Scott Adamson, Author at Adamsonmedia.com

NFL vs. the world

Fifty years ago, Pete Rozelle began plotting the future of the National Football League.

The commissioner already oversaw a blossoming 26-team circuit – one that grew by 10 three years earlier when the merger with the American Football League became official. And the NFL was coming off a season that produced the league’s first (and so far, only) perfect team – the 17-0 Miami Dolphins.

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But there was still plenty of room to grow, and in early September, 1973, Rozelle announced that nearly two dozen cities were in the running for a future NFL franchise.

In an interview with U.S. News & World Report, Rozelle said an NFL committee was doing market research on possible NFL sites “within this decade.” The targets included: Anaheim, Birmingham, the Carolinas, Chicago, Columbus, Ohio, central and north central Florida (Tampa, Orlando, Jacksonville), Honolulu, Indianapolis, Louisville, Mexico City, Nashville, greater New York, Oklahoma City, Phoenix, Portland, San Antonio, Seattle and the Tidewater area of Virginia.

Exotic locales such as Honolulu and Mexico City were in the running, but Rozelle said the league had no interest in going north of the border.

“There are a number of negatives,” he told the USN&WR. “One is the weather. The Canadian football season really ends around Thanksgiving because of the cold weather. And there is also concern that if we moved into one of the major Canadian cities, we could be helping contribute to the death of the Canadian Football League, which we would not want to do.”

All that was big news as the NFL prepared to start its 54^th season. And if Rozelle was paying attention (and you know he was), he might’ve noticed that other groups were out to grab a slice of the pro football pie, too.

In fact, 1973 was also the year that not one, not two, but three World Football Leagues were being organized – all with designs on competing with the NFL.

Louis P. Roberts was the first to unveil WFL plans, and he was followed later in the year by Tony Razzano and Louis S. Goldman’s circuit as well as Gary Davidson’s – the latter the only World Football League that made it off the drawing board and onto the playing field.

According to a Philadelphia Inquirer piece from February 27, 1973, Roberts – an insurance executive based in Anniston, Alabama – was looking to convince several millionaires to invest in a 10-city World Football League. The inaugural franchises in 1974 would be selected from Birmingham, Chicago, Dallas, Detroit, Honolulu, Jacksonville, Jersey City, Los Angeles, Memphis, Mexico City, New York, Philadelphia, Phoenix, Seattle, Tulsa and Wichita.

“The cost of a team will be at least $5 million,” Roberts told the Inquirer. “But we prefer the man to have $10 million in backup capital. We expect to line up eight to 10 teams in the next few months and sign the articles of association.”

Roberts had actually been seeking investors since 1972, so give him credit for being the WFL early bird.

Then on October 6, a story broke announcing that Davidson was ready to go with his World Football League for 1974. Chicago was getting the first franchise and Boston, Honolulu, Los Angeles, New York, Tokyo and Toronto were expected to join soon.

“We plan for at least eight and possibly 12 teams operating the first season,” Davidson said to the Associated Press. “We currently are negotiating with 19 groups for franchises covering 15 cities from Mexico City to Vancouver.”

(For the record, Roberts told the Philadelphia Inquirer in 1974 that Robert Schmertz, owner of the WFL New York Stars and John Bassett, who owned the Memphis Southmen, stole his idea and Davidson ran with it.)

Finally, there was the WFL proposed by Razzano and Goldman, which had to change its name to Universal Football League since Davidson beat them to the WFL punch when he held the first press conference.

“We had originally settled on the title of World Football League for our organization, and then when this other group made the announcement, we had to change ours,” Rozzano told the New Castle News for an October 9 story.

Its gimmick was to utilize some key CFL rules (12 men to a side, three downs to make 10 yards, etc.), plus kickoffs from the 20-yard line and field goals of varying point values.

Inaugural franchises were planned for Anaheim, Birmingham, Chicago, Mexico City, Memphis, New York, Phoenix, Tampa, Toronto and Seattle.

As you know, only one of the three pretenders to the NFL throne ever got beyond the idea stage.

They never had a franchise outside the United States, but Davidson’s WFL did make it to market – although its colorful history was short and marked by financial disaster.

Of course, we all know the next wave of NFL expansion came in 1976 when the Seattle Seahawks and Tampa Bay Bandits joined the league. And over time, six of Rozelle’s targets were hit – either through expansion or relocation.

Anaheim, for example, was home of the Los Angeles Rams for 15 seasons (1980-94).

Indianapolis infamously became an NFL city when Mayflower moving fans took the Baltimore Colts to Indiana in 1984.

Phoenix (or at least the Phoenix ‘burbs) tasted the gridiron big leagues when the St. Louis Cardinals headed West in 1988. They were the Phoenix Cardinals for six seasons (1988-93) and have been known as the Arizona Cardinals ever since.

The Carolinas got in the NFL in 1995 with the addition of the Charlotte-based Panthers, and Jacksonville joined them that same year with the birth of the Jaguars.

