September 2020 - Adamsonmedia.com

A world of wonder

Playing the “What if?” game is pointless, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be fun. And when applied to sports, it often opens up a whole new conversation.

**Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Twitter @adamsonsl and Instagram @adamsons60**

When I wrote The Home Team: My Bromance With Off-Brand Football, I came across some great information that went unused because it didn’t really fit into the book. One tidbit concerned the first few months of the World Football League, which coincided with a National Football League strike that lasted just over five weeks.

And that got me thinking … what if the NFL work stoppage had wiped out or diluted its 1974 season? Would that have given the upstarts the opening they needed to establish themselves as a legitimate threat to the pro football establishment?

The strike began on July 1, 1974, which was just nine days before the start of the WFL’s inaugural season. Picketing began on July 3 at the San Diego Chargers’ training camp (they were the first of the 26 NFL teams to open workouts) and demands included elimination of the reserve clause, waiver system and “Rozelle Rule,” which allowed NFL commissioner Pete Rozelle to order compensation for a franchise if one of its players played out his option and signed with another team.

Meanwhile, everything was all rainbows and unicorns for the 12-team WFL – at least as far as the general public knew. The Southern California Sun, New York Stars, Philadelphia Bell, Chicago Fire, Detroit Wheels and Houston Texans gave it a presence in major media markets, while the Portland Storm, Birmingham Americans, Jacksonville Sharks, Memphis Southmen and Florida Blazers were franchises designed to tap into new pro football hotbeds. The Hawaiians, based in Honolulu, rounded out the flagship clubs and provided an exotic touch to the WFL.

It had already rocked the sports establishment by signing NFL standouts such as Larry Csonka, Calvin Hill, Jim Kiick, Paul Warfield and Ted Kwalick for 1975 and Ken Stabler for 1976. In fact, nearly 70 NFL players had either jumped or were set to make the switch by 1976.

The WFL played four weeks of its regular season schedule while the strike was under way, and the NFL’s preseason games were contested by rookies and non-striking veterans in front of small crowds.

Perhaps owners would’ve fielded “scab” teams during a lengthy strike, but it’s quite possible the NFL season would’ve been wiped out had both sides dug in their heels. With the 26 traditional franchises sitting idle, the new league would be the only domestic pro game in action and would’ve almost certainly benefited at the box office. Plus, the future WFL players could’ve claimed they were being locked out by NFL owners and free to sign with the competition right away.

In that scenario, it would’ve also been interesting to see if the WFL could’ve managed to wrangle some kind of temporary network TV deal (with the resulting infusion of cash) during the NFL work stoppage.

The syndicated TVS network televised a game of the week each Thursday, and most teams had local market coverage for road games. That offered some national exposure, but was hardly a financial boon compared to a major network contract. In fact, the TVS deal was worth only $1.5 million to the league.

The NFL, on the other hand, was set to start a four-year, $400 million contract with NBC, CBS and ABC in 1974. But with no games to televise, might one of the “Big 3” been tempted to get the WFL to move games to Sunday and/or Monday and fill their gridiron void?

As a longtime fanboy of the World Football League, I’ve often wondered about that alternate reality and how it might’ve changed the pro football landscape. But while an NFL strike would’ve certainly put the WFL in a much bigger spotlight, the newbies were headed for self-destruction from the outset.

Built on a financial house of cards, many WFL owners spent money they didn’t have and hundreds of players went months without a paycheck. Stability problems existed long before play began on July 10, and hindsight points to a league that went to market when it was nowhere near ready for prime time.

Despite the fact that most issues remained unsettled, the NFL’s striking players went back to work on August 10 and by the end of the season the labor strife was mostly forgotten by fans. The WFL, on the other hand, limped to the end of the 1974 campaign. Along the way two of its franchises folded, two more changed cities, and the entire league went under only to be reformed in 1975 as New League Inc. (doing business as the WFL). The rebooted circuit went out of business for good on October 22, 1975.

And although people like me are always happy to discuss the “What ifs?” of the renegade league, ultimately it proved to be more of a short-lived inconvenience to the old guard rather than a major threat.

A golden anniversary

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.

