Category: History and More

If you’ve visited this site more than a few times you know I have a thing for sports history, sports milestones, and personal history vis-à-vis sports milestones.

#OTD is my favorite hashtag, and I’m always looking for a cool sports nugget.

Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Twitter @adamsonsl

So when I glanced at the calendar and eyed April 14, today’s column was an easy choice. On this date in 1981 the new Birmingham Barons made their Rickwood Field debut a successful one, edging the Jacksonville Suns, 6-5, thanks to a pair of Mike Laga home runs.

The franchise formally known as the Montgomery Rebels moved to Birmingham after 16 seasons in Alabama’s state capital (the original Barons played from 1892-1901 and there was another incarnation before the latest), and the rechristening was a banner day for me.

It was the first minor league baseball game I’d ever attended, and as one of 9,185 fans taking in the Southern League clash, I was part of Rickwood’s largest crowd since 1950.

Built in 1910, the facility was already ancient by then but it still seemed perfect to me. The design, the colors … everything about it felt like the way I thought baseball should feel. It was actually my third trip to Rickwood (I had played a youth football game there in 1971, and in 1975 went to an exhibition game between the Oakland A’s and old Birmingham A’s that was canceled when lightning knocked out a bank of lights) but the first time I’d spent an entire evening as a spectator.

And while my previous relationship with baseball had been mostly casual, being part of a near-capacity crowd and seeing great young players up close was a game-changer for me.

With Birmingham’s two World Football League teams now long gone and the Birmingham Bulls hockey franchise folding in February of 1981, this was my new pro sports focus in the Magic City.

That season I got to meet the team owner – the late, great Art Clarkson – who used to call me up years later during my stint at the Birmingham Post-Herald just to talk about the WFL (he had worked for the Southern California Sun and Memphis Southmen). I also literally ran into Ted Giannoulas (aka The San Diego Chicken, The Famous Chicken and The Chicken) while making a beer run. I shook his hand after the collision and he made it back to the field with his feathers barely ruffled.

During the 1983 season – a year the Barons won 91 contests and claimed the Southern League championship – I attended at least one game during every home stand. Looking back, I think it’s safe to say I’d never been a bigger baseball fan that I was that year, and it was all because of my town’s minor league club.

I have no idea how many Barons games I’ve been to since their return, but I’m guessing I’ve probably watched them play more times than any other Birmingham-based pro sports franchise combined.

I followed them when they moved out of Rickwood and into the fancy new Hoover Metropolitan Stadium in 1988, even though driving to games was much less enjoyable because of the traffic snarls heading into and out of the Birmingham suburb.

The venue had healthy crowds in 1994 when Michael Jordan temporarily traded in his status as a basketball legend for that of a baseball rookie, but the team had a losing record and Jordan batted .202, so it was an unsatisfying year from a results standpoint.

The Barons’ new home at Regions Field opened in 2013, seven years after I’d moved away from Birmingham. I finally got to see the Barons again in 2019 on a trip back home, immediately falling in love with the gorgeous digs and realizing how much I missed rooting for the home team in person.

When I started cheering for the Barons they were affiliates of the Detroit Tigers, and that lasted from 1981 to 1985. Since then, they’ve served as an AA pipeline to the Chicago White Sox.

Those are two clubs I’ve never cheered for (I favor the New York Yankees in the American League and Chicago Cubs in the National), but still have an interest in former Barons.

I guess I always will.

And once I get back to Birmingham – something I hope happens sooner than later – a springtime trip to Regions Field will be a priority. After 40 years, I have a lot invested in the club.

Baseball fans were caught in the middle of a Major League crisis in the summer of 1994.

Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Twitter @adamsonsl

A strike that began on Aug. 12 wiped out the remainder of the regular season and playoffs, and caused the World Series to be canceled for the first time since 1904. But what if a new league came along – one with incentives that would lessen the possibility of work stoppages? Would that tempt followers of the National Pastime to move past the traditional big leagues and give a different circuit a try?

The founders of the United Baseball League certainly hoped so, and on November 1, 1994, they announced that the National and American leagues were about to have company.

“We’re not here to prod the establishment and we’re not here to replace it,” co-founder Dick Moss told the Associated Press. “We’re here to coexist with it. We will compete, just as Ford competes with General Motors.”

