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Contrary to what the suddenly gushing press and bloggers seem to be saying, I don't truly believe that Michael Jackson had another comeback in him. I think he could still sell out arenas, yes, but not in a good way.
Michael Jackson touring past 50 years old would have been an inglorious train wreck, featuring a pop culture carnival with PT Barnum on lead guitar and the Elephant Man dancing back-up. Thinking Michael Jackson had one more in him would be like suggesting that Mark McGwire still had at least 100 more home runs in him.
Honestly. Take a step back for a moment. Can you really see an aging Michael Jackson and whatever was left of his face try to carry on with the swagger of Mick Jagger or the grace of Tina Turner?
Honestly?
Simply put, too much damage, permanent and irreversable, had been done too many years ago, and Michael Jackson was too old and too much of a freakshow to make any lasting musical comeback seem like anything other than a novelty act. Maybe Jackson would have been put on some great shows, and maybe he would impressed the media to an extent, but then again, so did Axl Rose with all of his recent performances and Chinese Democracy still went over about as well as a fart in church with the public.
And that was no accident. Similarly, Rose wasted two whole decades as a troubled hermit before he decided to try and become relevant again. His bout with relevance was met with indifference, and not because he wasn't talented. He was and is. And not because Chinese Democracy sucked. It didn't.
But what so many critics failed to realize was that the performances can only be so great. The albums can only be so important. But once the public gets past a certain point, the most important things cannot be forgiven.
The constant controversy involving children. The battered women.
The constantly changing face. The constantly changing time for the concert to start.
The behavior that likened Howard Hughes. The behavior that likened J.D. Salinger.
The undeniable talent forever shrouded by what they had done, and what they had failed to do, not by what they had truly accomplished.
I can't help but think that a 50-year-old, a 60-year-old, a 70-year-old Michael Jackson performing would have had all the impact of Mike Tyson in The Hangover.
Amusing? Yes. Occasionally brilliant? Perhaps. Slightly more than pathetic? Absolutely.
One night a few years ago at a bar in Downtown Austin, Brad and I were going to play bocce ball and have a few drinks when one of the TVs stuck on ESPN Classic started replaying old fights of a young Mike Tyson. We were mesmerized. We abandoned our company, quit talking to women and simply watched Tyson kick ass and dominate for close to an hour.
He was young, in his prime and nobody had ever come along and dominated quite the way he did in the late 1980s. Not Ali, not Lewis, not Foreman. Tonight, I watched a young Michael Jackson in his prime on YouTube, and I can honestly say nobody had ever come along and dominated quite the way he did in the early 1980s. Not The Beatles, not Elvis, not Zeppelin.
But just like Tyson, Jackson had become a sad, cliched punchline. Always good for a laugh, and a constant reminder of eccentricity gone horribly wrong. I don't think anybody would enjoy seeing a 50-year-old Michael Jackson trying to dominate the way he did when he was 20 any moreso than watching a 50-year-old Tyson, a 50-year-old Rose, a 50-year-old McGwire try to recapture a glory that had been tainted so long ago by unforgivable sins, and a public that can no longer embrace, but has chosen to make fun of them.
Perhaps on Friday morning and throughout the weekend, nobody will be here talk about the past. Perhaps most people will simply choose to forget and forgive Michael Jackson now that he's dead. Artistically, it's always the more convenient choice.
But I will talk about the past. And it was the past that dictated how so many people truly felt about Michael Jackson up until today.
I can honestly tell you that I remember everything about the moment, all except for the Blue Jay who foolishly pitched to Manny Ramirez.
Six weeks into the 2004 season, early May I believe. 2-2 count, and some middle relief rack threw a slider to Manny that didn't dive. It hung there suspended in mid-air as if the baseball were on an invisible tee that only Manny Ramirez could see. I was drinking a Magic Hat #9, and started to choke on a swig, as he began to swing. He hadn't even connected just yet, but I knew what the hell was going to happen.
Manny Ramirez was going to hit the ball harder than any human being ever had before. Bat connected with baseball. Beer went flying out my nose.
Seriously.
Magic Hat #9, the only good thing to ever have come out of Vermont, went shrieking out my nose burning like cocaine in reverse. Manny Ramirez freaking destroyed this baseball, not in The Natural Roy Hobbs way. He hit that hanging slider the way Ike hit Tina, or Forrest Gump beat the ever-living shit out of that thug at the Black Panther party. Manny smacked it merciless and cruel like a bad-wielding Machavelli with a stick of black chaw spewing from his gums. Fenway didn't even cheer for Manny. They audibly gasped as if they were trying to keep the $10 beers from coming out of their collective noses as well.
