College Football Playoffs: The Solution is Worse

Okay, that B.C.S. thing is dead.  What did those initials stand for anyways?  Officially, Bowl Championship Series. Unofficially, Beyond Completely Stupid. There was this computer rating system involved, but it took a member of Mensa to begin to figure it out. The system attempted to pit the best two college football teams against one another in a single championship game.  But, more often than not, no one really knew who those two teams were for sure. Chaos and gnashing of teeth ensued.

So, now, we’re going to have a four team playoff system.  Yippee ki yay. Guess what? This new plan will solve absolutely nothing. Chaos will still reign and teeth will still be gnashed.

Watching this process of trying to remedy the old B.C.S. problem and replacing it with the new four team playoff reminds me of negotiations between the United States and the Soviet Union over nuclear weapons limitations during the 70s and 80s.  Those talks concerned the famous S.A.L.T. (Strategic Arms Limitation Talks) treaties.  It boiled down to, after years of hot air around a big table, the two sides agreed to limit their respective abilities to blow each other up to about 2,000 times over instead of 5,000 times over.  Those numbers are not exact (nor anywhere close actually) but you get the idea.

Here’s the point, now that some all knowing committee is going to select the four “best” college football teams, instead of the “two” best, the possibility of everything  blowing up is still prevalent.   Despite all the lengthy deliberations and negotiations, nothing has actually changed. In fact, it’s worse.

Now, I hold a simple broadcast journalism degree from a public university in Athens, Ga. Mathematics is not my strong suit.  But, good ol’ Southern common sense tell me, this new plan means even more disgruntled college football programs will claim to be among the “top four”.  This system widens the “pissed off and indignant” pool substantially.

They should left the whole thing alone years ago.  To me, there was nothing wrong with the A.P. Poll, and the Coaches Poll, to crown a national champion.  The bowl games still made sense.  And when it was said and done there was only one football program left kicking the proverbial dog.  Now, oh boy, we’ll never hear the last from Boise St. fans. Not to mention whatever team finishes fourth in the S.E.C. 

FOUL PLAY IN NEW JERSEY LITTLE LEAGUE

I know the sports world is still fixated on LeBron James these days.

(Update: LeBron took a shower this morning and then had a hearty breakfast.)

But I want folks to focus on Manchester Township, N.J. resident Elizabeth Lloyd. Be prepared for a bout of nausea as I explain her deal.

Lloyd is suing a 13 year old baseball player.  The little guy, Matthew Migliaccio, was 11 years old when the unthinkable happened. Migliaccio was catching in the bullpen at a Little League game. He threw the ball back to the pitcher, but, oh my lord, his throw was wild! The ball sailed out of the bullpen and hit Lloyd in the face at a picnic table.

Migliaccio was not arrested on the spot for such aberrant, wanton,  reckless behavior.  He and his family have claimed it was an accident. But Lloyd believes such a claim is obviously a sinister cover-up, and she is seeking to correct this blatant injustice.

(This is the part where you sit down and take a deep breath.  I also suggest a bucket or bag if handy)

Lloyd is suing the 13 year old ballplayer for $150,000, not including additional monies for pain and suffering. This gem of a social crusader, Lloyd, claims she suffered “severe, painful and permanent injuries” when the spheroid hit her. At this point, I’m thinking she should throw in “brain damage.”  

She also claims Matthew was engaging in “inappropriate physical and/or sporting activity.” Well, hell, isn’t that the very definition of Little League baseball?

Her husband (no name given) is also in on the campaign (a.k.a. scam) because he claims a certain lack of marital “nookie” (my legal term) since his wife was so egregiously violated.

Bob Migliaccio, Matthew’s father, is a bit perplexed and stressed to say the least.

“We keep thinking it’s just going to go away, and then a week and a half ago a sheriff shows up at my door to serve my son the papers,” says the dad.

I am hoping the Migliaccio’s family finances will not be harmed by these proceedings. They already have been forced to hire an attorney to defend their son against the charge of “assault and battery.”

Come to think of it, Lloyd and her husband’s gall is enough to make a lot of folks consider a real “assault and battery”—ya’ know, just one upside their heads? 