When I first heard about the UBL it piqued my interest. I was already a fan of alternative sports leagues and MLB had gone seemingly forever without any real competition. Maybe this would rock the boat a bit.

“Every sports league in this country had been controlled by a bunch of rich, white guys,” UBL co-founder Bob Mrazek said to AP. “We will offer a level of play which is comparable to major league baseball. We will build our success on a philosophy of true partnership. Our plans call for sharing and equity sharing arrangements with our players and our host cities.”

During the league’s inaugural news conference, it was announced that the goal was to sell 10 franchises for $5 million each, with eight in the United States, one in Canada, and one in Mexico. Play would begin in 1996 and by 1999 six expansion teams – including four from Asia – would be added.

Curt Flood, part of the UBL management group and a legendary figure in the sport’s labor movement, said there would be franchises in Puerto Rico, Taiwan and the Dominican Republic.

“We’re not limited to just the United States,” Flood said. “It’ll be a very high caliber, high class of competition. In some ways, this is a rare opportunity. If you were going to construct a league designed to avoid the problems of the past, how would you do it?”

Players were to receive 35 percent of pretax profits of the UBL, while host cities would get 15 percent plus 50 percent of luxury suite income and one-third of parking revenue.

In 1996 the projected average attendance would be 17,500 with ticket prices around $8 and an average player salary of $520,000. Players would be eligible for free agency after three seasons in the UBL.

In addition, the league agreed to a 20-year TV deal with Liberty Sports Network.

All of it sounded good to me – except for the 1996 part. While I understood the pitfalls of rushing to market, the strike was still fresh on everyone’s mind and a new league debuting in the spring of 1995 might still have some anti-MLB momentum.

Instead, the founders opted to take their time and, supposedly, do things right.

After the November unveiling UBL officials spent the next few months putting their plan into action, and in 1995 it was revealed that the inaugural season would begin on March 28, 1996. Instead of 162 games, the regular season would consist of 154 games, returning to MLB’s “old” format.

The Eastern Division would include Central Florida (Kissimmee), Long Island, Puerto Rico (Bayamon), and Washington, D.C.

Los Angeles, New Orleans, Portland, and Vancouver would comprise the Western Division. There was even talk of bringing in Pete Rose – famously banned from baseball – as skipper of the New Orleans entry.

As for talent, the idea was to initially go after free agents and international stars.

But, as is the case with most upstarts, starting up is often the biggest problem. In December, 1995, Moss announced that the league would postpone its first season until 1997 due to stadium issues and snags in the TV contract.

Then, after four months of silence, the UBL released a statement on April 11, 1996, that it was suspending operations “until further notice.”

And as you’ve probably noticed, 25 years later the UBL remains suspended.

Apparently there were several factors involved in the failure to launch. For one thing, Liberty merged with Fox Sports, and that included Major League Baseball broadcast rights.

But by 1996 the strike of 1994 was ancient history to sports fans, and any window of opportunity for the UBL to make a splash was closed.

Still, it was an interesting idea, and I often wonder how far it would’ve gotten if it had been able to take the field in 1995.

And who knows? Perhaps some entrepreneurs with more money than business sense might want to give the United Baseball League another go. After all, Rose still needs a club to manage.

As the years roll into decades and the decades begin to stack one on top of another, memories become blurred. Things so clear and bright long ago are now sepia-toned – familiar, yet lacking sheen and focus.

For me, though, one particular memory is frozen in time – almost as vivid as I spy it in my rearview mirror as it was when it happened half a century ago.

From a historical perspective, September 19, 1970, is probably best remembered as the day the first Glastonbury Festival opened in South West England and the “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” premiered on CBS.

My history, however, is forever linked to the day because it’s when I saw my first-ever live football game.

Let the record show that Alabama 51, Virginia Tech 18, was the lid-lifter on my in-stadium fan experience, as I was one of 53,958 fans at 72,000-seat Legion Field.

That was the headline but it doesn’t come close to telling the story – a story that had a pretty sweet plot twist.

Having become obsessed with football a couple of years earlier, I was really itching to see a game up close. I envied the people I saw packing the stands on televised games, and thought surely that had to be the greatest thrill imaginable.