The baseball that Manny Ramirez hit was still ascending over the Coke Bottle behind the Green Monster behind the Citgo sign. That's about 420 feet away and still climbing.
To put that in perspective: The dead center field flagpole at Minute Maid Park in Houston is about 430 feet away. Manny Ramirez's home run that night in Boston would have had a legitimate shot of sailing higher than the flagpole.
The baseball ended up careening off a building, skipping through a parking lot and ended up on the Mass Pike almost 800 feet away. It was unquestionably the most massive shot I have ever seen anyone hit my entire life.
I watched Manny trot around the bases thinking, "Holy crap, there's no way what he just did was humanly possibly."
Turns out, I was right. It wasn't.
Here's the implausible explanation that Manny Ramirez: He has broken junk. The same man who beat a baseball into submission will now take a 50-game vacation for using gonadotropins, or simply put, something prescribed to address erectile dysfunction.
Well, at least he and Rafael Palmeiro now have two things in common, I do suppose.
Maybe more than that now that I really consider it closely. Both had swings that were Grand Canyon at Sunset pretty. Call me naive, but I will never believe steroids would have made their swings better. Steroids improved the results of their at-bats, no doubt, but damn, I'm convinced their swings would have looked just as graceful flailing at air.
They were also unequivocally bad guys, as well, and no, their steroid use isn't indictive of their character. Rafael Palmeiro was arrogant and defiant in front of Congress, lying to everyone and pretty much everything about what he was really doing. Manny may not have lied--at least not that we're aware of--but he was accused of shoving the 60-year-old assistant around (roid rage?), sulked and essentially quit on the Red Sox, forcing a trade to the Dodgers.
And as soon as he got to Los Angeles? He reverted back to the Manny of that night in May 2004, demolishing every baseball in the National League with a wooden, Louisville Slugger-style jackhammer. After the season was done, he held the Dodgers hostage in a Favrian manner, continually toying with them until they gave him a contract that even AIG would have blushed at.
Manny Ramirez, in the Dodgers' mind, was too big to fail.
He did anyway.
Manny Ramirez, Roger Clemens, Alex Rodriguez, Barry Bonds.
Four guys that were unquestionably heading for Immortality. Now they're just four rich bastards that no one will ever trust again. But that's not their problem. Those four guys will simply insulate themselves with their friends, their peers, their hangers-on, their butt-kissers, their groupies and a million other people who will make their excuses for them.
Trust? That's hardly their problem. It's yours.
But there's a greater problem with sports now, and it doesn't have the slightest thing to do with steroids, in and of itself. Sports has a credibility problem, and it's manifesting itself in every possible avenue. Today's news about Manny Ramirez is hardly shocking. Yao Ming picking up three quick fouls in the Rockets loss to the Lakers was NBA refereeing at its finest. Yao picking up three quickies all but ensured a Lakers win, and tied the series up at one a piece.
Hell, I actually bet my friend Brad, a Southern California native and die-hard Laker fan, a bottle of 18-year Jameson's that the Cavs would beat the Lakers IF they both got to the NBA Finals. Simply put, David Stern would rather market the entirely likeable LeBron James, as opposed to probable rapist, Kobe Bryant. I am 100 percent certain of the outcome in the same way that I am certain the sun will rise in the east, this summer will be hot and Amy Winehouse will be ugly tomorrow, the next day or the day after that. It's a foregone conclusion that the NBA refs will ensure the Cavs (read: LeBron) gets their first ring, and then market the hell out of him, trying to make him the next Michael Jordan. And that's why I'll be drinking some of the finest Irish whiskey in the world come late June. It's not because I think the Cavs are better.
It's because the outcome that I'm betting on is more favorable to the business of the NBA.
The BCS is such a farce it's not even worth mentioning. And even the NFL isn't immune from this credibility problem. They have a steroid problem every bit on par with MLB, but people are all too willing to sweep their problems under the rug in the name of gambling, fantasy football and all the other things the make the NFL so popular.
Perhaps I'm wrong about all of these things. Maybe I will watch Brad drink a bottle of my favorite whiskey right in front of my face. And maybe Yao really did pick up those three fouls, and maybe--just maybe--Manny Ramirez really does have broken junk.
But when he comes back 50 games from now, thousands upon thousands of people will flock to Dodger Stadium to watch a man fallen from grace hit a baseball farther than perhaps anyone on the planet ever could.