Mike Tyson-- The Show Must Go On

I just had lunch the other day with a couple of billionaires. They are travelling around the world on that one of a kind cruise ship, “The World.” I wanted to hear about their lives and how they got so rich, and what it’s like to travel the planet with your own private residence on a luxury boat and see places that 99.999 percent of us will never see. But no, they knew I am a sportscaster, and wanted to hear some of MY stories. In particular, boxing stories.  In particular, Mike Tyson stories. This tells you something about the continued captivation of the public’s imagination Iron Mike has, and always will have.

This is relevant because I just read where a one man show, directed by Spike Lee, titled, “Mike Tyson: Undisputed Truth,” is making its way to Broadway. Now, there are many facets to the life of Tyson, and many stories will always be disputed, no matter how he tells them.  But he does promise this, and I believe him, the show will be “raw“ and “filthy.”

Tyson wasn’t so filthy, but he was raw when I first met him. It was outside the Atlantic City Convention Center following the Michael Spinks defeat of Gerry Cooney June 15th, 1987.  I was waiting to interview the legendary trainer Eddie Futch for ESPN. Then, I hear this high pitched voice with the now famous lisp calling me.

“Hey Alan!  Alan!” I glance over my shoulder and there stands the 20 year old WBC and WBA heavyweight champion of the world Mike Tyson.  He had won those titles in a span of less than four months when he knocked out Trevor Berbick in two rounds and then won a unanimous decision over James “Bonecrusher” Smith, who didn’t win a single round on the judge’s cards. He had just beaten Pinklon Thomas in 6 rounds in Las Vegas in May. He was en route to unifying all the titles, WBC, WBA, and IBF, which he would do later that year by a unanimous decision over Tony “TNT” Tucker, who had entered the ring with a perfect 34-0 record.

So, I reply, “Mike, what are you doing here?”

He says, “Alan, I wanna take you for a ride on my rickshhhtaw.”

“Your what?” I say. ( I am about two minutes to air time.)

“My rickshhhtaw!” he says. I then notice he has been pulling one of those Atlantic City boardwalk rickshaw carts around to my broadcast position.

“Mike, where did you get the rickshaw?” I query, “and why are you here?”

“Well, I’m going to be the next undisputed world heavyweight champion, and I want to take ESPN on a ride on my rickshhhtaw that I borrowed,” he says.

“Mike, I appreciate that, but whoever you ‘borrowed’ that rickshaw from probably wants it back since there’s a big crowd out here,” I politely suggest.

“Well, okay.  But don’t forget, I am going to be the undisputed heavyweight champion!”  He then left, tugging the rickshaw behind, and hopefully he returned it to its rightful owner.

Over the early years, before he was signed by Don King, before being convicted of rape, before Robin Givens, drug problems, mental health challenges, and his appetite for Evander Holyfield’s ear, I enjoyed a fun relationship with Tyson.  After a while, when I would see him around the fight scene, he no longer recognized me. I’m sure he no longer remembers the rickshaw.

After he had retired, I was paired on a boxing broadcast with Tyson.  Bob Arum hired him to be an analyst.  It was August 2006 when Oleg Maskaev beat Hasim Rahman with a 12th round TKO in Las Vegas.  Maskaev had Rahman in a clinch above our broadcast position, and Maskaev spotted Tyson. Maskaev’s eyes immediately flew wide open. Despite the fact Maskaev was rather busy at the time, he couldn’t believe Tyson was right there ringside!  Tyson then started giving Maskaev advice, sort of like a trainer.  It was funny and surreal.

On that broadcast Tyson was brilliant. His knowledge of the sport is unparalleled and his insights were dead on.  Unfortunately, his language was “raw and filthy” at times-- obviously, a detriment to regular boxing analyst work. But, that was Mike being Mike.

I wish Tyson well on the stage.  I probably won’t see it.  I already know his story, perhaps too well.

UPDATE! TIGER STILL HASN’T WON THE 112TH US OPEN

Wasn’t that another scintillating U.S. Open Golf Championship? Sort of like watching the cars pile up during a train wreck, eh?