And Nashville was the new playground of the Houston Oilers after that franchise relocated to Memphis for the 1997 season and made a permanent move to Music City a year later, ultimately rebranding as the Tennessee Titans.

When it comes to the rest of Rozelle’s list, most found homes in upstart leagues – but not in the NFL.

(Birmingham, Columbus, Orlando and San Antonio did get consolation prizes, though, in the form of the NFL-funded World League of American Football). Regardless, it’s fun to look back on what was an active planning year in professional football half a century ago – even though many of those plans were never fully realized.

Barbed-wire baseball

Lefty Marshall quickly realized if he wanted to take full advantage of the Smithsonian Institution, he needed to block off an entire day. Between exhibits, artifacts and special programs, there was more than enough to see and do in the expansive exhibition halls.

But he was on a specific mission, so instead of taking time to marvel at American history, he quickly read the descriptions of displays such as the Greensboro Lunch Counter, Civil War Draft Wheel and the chip off of Plymouth Rock … and just kept moving along.

As he made his way up and down the museum’s three floors, he kept an eye on his watch; he was on a tight schedule and could only stay a limited time. After an hour of stopping, staring and starting, however, Lefty finally found what he was looking for – a small display called “Baseball Behind Barbed Wire.”

The centerpiece was a jersey worn by a man named Tetsuo Furukawa, and there was also a vintage photograph with several signatures occupying a waist-high, round table.

It was a shot of the Gila River All-Stars – donning caps, bats and gloves, and looking very much like a typical baseball team.

But this crew was anything but typical.

This contingent from Arizona was made up of men from internment camps – Japanese-Americans who had been rounded up, given 48 hours to sell their businesses and houses, and made detainees of the United States government during World War II.

The irony, of course, is that these American citizens used the National Pastime to try to gain a sense of normalcy after being herded up like cattle for no other reason than they “looked like” the enemy.

Lefty didn’t hear this version of the story back in what he now called “the old days.” In fact, it was never talked about much at all in his circles, other than the abstract explanation of, “Well, we’re at war, so ….” Yet he had learned the truth, and the truth was what sent him to this particular time and this particular place.

Lefty was reading each name in the photo when he heard a voice that broke him out of his trance and startled him ever so slightly.

“Excuse me … would you mind taking a picture of me standing next to this photo?”

He turned to see a somewhat familiar looking, thirtysomething Japanese-American man sporting short, jet-black hair with a jagged green streak that appeared to be splashed across his bangs. With a denim jacket, faded jeans, black converse sneakers, a Ramones tee shirt and backpack, he seemed out of place at a baseball display.

“The phone is already set up,” he said. “All you have to do is press the button.”

“Sure,” Lefty said. “I’ll be glad to.”

He lined up to the left of the photo, leaned in and smiled and Lefty took two quick shots before handing the phone back to him.

“This is a really sad part of history,” said Lefty. “I wish more people had learned the real story sooner. I’m a history buff, but like a lot of people, I can look back and see I buffed over a lot of history … believe me.”

Although the events had taken place in the 1940s, the man knew quite a bit about the photo, the jersey – and the story behind it all.

“I’m mostly familiar with the Heart Mountain team, the one that lost to Gila River,” he said. “I guess you could say it was like the World Series of the internment camps. When I learned there was an actual display here, I had to see it for myself. I’ve heard lots of stories about one of the Heart Mountain players, Hidenori Hatakeda.

“Oh, by the way, they call me Happy.”

Lefty swallowed hard, because he was quite familiar with the name Hidenori Hatakeda.

“Nice to meet you Happy. My name’s Lefty Marshall,” he said. “Are you a baseball fan?”

“Not as much as I used to be,” Happy said. “But I’m meeting someone here, so I thought I’d give the display a closer look.”

Turns out Hatakeda went on to play independent league ball after the war ended and he was finally released from the camp, but that was mostly for fun. A baker by trade, he restarted the business that was taken from him and ended up overseeing a chain (Sunshine Bakery) that thrived in the 1950s and 1960s on the West Coast.

“He was a baker – claimed to make the best Apple Feuillettes in the United States – his brother was a baker, and one member of the family owned a music store in El Segundo before he retired,” Happy said. “Hidenori and his family did all right for themselves.”

Comparatively speaking, Lefty lived a life of privilege; it pained him to imagine the hardships Hatakeda faced through no fault of his own.

“He was a great man and a great success,” Lefty said. “I would’ve been so bitter.”

Happy said he wasn’t.

“Hidenori … he was one of those people who always looked ahead and never looked back,” Happy said. “There’s this old wooden plaque that he had in his office, and on it is written a Japanese proverb that translates to, ‘Fall down seven times, stand up eight.’ I think in his case he was pushed down, but he got up. And he stood pretty tall.”

Lefty managed a weak smile.