The sun will shine in Los Angeles, the beers will flow, Vin Scully will wax eloquent about days gone past, Dodger Dogs will taste better than ever.
And Manny Ramirez will round the bases without a care in the world.
I've said before that I have a relationship with baseball like I would hope to have with my future wife. I love it. I care for it. I oftentimes worry about it, but I hope to grow old with it. Its values and heritage I would hope to pass down to my children so that they can cherish as much as I do.
I've also said that while I'm married to baseball, college basketball is my wild sex kitten of a mistress. It's constantly exciting, a thrill-ride to the very end with constant surprises. You have to be careful with college basketball, however, because if you're aren't paying attention you get burned by the choices you make...like when you fill out your brackets.
Even the dynamics of their rites of passage are similar. The first Friday of the NCAA Tournament has now become the unofficial Adult Spring Break. Many people call out sick, and spend all day cheating on their jobs with the best sporting event in the country: A coast-to-coast, never-ending orgy of Madness.
The NCAA Tournament leads right into the First Day of Baseball when these same respectable men who just called out of work to cheat are now completely honest and forthright about their absence. They just want to take their son out to the ballgame and enjoy the day with their family.
For whatever reason, I'm having a really hard time getting the jones to see my mistress this season. College basketball hasn't really sucked me in the way it normally does. Oh, I'm trying to get into it, believe me. But this season is shaping up like a Keanu Reeves blockbuster: No real discernible plotline, not terribly interesting, but it feels like it should be way better than what it really is.
Specifically, I've nailed down the five reasons college basketball just isn't doing it for me right now.
1. Pitt's Number 1? Seriously?
Head coach Jamie Dixon has done a miraculous job with Pitt basketball ever since Ben Howland left for UCLA. Given the fact that the program is ranked number one for the very first time, one could even argue he's done a better job than Howland ever did while he was in Steeler Country.
But Pitt basketball is like Pitt football. They always seem to be in the Top 25, but never in the Top 10, and certainly never ranked number one. Seeing Pitt at the top of the basketball poll is almost as unseemly as seeing Dave Wannstedt hoisting up the BCS Crystal Ball. The collective public is way more familiar with him looking forlorn on a bench with a porn mustache. The same situation sort of holds true for the basketball team. Looking forlorn on a bench.
Minus the porn mustache, though.
Now, I'm supposed to believe that Pitt basketball is amongst the mightiest teams in the land on par with North Carolina, Connecticut and the ilk? Really? Like Dave Wannstedt winning championships, it just seems like so much of a stretch.
2. No Big-Time Superstars To Get Excited About
Tyler Hansbrough is the all-time leader in points scored at North Carolina! He passed Michael Jordan, James Worthy, Sam Perkins, Vince Carter, Antawn Jamison, and doesn't this make you all so excited! Tyler Hansbrough is so gosh-darn good!
Um...no.
Tyler Hansbrough, sadly, is more the product of being tall and in the right system than he is a great basketball player. According to my handy Rosetta Stone, Hanbrough is Dutch for "Big White Stiff in the NBA next year."
Here's an important key to understanding college basketball. Never let anyone fool you into believing that guard play is the most important part of a college hoops squad. Dick Vitale has squawked about this endlessly for the last ten years in part because of the 1997 Arizona team which featured a three-guard set. In truth, though, the teams that advance the furthest in the NCAA Tournament traditionally have a big-time center leading the way.
Guard play is more important in the NBA than in college basketball due to the fact that in the NBA all the big men are already there. The best guards are the ones who can distribute the ball effectively to the big man (think Steve Nash and Chris Paul). In college basketball, big men are such a premium that oftentimes the team without one simply has no answer to counter the matchup problem. The 2004 Georgia Tech team worked this to perfection using a gangly, red-headed 7-footer named Luke Schenscher to simply overpower everybody else all the way to the NCAA Tournament title game where they lost to Connecticut, and their more imposing big man, Emeka Okafor.
Was Schenscher really any good? Nope, but he created a matchup that the opposition simply couldn't answer.
What does all this mean for Tyler Hansbrough? It means he's taking advantage of a system, not that he's terribly great. Between this revelation and better teams figuring out a way to minimize the shooting touch of Davidson's Stephen Curry, this season really lacks a certain panache. Whether it was Redick-Morrison, Durant-Law, or the Florida Gator squad that won back-to-back titles and became household names in the process, this season just seems devoid of a face or a name or a rivalry that college basketball fans can really embrace.
