December 2022 - Adamsonmedia.com

Saluting the ABL

Sixty years ago today, millions of people celebrated the end of an old year before making their New Year’s resolutions.

Abe Saperstein, however, didn’t have much to celebrate since he was tasked with making a New Year’s dissolution.

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

Saperstein’s brainchild – the innovative American Basketball League – folded on December 31, 1962, taking with it the 3-point shot, wider lane and a preview of what was ultimately to come for college and pro basketball. The ABL didn’t even make it through two complete seasons, but still left its mark.

Officially formed on April 21, 1960, the ABL tried to challenge the National Basketball Association with a game that gave smaller shooting specialists the chance to make an impact. Chicago (Majors), Cleveland (Pipers), Kansas City (Steers), Los Angeles (Jets), San Francisco (Saints), and Washington D.C. (Tapers) were tapped as the flagship franchises. Honolulu (Hawaii Chiefs) and Pittsburgh (Rens) were added later to give the ABL eight teams to start.

“We can make this the outstanding league in the country,” Saperstein told the Kansas City Times. “These cities were carefully chosen and they make the league nationwide from one coast to the other.”

Saperstein was hardly a roundball novice; he owned both the world-famous Harlem Globetrotters (featuring Wilt Chamberlain), and was part owner of the NBA’s Philadelphia Warriors. Since he was challenging the NBA with the ABL, he opted to sell his stake in the Warriors.

Before spearheading a rivalry with the established league, though, he had hoped to be awarded primary ownership of a Los Angeles-based NBA team. When that didn’t happen, he decided he’d take matters into his own hands with the ABL.

The league began play in 1961-62 with eight rule changes. The most significant were a 3-point shot from beyond a 25-foot arc and the free throw lane enlarged from 12 to 18 feet.

There was also a 30-second shot clock (six seconds more than the NBA).

One major innovation reportedly voted down was dividing the game into three, 20-minute periods.

As is the case with many startups, the first season featured several stumbling blocks.

The Jets didn’t even make it through their schedule, folding on January 18, 1962. Since the NBA’s Minneapolis Lakers had relocated to L.A., the first year ABL club in the City of Angels was unable to compete for fans. The Tapers, also suffering from poor attendance, moved to New York during the inaugural season and eventually wound up in Philadelphia.

And while the Chiefs played before solid home crowds, travel expenses incurred by the other seven teams made it clear it wasn’t feasible to keep a team in Honolulu. (They would set up shop in Long Beach, California, to start the 1962-63 season).

The Pipers (owned by George Steinbrenner) defeated the Steers three games to two to win the 1961-62 league title. They were led by John McLendon, the first African-American coach of a major professional basketball team.

The second season featured just six teams: the Chicago Majors, Kansas City Steers, Long Beach Chiefs, Oakland Oaks, Philadelphia Tapers and Pittsburgh Rens. (Cleveland dropped out of the ABL in hopes of joining the NBA, while San Francisco shifted operations to Oakland due to the relocation of the NBA Warriors to the Golden City).

Former Globetrotter Ermer Robinson, who served as general manager of the Majors in the ABL’s first year, became the league’s second African-American coach in 1962 when he was put in charge of the Oaks.

Less than halfway into the campaign the teams were running out of money and, in most cases, attendance was poor. That prompted Saperstein to pull the plug on the ABL on the final day of 1962 and declare K.C. champion with a 22-9 record.

“Not a single club was operating in the black,” Saperstein told the Associated Press. “About 100 players are involved and they can now be considered free agents. We hope to help them get employment. A great many should be picked up by the National Basketball Association.”

Steers owner Ken Krueger wanted to continue, telling AP that Oakland, Long Beach and possibly Pittsburgh wanted to play on.

“I have suggested that Johnny Dee, our present coach, be appointed commissioner under any such realignment and everyone seems to think he would be a good one.” Krueger said. “We might be able to move the Philadelphia franchise to another city.”

Pittsburgh owner Paul Cohen, however, set his sights higher and wanted to jump to the NBA.