Aside from the fallacy that the U.S.G.A. sets up the Championship courses to determine the “best golfer”, which I have previously addressed, congratulations to Webb Simpson. He is this week’s “Survivor”.

Now, perhaps, television producer Mark Burnett will book him for a season on “Survivor: St. Bart’s Atoll”, which I understand is a beautiful place, but is so treacherous for all incoming airplane flights to Gustaff III airport, that pilots must employ exceptional skills and patience.   Sort of like landing a golf ball at Olympic this week.

Here’s my simple point, and I am certainly an unassuming broadcaster/journalist. During all the carnage which is the essence of an U.S. Open, I kept punching through all the radio updates and live coverage.  (No, I wasn’t glued to the tube.  It wasn’t necessary.  However, it WAS necessary to engage in Father’s Day activities with the children)

Here’s what I heard during the weekend. “Tiger Woods is….”  “Tiger Woods isn’t…” Tiger Woods just shot… (himself in the ass, metaphorically speaking, which I tweeted out on Saturday. He was done.)

Yet, the reports persisted. Sunday— during the radio broadcast, concerning his warm up session, ““Tiger Woods just ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” (I am not making this up).

 Then, he begins his round.  All are breathless, (except me, who knew he had to shoot 67 at least.) Then, this observation, “Tiger Woods will not win the U.S. Open this year.”  Well, hell, that took about 30 minutes of round 4.

As those reports were forthcoming, here’s my deal.  I am a bit old school, and proudly so, but newsrooms and broadcasters, please, when there was no story concerning T. Woods on Sunday, please remember, Elvis is still dead.

Don’t, especially radio updaters, if that’s the term, don’t waste your precious 30 seconds to talk about something as relevant as “The Jersey Shore.”

That’s all I’m saying. He already was aboard his G5 Gulfstream, halfway home to Florida, and you guys were still updating that he wouldn’t win this year. 

Again, congrats Webb. Don’t forget the sunscreen.  St. Bart’s is lovely, and you already know how to land safely.

VIEWER WARNING: IT’S THE U.S. OPEN

No one is a bigger golf fan than me.  I began playing when I was 11. That’s also when I started working as a bag boy at the Fort McPherson Commissary in Atlanta, Ga.  The compensation was “tips only.”  So I saved my quarters, dimes and nickels.  I asked my dad to take me to Sears where I bought a Spalding starter set of clubs-- four irons, one driver , a putter, and a imitation leather bag. The total was $49.95, a veritable fortune to a little south side kid.  Thus began my love affair with the game.

Fast forward 15 years and I was actually covering the PGA as a television reporter.  I covered all the majors at one point.  But let me contrast the difference between watching the U.S. Open as opposed to watching the Masters.

Watching the Masters is a trip to heaven.

Watching the U.S. Open is a trip to golf purgatory.

At the Masters, we all know the scoop.  The tournament will be decided during final 9 holes on Sunday. Something exciting is going to happen. Take a risk at Augusta, you might get rewarded, or fail miserably.

At the U.S. Open, taking a risk is not possible.  The courses are so brutally set up, taking a chance with your Titleist Pro V1 is like loaning money to your family--- you’ll never see it again.

It takes the survival skills of a Navy SEAL to endure 72 holes on a U.S. Open course.  United States Golf Association officials always say they want to identify the “best” player.  What they identify is the guy who, in one particular week, has the patience of a mom with triplet two year olds.

As a reporter, I used to marvel at the players as they left the course after 18 holes on a U.S. Open set up.  It was in their expressions, or lack thereof. Their faces were completely drained. Their shoulders slumped. Their eyes were bloodshot. They seemingly had been staring into the abyss, for four plus hours.  Sort of like boxer Roberto Duran before he said, “no mas.”

At the 1992 U.S. Open at Pebble Beach, Hall of Famer Raymond Floyd had just shot 81 on the final day.  And he wasn’t the only one to go “four score” and above.  As he headed for the scorer’s tent I heard him mumble, “They may as well put gravel on the course.”

I could go into details about what the golfers are facing at the Olympic Club Lake Course.  But you know drill.  This one’s a real doozy!