I mean, I guess the face would be Tyler Hansbrough. But if that's the case, then as the British might say, bloody help us all.
3. Where's the Mid-Majors?
Just scanned the AP Top 25. Gonzaga's not there, but probably will be before the Tournament starts. They played possibly the most difficult schedule in the country and right now their win-loss totals reflect that. But there's no other West Coast Conference schools in the Top 25 either. No Missouri Valley teams. No love for the Colonial Athletic--the conference that gave us tournament darlings like George Mason and UNC Wilmington. Ditto the Mountain West as well. Hell, there's not even a Conference USA squad in the mix like, say, Memphis.
There's only the Horizon League favorites Butler and Atlantic-10 power, the Xavier Muskateers, amongst the mid-majors rustling up the Top 25. And Xavier, frankly, is impossible to take seriously after being trounced by Duke 84-62. The game, honestly, wasn't even that close and the Blue Devils could have won by 40 points easily if they had kept their starters in throughout the game.
One of the beauties of college basketball is, just like the mistress, you have to keep track of everything in order to be successful. This year, unlike past years, there doesn't seem to be any real drama unfolding in the Missouri Valley Conference, a conference that has become so good in recent years that CBS has televised its championship game alongside the Pac-10 and SEC.
Gonzaga has lost some of their luster from past years. One of the Mountain West schools, typically either Utah, BYU or UNLV, makes some noise and a Top 25, if not Top 10 appearance.
This year? Well, where the hell are they? It's entirely possible that as the season goes on into February, we'll really get to know one of these Cinderellas. But for now, the polls are pretty top-heavy towards the favorites, but rather skinny on the mysterious teams still lurking.
4. The Longhorns Suck
Yes, I know this isn't a problem that every college basketball fan has. In fact, I'm guessing fans of all the other Big XII schools are quite glad about this point.
I'm the biggest Texas college hoops fan that anyone knows. I actually worked with Coach Barnes on his radio show when I was an intern for KVET-AM in Austin. He was one of the most gracious people I've ever had the privilege of working with during my tenure in radio. When I worked for ESPN, he rememebered me when I called him up looking for an interview. Nobody remembers the intern.
But Coach Barnes did.
So it absolutely kills me to say what I have to say, but this is one of the most unlikeable teams I can ever remember him having. A.J. Abrams is entirely too streaky of a shooter to be effective over the course of the next few months. They have no dominant big man inside, and it showed when Oklahoma's Blake Griffin just bullied his way in the paint all night long during a nationally televised contest. Gary Johnson still hasn't reached his full potential and Dexter Pittman has been playing like a poor man's Oliver Miller. No, that's not a compliment towards either Pittman or Miller.
And then there's the case of Clear Lake High School's Own Connor Atchley. He's seemingly regressed like a basketball playing Charley from Flowers For Algernon. During the 2007-08 campaign, I remember some serious chatter on Austin sports talk radio about the possibility of Atchley actually playing significant minutes in the NBA.
Now it seems like Atchley is trying just to log significant minutes playing for the Horns. He's lost confidence in his once-trusty outside jump shot. He gets abused down low more often a horde of kids sleeping over at Neverland Ranch. His posture is terrible, and it's almost deja vu to when Kevin Durant was literally slapping him around on the floor during 2006 season for taking bad shots.
It's honestly depressing to watch one of Clear Lake High School's own fall so far after so much promise initially.
Given that the Austin community just embraced one of the most likeable and overachieving Longhorn football teams in recent memory, unless everyone gets their act together quickly, Coach Barnes can pretty much forget about riding Mack Brown's karmic coattails for awhile, and start the rebuilding job immediately.
5. A Serious Lack Of Gus Johnson
I need Gus Johnson the way Bruce Dickinson needs cowbell: More of it and preferably louder.
Johnson, right now, is the best basketball play-by-play man alive and it's not even close. Why CBS doesn't make him the lead anchor for March Madness is unfathomable and downright criminal, honestly. If college basketball is my mistress, then Gus Johnson is the spine-tingling orgasm that screams for more.
As far as I can tell, Gus Johnson was put on Earth by God to do one thing and one thing exclusively. He was put here to make things more exciting, and infinitely more dramatic. If he would like to call a game of grass growing or paint drying, I'm dialed in and watching, listening, living and dying with every last word.
And honestly, I need more of that. That's the joy of college basketball and March Madness. The excitement. The drama. A certain innocence that can only come from overexuberance.
I'm missing that right now from this season. But I know there's still time left.
And sometimes in college basketball, a little bit of time is all you really need.
