In the aftermath of the controversial scoring decision Saturday night in Las Vegas, journalistic response has included calls to hunt down judge C.J. Ross, examine the outfit that gave her license to judge fights in the first place and righteously trot out the haughty "See, this is what's killing boxing!" phrase.
But we really ought to thank Ms. Ross for an unintended contribution to the cause.
By watching the 12 rounds of interaction between Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Saul Alvarez and deeming it a dead-even encounter -- then having the chutzpah to insist she got it right -- the stern-faced lass with the initialed name has created the exact flashpoint angst needed to topple ineffective regimes.
Before that torment wears off and the great media horde goes back to obediently feeding at the promotional trough, it's high time to take another run at revolution. And, because the marketing folks that labeled recent Middle East tumult as the "Arab Spring" seem to be on to something catchy, I'm going to co-opt their hard work and call this one the "Boxing Autumn."
Not exactly Hemingway, I concede ... but I was absent the day they taught SEO at beauty school.
Anyway, the lone plank in my reformist platform directly addresses the stenches that tend to rise from venues like the MGM Grand Garden as often as not these days, thanks to suspect judging.
For the record, I believe most judges on all levels are excellent. They know their craft. They pay careful attention. And there's not a hint of impropriety in the way they do things.
Nor am I suggesting there's anything the least bit unseemly. Ms. Ross did her job Saturday night.
The pictures I've seen suggest she was watching what we all were watching. Her view from ringside wasn't the least bit obstructed. And there's no sign of a highball glass in any frame I've reviewed.
No. If all is as it simply appears to be, she just got it wrong. And in this case, that's enough.
Because after all these cases, and in spite of her quality cohorts, that's got to be enough.
In the last 15 months alone -- since Ms. Ross and a colleague, Duane Ford, formed a two-thirds majority that stripped Manny Pacquiao of his WBO welterweight title -- boxing has been dogged by enough suspect calls to keep Congress busy with investigation from now until the rapture.
But whether a collectively bad verdict like the Bradley-Pacquiao affair, or the singularly awful scores that render clear-cut nods like Broner-Malignaggi or Mayweather-Alvarez as mere majorities or splits, the outlying totals only seem to make column or Twitter grist until the next cool cat video arrives.
At that point, both the furor and the results it could prompt are gone.
This time, though, it can't be allowed to get away that quickly.
While the right guy won Saturday night in spite of Ross' faux pas, and the speeches surrounding him in Canastota come 2020 probably won't mention her, the scoring disaster came far too close to replicating Pacquiao-Bradley on a far bigger stage with far graver consequences.
And if a loosely run sport can't get its act together in front of the biggest live gate of the year and potentially the largest- or second-largest pay-per- view audience ever assembled, well, chances are there wouldn't be too many more opportunities to get it together afterward.
Hardcore fans are sick of it. Casual fans are turned off by it.
And the executive wing ought to be terrified about it.