ON Tuesday night English hope died. The Falklands war was re-staged on a football field and the bad guys won. The immediate cause of England's defeat was the failure of Paul Ince and David Batty to beat the Argie goalkeeper in the penalty shoot-out, but they have already been forgiven because the English press and public have a much more inviting target for their disappointment: Brylcreem boy David Beckham.

One petulant outburst, one foolish swipe of retaliation, had Beckham off the pitch and a 10-man team was confined to defending in a game they could well have won. All the preparation and training was instantly negated by one man proving what we all know but often forget: sporting prowess does not a hero make.

Doubtless Beckham will recover. Knowing that he is paid over #8m a year to embody the dreams of millions relieves us of the need for sorrow for a foolish young man but the speed with which the saint can become the villain raises interesting questions about the mechanics of fame.

Beckham's fall from grace, and the sagas of Paul Gascoigne and George Best, remind us that, like the pop stars with whom they are often linked, footballers make poor heroes. The discipline of training might teach some degree of self-control. Playing for the likes of Partick Thistle must give plenty of experience in cheerfully accepting defeat. However, training and losing are for the plodders. The glamour boys are saved from such mediocrity at a very early age.

What makes a good footballer? The Darwinian contest of the beautiful game selects for purely mechanical attributes: athleticism, balance, co-ordination, and peripheral vision. Intelligence and lucidity of thought and speech are irrelevant. Tolerance, forbearance, and patience may be hindrances. Arrogance and unbridled self-confidence are much better qualities for the star.

Youth is essential. Goalkeepers may survive past 40 but then they can only save games. They cannot win them and hence they cannot embody our fantasies. The people who score goals arrive at 17 and depart at 27. Like pop stars, they become famous so young that they are bound to be immature. George Best is the classic example. With no intention of ironic humour, he summed up his career by saying that he spent a fortune on birds and booze; ''the rest I just frittered away!''

In a television age, beauty aids celebrity. An ugly Diana would not now be revered (but then she would not have been a princess either). Without her body, Posh Spice would be a cheap slapper. Without his face, David Beckham would not be a millionaire.

So ball skills and drop-dead good looks bring lads fame and fortune at an age when few can cope with it. Worse, fame and fortune attract sycophants who fawn on them and applaud their every act and utterance. The Romans knew the problem. When they allowed a victorious commander to celebrate by riding into Rome on his chariot, they paid an old hag to sit behind him and mutter insults in his ear. To offset the adulation of the crowd, the hero was reminded that he was human.

Not all sporting heroes are addled by fame. Though 50 years apart, runner Eric Liddell and boxer Frank Bruno are examples of men who kept their sense of proportion and carried themselves well. But then they shared a strong religious upbringing which gave them the equivalent of the Roman hag: values which told them what the praise of the world was worth.

This observation may seem convoluted, but the coincidence of Beckham being roasted on the day that the Scottish press reports the collapse of the knitwear industry and dangerous tremors in the computer business draws our attention to an important paradox. Scottish sweaters and computers are in trouble because manufacturing is now genuinely global. Economic changes on the other side of the globe affect our jobs. Football is now global. The Afghanis and the Sudanese may be exceptions but almost every nation on earth plays and watches football. The sheer scale of the market allows the Beckhams to become bizarrely rich. Ditto the market for pop music and the wealth of the Spice Girls.

Thirty years ago (think of Geoff Hurst) being a better than average entertainer made you pretty well known and allowed you to buy a pub. That entertainment has become international means that the same modicum of talent is massively exaggerated, geared up into unimaginable fame. John Lennon may have been foolish but he was not far off the mark when he said the Beatles were bigger than Christ. The subsequent globalisation of mass media means that Ronaldo is almost certainly better known than the Son of God.

This creates the paradox: trivial achievements in fields which interest the whole world produce returns that are global and hence utterly out of proportion with the importance of those achievements.

The tabloid media (and the paying public which consumes it) is profoundly moral. It does not test for virtue or assess the character of those it celebrates. In its opportunism, it can barely distinguish notoriety from celebrity. Yet it feels impelled to make saints of those it puffs and it does so without the caution of the Catholic Church. It cannot confer celebrity without imputing virtues. So the famous handsome man must also be a hero. The beautiful face that brightens the pages must be a mark of a beautiful character. Until he fails us. Then he must be demolished.

Like boats in a sheltered harbour, most of us rise and fall only fractionally in the estimation of our family and friends as those who know us respond to the good and the bad in our mundane lives. But those who have been made by the media are carried up and down on swells and troughs of tabloid over-reaction.

n Steve Bruce is Professor of Sociology at Aberdeen University.