So once September rolled around my dad promised to take me to a game, and that game would be played on September 19.

But …

The contest we were supposed to see was a small college clash between Jacksonville State and Samford at cozy Seibert Stadium. My older brother, Don, attended Jax State briefly, but Samford was in Birmingham and I was, too, so I was a bit conflicted about which school to cheer for.

Who knows? Maybe I’d take turns rooting for both, waiting to jump on the bandwagon of the team leading in the fourth quarter.

It was an afternoon game – 1:30 p.m., Central Daylight Time – and I’m quite sure I was ready to go by 9 a.m.

But by noon we still hadn’t left the house, and I was getting antsy.

“Pop,” I asked, “When are we leaving?”

“In a bit.”

“But the game starts at 1:30.”

“Don’t worry.”

But I did worry … and as the clock struck 12:30 I wondered how we were going to get all the way across town in time for the opening kickoff.

Then came the horrible news.

“We’re not going to make the Samford game, son,” Pop said.

But before the tears rolled and the sobbing commenced, Pop produced three tickets.

“We’re going to the Alabama game tonight.”

I was nine years old and had no idea what a bucket list was, but going to see a big-time college football game would’ve been near the top of it.

A week earlier, the Crimson Tide had been throttled 42-21 by Southern Cal at Legion Field. The Trojans were the first fully integrated team to play a game in the state of Alabama, so the contest’s significance carried far beyond the football field. However, the social implications were a bit more than my work-in-progress brain could process at the time. And seven days after that historic encounter, my only focus was going to a football cathedral to see one of the gridiron’s most storied names – even if they were 0-1 and had dropped out of the Top 20 following a three-touchdown home loss.

Don had scored the tickets and met us at the house around 5ish. We left shortly thereafter, allowing plenty of time to make the 7:30 p.m. kickoff.

We parked at my dad’s downtown office and took a bus to the game, which I learned was standard procedure for fans who lived in the suburbs. As we prepared to board Pop bought a game day newspaper. It had the rosters of both Alabama and Virginia Tech (the Tide’s foes were listed as the “V.P.I. Gobblers” and the cartoon on the page opposite the rosters had Alabama’s mascot, an elephant, menacing a poor, featherless turkey).

The trip to the stadium was a short one but man, was I ever impressed when we arrived. Legion Field – the Football Capital of the South – was the epicenter of my world on this night, and as my dad, Don and I got closer I could hear the muffled sounds of the marching band.

That made me smile.

And for the next few hours, I was as close to heaven as I thought you could get.

Don bought a football player plush toy and shaker for me, and as I sat between him and Pop, I carefully placed them under my aluminum seat – checking periodically to make sure they were safe.

Then I watched as Alabama All-Americans and All-SEC players from the 1960s were honored along with Alabama head coach Paul “Bear” Bryant, who received a plaque for being voted the greatest coach of the last decade. It was a pregame ceremony that was like attending a school assembly – only much cooler.

Then again, everything was much cooler than anything that had come before it.

The Coke I drank was the best Coke ever.

The hot dog I ate was the greatest hot dog ever prepared.

The feeling was one I’d never, ever had before.

I got to see Johnny Musso – Alabama’s future All-American running back – throw a touchdown pass on a trick play. Like my two sisters he had gone to Banks High School in Birmingham, so I felt like I “knew” him.

I hooted and hollered as the Crimson Tide scored 30 points in the first half.

And weirdly, I recall their last score coming with 9:04 left in the game.

I remember that seemingly random factoid because that’s when my dad said, “Well, they’ve got this one wrapped up … you ready to go?”

“No!” I yelped, not meaning to raise my voice but drawing a smile instead of a reprimand from Pop.

“OK,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “We can stay ‘til the bitter end.”

And we did.

As we filed out of the stadium and headed back to the bus (with me clutching my plush toy and shaker), I never stopped grinning. Instead of envying the people in the stands I was one of them, and I wondered if fans at home who listened to the game on the radio heard me cheer.

I’m quite sure they did.

Fifty years later to the day, that snapshot from my life remains distinct and crisp. And when I close my eyes and remember, it’s still picture perfect in my mind – and heart.