OJ Mayo Affair: Payola, the Prospect, and Why It Doesn't Matter

Alan "Moondog" Freed was the self-proclaimed father of rock 'n' roll and somewhat of a radio pioneer.

At a time when racial segregation was alive and well, when lynchings were all too common, and the homes of black activists were routinely bombed, Freed took a chance and played countless African-American artists on radio stations across Ohio and New York, not because he wanted to make a statement, but because he loved the music. 

That passion started a movement among many young, white Americans who took to promoting racial integration instead of the segregation demanded by many of their parents.

Like all human beings, however, Freed was fallible and greed being what it is, he easily gave in to the demands of record companies that were handing over cash in exchange for airplay of certain artists.  In other words, pay-to-play.

In 1962, Freed pleaded guilty to two charges of commercial bribery in which he was fined and received a suspended sentence.

Subsequently, his career suffered as few stations were willing to take a chance on him.  He moved from town to town along the radio dial until his drinking finally caught up to him.  He died in 1965 at the age of 43.

O.J. Mayo is unlikely to suffer the same fate as Freed, although the circumstances are somewhat similar.

It's alleged the former USC basketball player and current NBA draft prospect was given tens of thousands of dollars in cash and an assortment of gifts including electronics, clothing, meals, hotel rooms, and airline tickets.

It was given to him by Rodney Guillory, a 43-year-old Los Angeles event promoter.  Guillory was the middle man, acting as the go-between for Mayo and Bill Duffy Associates, a northern California sports agency. 

In exchange for the cash and the gifts, Mayo agreed to be represented by BDA when he went pro, which he has and will.  Again, pay-to-play. Only this time, the game is basketball, not radio.

Payola—which is just a fancier name for bribery—is certainly not a new phenomenon.  It's been around for centuries, long before Alan Freed agreed to play certain tracks or O.J. Mayo allegedly signed specific contracts for cash and gifts.

Mayo has denied the allegations, but the thing is, once Mayo is drafted, none of this will matter. 

Despite the allegations of impropriety, the nation will quickly get over it if Mayo becomes a marquee player in the NBA. Certainly, a championship ring will wash away any lingering doubts. 

Which takes us back to Alan Freed.

While his downfall was certainly tragic—bribery charges, a string of failed marriages, a crippled career, and a lonely death by alcohol—his legacy persists.  He has been celebrated by the music industry as a man who brought rock 'n' roll to the forefront, responsible for launching the careers of many black artists. 

In 1986, Freed was part of the first group inducted in to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Two years later, he was posthumously inducted in to the Radio Hall of Fame.  In 2002, Freed's ashes were moved from a New York cemetery to hallowed halls of Rock in Cleveland. 

He's even got a basketball mascot named after him—the Cleveland Cavaliers' Moondog.

The stench of payola which triggered the beginning of the end for Freed has been forgotten in the sands of time because, in the end, people prefer to remember the good, not the bad.

O.J. Mayo is no pioneer, no risk-taker; he's just a baller.  Still, if he's as good in the NBA as he has proven to be in the high school and college ranks, no one will remember the big screen television or the airline tickets.

They'll remember only the drives and the dunks.  Such is the way of legacy.

As for the allegations and any guilty plea, those will be nothing more than  footnotes.