We're all predictable. If it's Hubert Mizell writing about professional boxing, it has to be a bashing, right? I do have a track record, but years ago I did cover a lot of big fights, such as three Muhammad Ali heavyweight championship extravaganzas, plus a memorable final exposure, Ray Leonard beating Tommy "Hit Man" Hearns.
But now, with contemporary compassion
In the early '90s, I came to detest boxing and the creeps who control the business, epitomized by ex-con Don King and New York sleazemeister Bob Arum.
Too many athletes were having their brains scrambled. Several died from being smashed. If there'd been a vote by Congress to outlaw pro boxing, I would've cheered.
Still, I feel bad for lovers of boxing. Many are pals of mine. My own son believes it is the most pure, accurate measure of manhood.
But how depressing, when today's hottest heavyweight names continue to be 55-year-old grill/muffler/clothing salesman George Foreman, a badly faded Evander Holyfield and that babbling lunatic, Mike Tyson.
Boxing's popularity has forever vaulted on mega-magnetic names, from Jack Dempsey to Joe Louis to Rocky Marciano to Ali and Tyson. Will there ever be another?
What if, for a multitude who continue to really care, there was a legitimate (now there's a fresh word for boxing) tournament to decide the world's heavyweight champion?
They should do it without King or that Arum guy. Put it into real stadiums, not on casino parking lots. It'll take a rich underwriter, so I suggest ESPN, the modern king of cash/jock television.
Select an honest group that understands boxing to be matchmakers.
Of course, we'd have to run their names through the FBI's computer, just to be sure. Let them study fighters, have debates and decide who they see as the eight best heavyweights.
Put them into an old-fashioned Golden Gloves kind of playoff. Tell the boxers to act as sensibly as possible. No weigh-in theatrics or phony buildups. Grant them a nominal fee for being among the eight, with escalating purses for winning quarterfinals, semifinals and the championship bout.
I wouldn't watch, but millions would. Including my buddies and my kid. It could be the last real chance to prove pro boxing can exist, perhaps even thrive, without bums such as King.
Of course, we should never forget a sentence of wisdom from a Detroit sports columnist of long ago. Doc Green wrote that "boxing is like a corkscrew. Straighten it out and it's useless."
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ABOUT THE MASTERS: He'd been battered, severely challenged and widely doubted, but Phil Mickelson played as Tiger Woods hoped to, taking on the world's best, playing their finest golf, and winning by an Augusta knockout. E-mails came flying on Lefty.
Joe Sable of Orlando thought, "Having watched the Masters for more than 20 years, I can't recall being so wide-eyed at what was happening on hole after hole, involving so many different players, with the Mickelson birdie at 18th providing a Hollywood kind of ending."
Back at you, Joe: In my 37 trips to the Masters, the most memorable Sunday had come in 1986 when Jack Nicklaus, at 46, won a sixth green jacket. But this one is the equal, becoming legend in a different way.
Instead of one aging icon being great one last time, it was Mickelson and also a blazing Ernie Els and an unyielding K.J. Choi and the back-to-back aces by Paddy Harrington and Kirk Triplett on the 16th hole. Finally, it was Els setting a towering mark and Lefty surpassing it with five birdies on the last seven holes. Golden Jack, you were phenomenal, but '86 wasn't better than this. Equal, not better.
Mallory Simmons of St. Pete Beach said, "Was it as it seemed, when Mickelson embraced family members, being something far better than just another athlete executing a choreographed celebration for cameras to enhance his image? Tell me it was from the heart."
Back at you, Mallory: From what I know of Phil, and his enormous concern for wife and children, it was a totally honest reaction.
As though we were being allowed to peep into the Mickelson family room when daddy came home from ruling the Masters.
Who can forget that little curly-haired cutie of a child, being held on Lefty's knee as he checked his final-round scorecard?
This is a wealthy, gifted fellow who lives in a California mansion and flies his own luxury jet but, I believe, a really good bloke who appreciates his great fortune and adores family with the kind of values most of us like to see.
