I have a sneaking suspicion that the whole world has caught a dangerous and highly contagious superbug known in medical circles as "Twenty20-itis."

The bug began on the cricket pitches of the sub-continent, but rapidly spread to Athletics Australia's Ashes "Twenty20 style" street bonanza, was mooted for a "Twenty20" revamp of the Davis Cup and is now on the cards for the AFL's 2011 pre-season.

Rumour even has it that marathon organisers have begun clinical trials of a niche Twenty20 bug to attract the likes of Usain Bolt to a new-age "quick-fire" marathon format.

The symptoms of this faster, brighter, more spectacular bug include the loss of sensitivity to any aesthetic brilliance of pure sport. Before we know it, we won't be enjoying golf for the masterful shots out of the bunker, but instead for the par-three only courses to speed up the game, for the grid-girls replacing caddies to add sex-appeal and for any other new-age ploy to attract generation-don't-give-a-stuff-about-golf to golf.

The football strain of the virus sees spectators losing the patience to enjoy the wonderful ebb and flow of a game of football. Gone are those days of survival of the fittest and spine-tingling comebacks (I will never forget the game when Essendon was more than 10 goals down to North Melbourne and came back to win). These magical moments could never happen in drive-thru football.

Focusing on the glam rather than the blood, sweat and tears of sport seems to be a sad affliction of this bug infecting our society. But nor is this Twenty20 pandemic unique to the sporting field.

The bug is flourishing on our roads, where fast-paced emotion-filled driving has taken hold. Twenty20 drivers have a mobile phone parasitically grafted to their ear and are unable to resist the impulse of loudly tooting any car that fails to anticipate the green light flag fall 0.001 seconds prior to its change.

Twenty20 infected newspapers and current affairs shows pollute our brains with sycophantically superficial celebrity slush, while long-infected fast food outlet McDonald's now even serves its coffee Twenty20 style.

Nasal delivery technology and its "lasting longer" catch-cry is a lone cork in an ocean of faster, quicker, sooner. With "working woman's express yoga" classes available, even relaxation comes in Twenty20.

Fortunately, there is a cure for this plague of Twenty20-itis. It's called "breathe" or "relax" or "stop and smell the roses."

Cured patients experience a blissful state of serenity where they can read a novel and enjoy the beauty of language and character development. My housemate, for example, has just completed Charles Dickens' David Copperfield (the real version, not the SparkNotes.com version), commenting "yes it's dense, but then you get to a line that just takes your breath away. All of a sudden, it's all worthwhile." Other survivors in remission have lived to cherish the sound of a wave crashing on the beach or fishing somewhere other than a trout farm.

Cured sporting spectators can bask in the relaxing peace of mind of watching a well-executed ground stroke among a sea of dot balls, or reflect on the human spirit while admiring the athleticism of a tennis player enduring 40-plus degree temperatures for four hours of courageous leaps, dives and grunts. Bug free, we can enter a unique universe where time becomes immaterial, where momentum ebbs and flows, and where we can get lost within the unpredictable rollercoaster of sporting brilliance. Bug free, the epiphany of watching an overwhelmed winner shed a tear brings a moment of satisfaction far superior to any fast-paced firework.

In all the consumerist hype over noise, speed and gusto, I can't help but wonder whether Twenty20-itis infected sporting executives are targeting Generation Y or Generation ADHD.

Sure, Twenty20 cricket is great fun and a memorable action-packed Disneyland holiday from time to time, but sometimes the Test cricket seaside sojourn is more what we need to wind down from a hard week in the office or the schoolyard. By a conga line of sporting organisations converting every game ever played to 'wham bam thank you ma'am' as a hook to get bums on seats, we're creating a generation of sports fans with ants in their pants. Stop. Enjoy. Sit still and enjoy the ebb and flow of pure sport where players work through fatigue, lapses in concentration and still rise to the challenge. This is where real champions are made, and where real footy is played.

It's time to vote with our feet, grab hold of our remote controls and keep the fast forward button for special occasions and when it's really needed. Like Twenty20 Titanic.