Remembering the RFL

Alternative football leagues all share three common traits. Namely, when a new circuit is formed its officials will tell you:

They’ve learned from the mistakes of past leagues.
They promise to be fiscally responsible.
They’ll curb the insatiable appetite fans have for more football.

It all sounds good, but to date there have been no happy endings.

Many upstarts have come before and after it, but today I salute the long forgotten Regional Football League, which was founded in 1997 on the three principles listed above. It didn’t take the field until 1999, was forced to play a shortened season due to money woes, and now exists only as a footnote to football history.

But like so many other outdoor circuits whose acronym is not “NFL,” it was an idea better in theory than practice.

Founded by Gus Bell, a former college football player who went on to help pair players with agents, the RFL billed itself as the “Major League of Spring Football.” When it was announced in 1997 the plan was to put eight teams on the field in 1998. The 14-game regular season would start in March and the title game would be played during the Fourth of July weekend. Bell hoped for crowds in the 15,000 to 20,000 range.

While there were no significant rule gimmicks, the RFL took a page from the old United States Football League in that teams would have regional rights to on-field talent.

In fact, of the 37 players on each franchise’s active roster, 32 were required to have regional ties.

Shreveport was announced as the league’s first franchise and made a splash by hiring former Texas and Purdue head coach Fred Akers.

“I love coaching and I think this will be a lot of fun,” Akers told the Austin American Statesman for a September 5, 1997, story. “I think there is plenty of room out there for the league. There are a lot of athletes who can play. I think we’ll get a mixture of former NFL guys, some guys who were cut. I’m sure we’ll draw from the (World League of American Football) and Canada. Anyone we sign we’ll have for two years.

“We want to restore professional football as a family event.”

The league failed to launch in 1998 but did organize late that year with six members. In December it was announced that the franchises would be located in Shreveport (Knights), Mobile (Admirals) New Orleans (Thunder), Jackson (Mississippi Pride), Houston (Outlaws) and Toledo (Ohio Cannon). Dallas, Winston-Salem, Orlando and Monterey, Mexico, were originally eyed for expansion but later the wish list was amended to Buffalo, San Jose, Orlando and Winston-Salem.

There was a salary cap of $1.5 million per team and the RFL wasn’t shy about chasing after recognizable names. The pay scale in 1999 was reportedly between $20,000 and $60,000 per man with $200,000 available for a “franchise” player.

A draft was held with Shreveport making Jake Delhomme of Louisiana-Lafayette its top draft choice and Ohio taking Major Harris, a former West Virginia star who had spent the three previous years playing in the Arena Football League. Mobile selected Thad Busby, an ex-Florida State QB who was on the San Francisco 49ers practice squad in 1998. The Admirals also inked a deal with former Miami Hurricanes signal caller Frank Costa, a two-year veteran of the London Monarchs of the WLAF (rebranded as NFL Europe in 1998).

The majority of the RFL players were former college stars and more than a few had regular season NFL experience, including Mobile’s Sherman Williams. After starring at Alabama, the running back went on to play for the Dallas Cowboys.

“The quality of football in this league is good,” Williams told the Montgomery Advertiser for a 1999 story. “I’ve been in the NFL and it’s not the NFL, but it’s better than the college game. There are a lot of guys like me. We’re all working toward the same goal.”

However, after starting its season in April the wheels of the RFL came off quickly. Mobile averaged 10,000 paying customers per game early on but other teams drew 2,000 or less, and soon there were payroll issues across the board. By May, four of the six teams were under new ownership and fans had all but abandoned it.

With no TV contract there was no alternative revenue stream, and a planned 14-game regular season was cut to nine.

Once the postseason began the Toledo entry threatened to forfeit its game at Mobile due to lack of pay, although the Cannon did eventually take the field (and lose).

Finally on June 20, 1999, the 7-2 Admirals hosted the 7-2 Outlaws in RFL Bowl I (and only) at Ladd-Peebles Stadium. A sparse crowd of 5,571 showed up to see the home team prevail, 14-12. Mobile was the league champion, but the league was dead once the teams left the field that night.

So what’s the legacy of the RFL?

Same as most of its predecessors.

It gave good football players (and coaches) another avenue to ply their trade, but there was never an infrastructure in place to make it sustainable.

The RFL was a second chance league that, unfortunately, never had a realistic chance at success.