Seasoned spectators tend to use all five senses when contemplating whether they should watch a sports encounter any given weekend.
But there are blase blokes like me who are inclined to dropping their standards.
We prefer to employ just one - taste - and, almost habitually, like to throw in the sixth sense, instinct, with as much zest as one would a squirt of club soda and grapefruit twist into an alcoholic concoction to extract that elusive fizz.
As I planted myself before my modest flat-screen TV last Saturday night at home, I reached for a glass of red wine, preferring the banal creature comforts that a moggy finds as it ritualistically curls up on the hearth on winter days.
You see, I had this sneaky suspicion the Chiefs were going to win their Super Rugby semifinal match in Hamilton.
Coming to the end of a two-week leave, I was hopefully going to enjoy a humdinger without any distractions of sporadically peering over my laptop while massaging its keys.
Boy, did the Chiefs kick some Crusaders' butt or what?
Okay, I derive immense pleasure watching anyone beating the Crusaders who are effectively the new Blues from yesteryear.
It also did help that the Highlanders, my team, were abysmal this season.
A Hawke's Bay Magpies flavour in the mould of Israel Dagg and Zac Guildford adds to the testosterone levels but somehow I've been struggling to distance myself from the unwanted pair of Hika Elliot, Ben Tameifuna and, of course, Andrew Horrell.
Considering I couldn't really bring myself to watch an entire Super Rugby game this season I was somewhat sceptical of what lay in store on prime-time Saturday night.
But I gave in to my sixth sense although I knew I always had the option to channel hop to a rash of NRL matches or, in the worst-case scenario, flick to a movie even though Abraham Lincoln as a vampire doesn't really cut it for someone who gets his fix from True Blood.
Besides, my favourite TV fare, win-or-lose, New Zealand Warriors were playing at 2pm the following day.
As it turned out I was glued to the TV, quietly proud of the Chiefs deservedly exchanging bear hugs at the final whistle.
All right, I hollered at them every time they turned over valuable possession with mindless attempts to find touch.
I also cringed every time Aaron Cruden planted the ball on the tee before mentally visualising the ball sailing between the sticks only to see it wobble unconvincingly to keep them in touch with the Crusaders.
On the flip side, how great was it to see a pint-sized Lelia Masaga barge his way through a guard of Beefeaters for a try?
What can we make of Cruden's intercept against the run of play to dot down for another?
Oh, the joy of seeing Daniel Carter miss a penalty kick or dropped goal he would normally land with the monotonous regularity of a jumbo jet pilot was just priceless.
Yes, it's futile arguing against damning evidence that the veteran jock-strap poster boy wilts under pressure on the bigger occasions.
Should the "world's best No 7", Ritchie McCaw, have started the game for Crusaders?
Bollocks. Every Crusader who started against the Reds the previous Saturday in Christchurch had earned their stripes and anything otherwise would have smacked of cronyism.
Todd Blackadder, like any prudent coach would have, kept McCaw on the fringes simply because no matter what your reputation, there's no substitute for match fitness.
A club game or two, following a prolonged sabbatical, is hardly a passport to Super Rugby playoff land.
Besides, injecting the veteran All Black would have killed what has been effectively the best Super spectacle of the year.
If you ask me, it seems as if coach Dave Rennie asked his Chiefs to take a leaf out of the Warriors' campaign.
With the media writing off their playoff chances, the Warriors have resurrected their season with an awe-inspiring rash of victories.
What made the Chiefs v Crusaders match a cracker was the do-or-die mentality that only playoff footie can induce.
That, my friends, is what Super Rugby has been lacking in predominantly dire encounters this season.
Perhaps its architects need to revisit the format to fashion one that will yield that sort of atmosphere rather than having teams sleep walk their way through a season.
Maybe each country's franchises should play each other first in round robin for a mini-playoff that will reward the winners with extra points.
Those winners from each of the three countries should then progress to crossover matches with respective qualifiers for more points at stake towards a grand final, if you get the drift.
Consequently that will ensure the intensity of games will be ever present and also ensure bums on seats.
So did the Chiefs play their final last Saturday?
It's quite possible the cow bells may not ring with as much fervour tomorrow night in Hamilton but the game of stats (left) on jerseys sold and the corporate muscle could prove to be the difference.
My sixth sense tells me maybe, just maybe, coach Jake White and his Brumbies will not play like the Crusaders - that is, in dour text-book, keep-it-tight-up-front mode to deny much-maligned fans flair.