Every sport has its fair-weather fans, who threaten to burn their jerseys after a single loss. The true heroes of the sidelines are those who support their team through thick and thin, knowing that the day will come when they’ll be cheering on the champions again.

As an enduringly loyal sports fan, I like to think I have earned the right to look down my nose at those “plastic” supporters or bandwagon-jumpers who stop in every now and again when things are on the up.

That is, until I hear about stalwarts like Norman Duncan, the oldest football fan in England, who has been putting his weight behind Arsenal for 95 years, ever since his father first took him to the Gunners’ old Highbury stadium as a seven year old back in 1920.

The centurion has seen the North Londoners win all their major trophies, enduring the break due to World War II and watching the Beautiful Game evolve from baggy pants and pigskin ball to the full-blown professional extravaganza it is today.

He has the benefit of a long-term perspective that must make it relatively simple for him to tolerate a poor season or two. This kind of longevity is unheard of in an era when a poor run can easily manifest in empty seats at stadiums as fans vote with their feet. How can anyone compete with that?

Closer to home, while he can’t match Duncan for sheer longevity, a friend’s father can certainly hold his own when it comes to the eternal fire he has in his belly for  Stormers and Western Province.

He is the kind of fan who’d sooner forget his own telephone number than the scoreline, line-ups and the moisture level of the half-time biltong at the 1982 Currie Cup final between Province and Northern Transvaal at Newlands (24-7 to the hosts).

A season ticket-holder for as long as he can remember, this is a man who disappeared at regular intervals during the birth of his son to listen to the radio commentary at the café opposite the hospital.

My friend tells this story with a curious mixture of pride and indignation. His father has been known to have neighbours scaling the walls to find out what manner of hell has broken loose when he bellows at the TV during a Springbok encounter. Thankfully, they have become accustomed to his outbursts, as one would get used to the noise when living next to a train station.

The biggest test of his commitment came when he was diagnosed with leukemia and had to undergo chemotherapy. You’d expect rugby and other sport to take a back seat to more important considerations, but not in his case.

True to form, he passed it with flying blue and white colours, still managing to make it out to Newlands in-between undergoing the treatments. One can’t help but feel that his passion for the Red Disa had something to do with his cancer going into remission.

To my mind, this is heroism on the same level as Graeme Smith walking out to bat with a broken hand to save a Test, or James Small risking life and limb to keep Jonah Lomu at bay. It is a noble act that should be aptly rewarded.

Earlier this year, in a campaign to reconnect with a “lost generation” of supporters, Swedish football club AIK paid tribute to its longest-serving fans by replacing the child mascots who usually accompany the players onto the pitch with their oldest living members.

Instead of getting the kids out before every game – a commendable initiative – why don’t the Stormers and other rugby franchises invite a few of the old guard to take to the field with the players? It would be an appropriate way to honour loyal supporters, without whom they would not exist.