“This is a subject that really interests me,” he said. “I’d love to sit down and talk about this more.”

Happy raised his eyebrows.

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

Lefty sighed.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked.

Happy nodded.

“I do … yes,” he said.

“There’s a reason why I want to bend your ear,” Lefty said. “I worked for the War Relocation Authority, and I’m the supervisor who made Hidenori Hatakeda and his family leave their home. Sometimes, the folks who run the afterlife send you back down here after you die … not really to set things right because you can’t, but to – I don’t know – try to make up for it somehow. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do … I just wish I could tell Mr. Hatakeda I’m sorry.

“I know you said you were meeting someone, but maybe you could make time for me after.”

Happy reached into his pocket and pulled out an old newspaper clipping – one with Hatakeda’s obituary. “As it turns out, you’re the person I was supposed to meet,” Happy said, showing him the yellowed piece of newspaper. “I know a good bakery about a mile from here … we can talk there and have an Apple Feuillette. I hear they make them almost as good as I did.”

Section 30

Earlier this year the Birmingham City Council approved $6 million in funding for Rickwood Field and Legion Field.

Two million bucks will go to the oldest professional ballpark in the United States, mainly to spruce it up, strengthen its bones and make sure the home to the Magic City’s only major league team – the Birmingham Black Barons – can live on for another century as a working museum as well as active stadium. It comes in especially handy since Major League Baseball will be staging a regular season game between the San Francisco Giants and St. Louis Cardinals there on June 20, 2024.

And Legion Field?

The Football Capital of the South will use its capital for a new roof over the northeast end zone, restroom renovations and technological improvements.

This is welcome news, especially for somebody like me who will always have a deep love for both venues.

But when it comes to Legion Field, the part of the stadium I want preserved for posterity is Section 30.

To you, it might simply be a corner of the Old Gray Lady’s east side, next to the north end zone and across from the press box.

To me, it was where my Birmingham sports journey began – a journey that continues today.

September 19, 1970, was my first visit to Legion Field. In fact, it was my first visit to any field that wasn’t home to a high school or YMCA team.

A week after Alabama was blasted by Southern Cal, 42-21 (an historic game whose significance was lost on me at the time), my dad and brother took me to the Magic City’s gridiron cathedral to watch the Crimson Tide take on Virginia Tech.

Two weird things I’ve retained from that experience; instead of the Hokies, Tech was called the V.P.I. (Virginia Polytechnic Institute) Gobblers, and I was wearing a corduroy jacket.

An acronym represented by turkeys I won’t question, but why I would have on an extra layer of clothing in the middle of an Alabama September will remain a hot weather cold case that will likely never be solved. Maybe it was merely an accessory designed to accentuate my black, horn-rimmed glasses and Lucky Tiger Hair Tonic-soaked noggin.

I was quite the dandy for a nine-year old – a nine-year old known as “Professor Four Eyes” to my frenemies and foes.

But this was a grand occasion, and as I walked between my pop and my bub and we headed toward the nosebleed seats in Section 30, I was proud to be seen.

And even though the players looked small from my vantage point, man, did I ever feel big.

A damp hot dog pulled from an aluminum wrapper – washed down with a Coke in a sweaty cup – was a kingly feast. And with dinner came a show in the form of 51 Alabama points to just 18 for those big cluckers from Blacksburg.

The sights, the sounds, the smells … on that particular day, Legion Field was the happiest place on earth for me.

And for half a century, it’s remained an integral part of my life.

I’ve been there for the World Football League, American Football Association, United States Football League, World League of American Football, Canadian Football League, XFL and Alliance of American Football.

I was in the stands when Banks played Woodlawn in 1974, the state of Alabama’s high school “Game of the Century” and one witnessed by 42,000 fans.

And I was up close to the action every day for every match when the 1996 Olympic Games made it a glorious showcase for association football, as well as many other times when the United States Men’s and Women’s National Teams came there.

But there’s never been a visit to Legion Field – not a one – when I didn’t make a point to point out Section 30 and smile.

Nowadays, greater Birmingham has an embarrassment of riches when it comes to public sports facilities. Protective Stadium (UAB, Legion FC and Stallions), Regions Field (Barons), Legacy Arena at the BJCC (Squadron), the Pelham Civic Complex (Bulls and soon Magic City SC) – there are plenty of teams to cheer, and plenty of places to cheer them.

But I’m still drawn to Legion Field, and took great pleasure back in April when I got to stop in and watch the final few minutes of a scrimmage between the modern-era USFL Stallions and New Orleans Breakers. I didn’t need a corduroy jacket, but I still own a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and can buy Lucky Tiger Hair Tonic online for about 10 bucks. (And frankly, “Professor Four Eyes” isn’t a bad superhero name).

Sadly, it was a bit lonelier that time; I lost my dad nearly 30 years ago and my brother back in February.

But that’s the beautiful thing about beautiful memories. They stay with you forever … in Section 30 and beyond.