“I’m doing it on my own,” he said. “I think Pittsburgh is a good basketball city. If the type of talent the NBA employs played there, I’m sure the team would be a success. The city has a wonderful arena and interested fans.

“It’s a shame the ABL folded. I’m heartsick for the kids. I know I lost a fortune the past two years.”

During its brief existence the ABL showcased notable players such as Connie Hawkins and Bill Bridges. Jerry Lucas was under contract with Cleveland, but never played a game in the league.

In 1964 the NBA took a cue from the ABL and widened its lane to 16 feet. The 3-point shot, however, didn’t reappear until the American Basketball Association revived it in 1967. The NBA finally adopted it in 1979.

So, allow me to propose a toast to the American Basketball League. It didn’t last long, but its contributions to roundball live on.

Squadron hits reset button

The Birmingham Squadron finished next to last in the South Pod of the NBA G League Showcase Cup standings, winning just six of 16 games.

The 6-10 record meant they didn’t qualify for the eight-team Showcase Cup Tournament in Las Vegas, although they did to get play a pair of contests at Mandalay Bat Convention Center. On December 20, Birmingham fell to Wisconsin, 99-85, and T.J. Saint’s charges closed out their stay in Sin City with a 111-100 loss to Grand Rapids last Thursday.

But guess what?

None of those results matter anymore.

I mean, they matter in the sense that Birmingham players have already gotten in lots of work (and had a chance to get better). That’s important, especially since the parent club – the New Orleans Pelicans – can and will rely on some of these guys to step up and contribute as the National Basketball Association season progresses.

However, as 2022 prepares to check out so 2023 can check in, it’s out with the old and in with the new for the developmental league.

When the Squadron returns to Legacy Arena on Thursday to host the Texas Legends in the first of a two-day series, they’ll do it with a clean slate. Despite having 18 games under their belt, this clash will be the regular season opener.

And that’s yet another reason I really enjoy this circuit.

Even before I moved back to Birmingham and the Magic City got a franchise (via the relocation of the Erie BayHawks), I had become a G League fanboy, spending an inordinate amount of time watching games on ESPN+.

As someone who cheers for the Brooklyn Nets, the Long Island Nets became “my” minor league team, and I watched them as often as possible.

That was fun.

But watching my hometown team in person is even better.

The Squadron has – as you might’ve guessed – supplanted the Understudy Nets in my rooting hierarchy, while the Pelicans are fast becoming one of my favorite big-league clubs. (The fact that former Birmingham boss Ryan Pannone is now a New Orleans assistant helps; I think he’s a good dude and terrific coach).

The G League is incredibly fast-paced, rule innovations make it even more interesting, and you’re seeing fantastic athletes ply their trade. If you’re looking for ways to spend your entertainment money, buying a ticket to Squadron clashes in the Uptown is money well-spent.

And starting right now, Birmingham is even with the other 29 clubs in its quest for a G League title.

Certainly, Job One for the coaches is to get the players ready to move out and move up. As much as I might enjoy watching guys like Kelan Martin, Zylan Cheatham and John Petty Jr. suit up for the Squadron, Saint and company want to coach them up to a level where Smoothie King Center in New Orleans becomes their primary venue.

That’s the nature of Triple A sports; the better they play, the sooner they’re gone.

But they’re all competitors, competitors want to win, and now there’s something more to play for.

Between now and the regular season finale on March 25, 2023, the Squadron will feature many different faces. There’ll be players sent down from the Pelicans for rehab (Kira Lewis Jr. is the most recent example), and two-way players called up for a limited number of games in New Orleans (Dereon Seabron was transferred back to the Pelicans on Tuesday).

Some will be cut, and others will be traded.

Still, whoever suits up for Birmingham’s team will be going full throttle every time they set foot on the court. That effort will benefit them as players, and it’ll benefit us as fans, too.

So, the reset button has been pressed and the 2022-23 G League regular season is at hand.

Oh, and should old acquaintances be forgot, old losses can be as well.

A Christmas wish

Some stories start off sad and end up happy.

Some stories start off happy and end up sad.

