the rulebook too, iconoclastic as well as creative.

Though every showboat boasts a subversive aspect thanks to the disdain necessarily at its core, the switch-hit is special. Even the action is gloriously dismissive, a swatting swish of superiority. Begone! It might not be delivered as powerfully as a cover-drive, but you could say the same of how punch relates to slap: a punch hurts more, but only slap can take the prefix bitch. Roughly, the difference is that between pain and suffering.

Still, purists might challenge its showboating status on the basis that it's just a shot to score runs; Adrian Lewis' blind 180, say, or Leeds teasing Southampton, both rank higher on the dog-tongue-testes scale. But the problem with the gratuitous, if you'll pardon the heresy, is that there's no pressure to succeed – if it fails you look silly, but that's it. When, on the other hand, you incorporate into general play what is by nature a showboat, failure also encompasses a competitive penalty, in cricket a more significant one than in any other sport.

And once there's a genuine purpose, the criticism of not paying opponent or game requisite respect vanishes – but we ought to be above such delicate sensibility in any event. It is, after all, only sport, and in every other art-form – literature, painting, music, films, plays, comics, comedy – a goodly chunk of the best and most important are underpinned by the total absence of deference.

Nonetheless, Pietersen has been constantly criticised for his style, an attitude peculiarly British in its carping churl. It oughtn't to be surprising; our language does, after all, consider "too clever by half" an insult, "don't get clever" a warning and "audacious and bold" a primary school telling-off. People don't cope well when other people are unashamedly better than them at stuff, but really, there's no need; we are, genuinely in this circumstance, all in it together, all of us in the world who aren't KP. It's fine.

To the spectator, a showboat should be inspirational, not threatening. David Foster Wallace once described high-level sport as "human beings' reconciliation with the fact of having a body", and channelling hopes and dreams through the brilliance and beauty of others should help reconcile us to all that we can't do ourselves.

The problem arises when it's done by someone we don't like, which turns flair to flash and a show into showing-off. But that's what professional sport is, what anything competitive is, and what anything professional is: a show. No one goes to the opera and grumbles about a singer trying to reach the high notes, or is aggravated by a surgeon who performs a tricky operation. Yes, it's principally for their pleasure, but why shouldn't it be? How couldn't it be?

It's no coincidence that the sportsman most similar to Pietersen was also underappreciated while he played in the purportedly green and pleasant land. Cristiano Ronaldo is a competitor of similar confidence and conviction, of all the things, also committed to intense practice and innovation, desperate to be the outstanding individual in a team sport. Oh, the effrontery! That being good, it's just not on!

So instead, people focus on their demeanour. It's understandable in a sense: the only thing more annoying than someone shouting the talk is someone sprinting the walk switch-hitting or stepping-over as they go, before refusing to denigrate their genius with phony humility and team ethic platitudes. And yet, in every school changing room there's a kid with a very adult attribute, displayed at every opportunity, in exchange for due adulation. We've changed.

Which is to say that the point is this: showboats and showmen remind us why we love sport, and rekindle the childish wonder legitimised by sport that we wish was legitimised by life. Yeah, everyone loved watching Rahul Dravid bat because he was classical and beautiful and a mensch, but he didn't make hearts jump, nor force involuntary exclamation of the desire to perform a biologically impossible act.

Consider then, that, at worst, Pietersen is a bit of an idiot. Then, consider all the other sportsfolk and teams who've brought you pleasure: are you sure they're not guilty of anything a lot more reprehensible? Lastly, consider yourself. Are you sure you're not a bit of an idiot? Can you say for certain that you're a superior incarnation of humanity? Or put another way, there's no one on the planet not an ordinary guy, but only a few who make us thrill. Enjoy them. Daniel Harris

6) And if you are going to showboat ...

... make sure you look over your shoulder first.