To sum up, I remind you of what one of the greatest, most flamboyant and exciting golfers of all time said about the U.S. Open.  I had the pleasure to spend a lot of time with him in his heyday, and will always miss him--

Seve Ballesteros:  “The U.S. Open has never been exciting to watch.  It has always been a sad tournament.  There is no excitement, no enjoyment.  It is all defensive golf, from the first tee to the last putt.”

Yes, even if Tiger wins, that is the case, always.

STUNNING PACQUIAO LOSS, REALLY?

Holy “Oceans 11” everybody! There’s been a big robbery in Las Vegas!  This situation harkens us back to the most famous quote concerning false incredulity of all time. It is the following line from another film “Casablanca”-

Captain Renault: “I’m shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on here!”

Yes. What a sad state of affairs for Manny Pacquiao, this so called “shocking” loss to Timothy Bradley.

Now, I know a little bit about boxing.  Correction. I know a lot about boxing (check resume, google search, Facebook, LinkedIn, IMDB, or even perhaps the DMV, if that helps).

For 15 years I have worked on boxing telecasts, both as play by play and analyst, with Al Bernstein, Rich Marotta,  Hall of Fame broadcaster Colonel Bob Sheridan, and with former world champions Raul Marquez, Sean O’Grady, Mike Tyson, Roy Jones, Jr. Oscar De La Hoya, and the late great Genaro Hernandez. I’ve also partnered with world famous trainers Joe Goossen, and legends such as Gil Clancy and Angelo Dundee. And, I’ve forgotten a few others.

But here’s the point, I haven’t asked, but I know, none of the above names are shocked, or would be shocked were they still with us, by the Tim Bradley split decision victory over Manny Pacquiao.  None.

Oh, we may be a pit peeved, a tab uncomfortable, or a trifle perplexed.  But shocked? No.

Now, you may ask, Alan Massengale, what is your opinion of who won the fight?  Would you believe I didn’t watch the fight? Would you believe I was doing an MMA event over the weekend?  What does that tell you?

No, I didn’t actually have to see the fight not to be shocked. (I will watch it eventually.)

But, here’s a final thought for now.  I applaud and admire Pacquiao for his newfound enthusiasm for religion.  The Lord will see him through.

But, I wonder, did he pick a bad time to give up drinkin’ and whorin’?  That lifestyle seemed to be working for him just fine “inside” the ring.

Now, that’s a statement that might shock some folks. But, lighten up.  I’m just kidding.

WHO GIVES A “DIDDY” ABOUT P’S SON?

    

I wouldn’t know a P. Diddy, from a Puff Daddy, to a Sean Puffy, but I do know a success story when I see one. 

Granted, I am not an aficionado of Sean Combs particular genre of music, but everybody knows Combs is one of the most successful businessmen/entertainers on the planet.  Some estimate he has a net worth around a half a billion dollars. But I’m not talking about his success.  I’m talking about his son Justin.

Justin Combs busted his butt in prep school.  It wasn’t your average prep school. It was New Rochelle Iona Prep School, where he attained a 3.75 GPA. Not only that, he’s one helluva football player.  He was a nationally recruited cornerback.  He picked U.C.L.A. and the school has awarded him a scholarship worth an estimated $54,000.

Justin, congratulations.  Sure, you could have gone in a million different directions. It’s not likely you would have had to work a day in your life, or applied yourself whatsoever toward a course of self discipline and achievement. But you are choosing your own path in this short life.

Yet, unbelievably, there have been those naysayers who say Justin should refuse to accept the money from the U.C.L.A. athletic department.  After all, his dad is loaded!  This isn’t fair!  Our schools are hurting financially!  He’s driving a new Maybach for gosh sakes! 

I say, this is pathetic. 

This country has been in a debate forever about the “haves and have nots,” “the one percent,” and a “fair share.” 

I’ll tell you about equality.  Justin Combs had a chance, just like every other young American to use his God given talent to work hard, both in the classroom and on the athletic field.  His determination and dedication has resulted in a great reward-- a scholarship to a major college.

Now that’s fair.  And I don’t give a P. Diddy Daddy about those who don’t understand this.