Then there are those stories that blend tears with smiles, and you find yourself trying to write the ending.

That leads me to another Christmas Day, and another decision to make about how I choose to feel about it.

Do I pick Christmas Day, 1994, or Christmas Day, 1970?

Is it really even my choice to make?

See, on December 25, 1994, my dad died. Just weeks earlier he had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer, and by December 20 he was already in hospice care.

I was with him when he passed away, cringing as I watched him struggle to breathe and staring at a clock that showed 3:12 p.m. when the breathing stopped.

It was the worst day of my life.

Like many people I grapple with severe depression and man, oh man, did that event start a freefall. Pop was my best friend and my hero, and suddenly he was gone.

And it happened on Christmas Day.

So, are you sufficiently bummed out yet? Can’t blame you. That tale is quite the buzz-harsher.

Please try to bear with me, though, because things get better – even though I thought they never would.

I spent a long time “celebrating” every Christmas Day by reliving the one from 1994 – the one that saw part of my world end.

But as Christmas Day, 2022, is at hand, my mind no longer goes back to 1994, but to 1970.

I was a kid, one who had been mesmerized by the New York Jets’ win over the Baltimore Colts in Super Bowl III. While Joe Namath and company wouldn’t recapture the magic again, they were cemented as my favorite team. And all I wanted for Christmas was a department store New York Jets football uniform (complete with plastic helmet, jersey, pants and shoulder pads).

I made this request quite clear.

“Pop, I sure would like a New York Jets football uniform for Christmas,” I said.

If you’ve ever read me before you know my father was a Green Bay Packers fan, so his response was colored by green and yellow instead of green and white.

“You mean you don’t want a number 15 Packers uniform?” he said with a grin. “You’d look good dressed up like Bart Starr.”

I guess I knew he was kidding, although I couldn’t be sure. And had I torn open a package containing a yellow helmet with a big “G” on the side, I would’ve still been happy. I loved the man dearly, so he could’ve gifted me with a rock and it would’ve been just the rock I had always hoped for.

But of course, it was a Jets kit, courtesy of our friends at J.C. Penny. As far as presents go, it was the best one, from the best dad (who was also my best friend).

And it happened on Christmas Day.

So, I suppose now you’re wondering how I’m able to make my memory default from that awful Christmas to my happiest one.

That’s a good question, and a fair one.

Depression – or at least the way it affects me – is akin to being attacked by a gang of demons that vary in size and strength from day to day (and sometimes moment to moment). When you’re lucky, you can brush them back with a broom.

When you’re not, they will absolutely beat you senseless.

I guess one Christmas Day I just got tired of getting my butt kicked.

So, instead of waking up preparing to be overwhelmed with a profound feeling of loss, I concentrated really, really hard and tried to remember the healthy, happy Pop – the one who lived, not the one who died.

And the more I dug deep into my memory, the more I realized as happy as I was forcing a green jersey over shoulder pads and squeezing into that Jets lid, he was even happier. It was a great day for me, but a great day for him, too. That shared moment now seems more like a treasure, because it is a treasure.

And this season, that brings me comfort and joy.

Look, much of what I’m rambling on about sounds trite; I’m acutely aware we can’t always take our mind where we want it to go. Some days, the sadness is so overwhelming we can barely move. I mean, if we knew how to rid ourselves of depression we’d all do it, right?

Knowing that, I can’t promise you that next Christmas my ruminations won’t revert back to December 25, 1994, at 3:12 p.m.

What I can tell you, though, is that time – and the knowledge that there are caring people everywhere – has helped me give far more weight to my best Christmas than my worst one.

And that nasty gang of demons? Well, sometimes they’ll win.

But other times, they won’t.

And what I hope you take from this is that I know how you feel, regardless of what you feel today and what you might feel tomorrow. There is help available, and sometimes we all need it.

So, this holiday season, I wish you strength and send you love and light. If you look hard enough, maybe you’ll find your own version of a Jets uniform under the tree.

Because things can get better, even though you might think they never will.

If you’re struggling and need help, call or text 988 or chat at 988lifeline.org/chat.