June 2024 - Adamsonmedia.com

Atlanta’s NFL birthday

Today, the Atlanta Falcons are gearing up for the 2024 season under first-year head coach Raheem Morris, hoping to rebound from a 7-10 campaign that saw the end of Arthur Smith’s tenure.

Fifty-nine years ago today, the franchise was slapped on the butt and brought to life as the National Football League’s newest bouncing baby boy.

**Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Threads @sladamson1960 and Adamsonmedia on Facebook.**

Before the birth, however, there was some question about paternity.

Because while it marked the debut of big-league football in the Deep South, it also highlighted yet another battle between the NFL and American Football League.

On June 9, 1965, the AFL granted Atlanta an expansion club for 1966 in hopes of beating the NFL – which was also wooing the Southern metropolis – to the punch. The eight-team rival to the 14-team senior circuit had already rapidly closed the talent gap, and after playing five mostly successful seasons, it was looking to expand its footprint.

The Cox Broadcasting Corporation was awarded the AFL franchise for $7.5 million, but there was still a major roadblock to clear; the Atlanta Stadium Authority informed both football leagues that it would wait until July 1 to make any deal concerning rental of its new 57,000-seat facility, which was completed on April 9, 1965, at a cost of $18 million.

“It is not up to us to choose among responsible owners holding franchises for 1966,” the authority said in a written statement. “A committee has been appointed to negotiate with any other applicants. July 1 is the deadline.”

AFL commissioner Joe Foss suggested to United Press International that a place to play wouldn’t be an issue.

“(Cox Broadcasting Corporation) has given us reasonable assurance that it would have the new stadium in which to play in Atlanta,” he said.

It just so happened that NFL commissioner Pete Rozelle was in Atlanta the same day the AFL made its announcement, further muddying the waters.

“Atlanta is a prime prospect for NFL expansion,” Rozelle told the Associated Press. “We could expand with no trouble in 1966. We have discussed this.”

By June 11 there were already rumors that the stadium authority was ready to make a deal with the NFL. On June 12, the Nashville Banner broke the story that Atlanta would, in fact, be joining the NFL and the AFL franchise would be “returned to the league.”

On June 30 – one day before the deadline issued by the Atlanta Stadium Authority – 39-year-old Atlanta businessman Rankin Smith brought the NFL to Georgia for $9 million.

“It’s a life-long dream,” Smith said in a UPI story. “Doesn’t every adult male in America want to own his own football team?”

An agreement was quickly reached to play in the city’s venue (christened Atlanta Stadium and later renamed Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium).

“I can only say that this is a great day for Atlanta,” Rozelle told AP. “But, more than for Atlanta, it’s a great day for the National Football League.”

There was immediate speculation about who the head coach would be, ranging from Paul Brown to Bud Wilkinson to Frank Broyles. The biggest news, though, was that the NFL outmaneuvered the AFL in securing an untapped market coveted by both.

To the AFL’s credit, league offcials took the setback in stride – at least publicly.

“We wish Atlanta the best,” Milt Woodard, assistant commissioner of the AFL, said. “We win some and lose some.”

Thus, Atlanta became the flagship of the NFL’s Southeast connection, which now includes the New Orleans Saints, Miami Dolphins, Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Carolina Panthers, Jacksonville Jaguars and Tennessee Titans. Speaking of the Dolphins, they became the ninth AFL franchise in 1966, giving that organization a southern locale after all.

And in the end, things worked out quite well for all involved as the 16-team NFL and 10-team AFL merged in 1970 to form what has grown into pro football’s 600-pound gorilla.

Curveball

Grady Grande had always dreamed of being in the big leagues.

Like a lot of kids, he was a Little Leaguer, so naturally he entertained the thought of staying a kid forever and playing ball for fun and profit.

And by the time he got to high school at Iron City Union Magnet, he thought he was a pretty good catcher.

His coaches, unfortunately, didn’t share that opinion.

By the end of his senior season, he had caught a grand total of six games in four years, playing on a team that never made the district playoffs and managed just one winning campaign during his entire time on the roster.

At the senior baseball banquet when the awards were handed out, all he earned was the equivalent of a participation trophy.

That wasn’t how things were supposed to be.

The plan in his head was to make All-State, be an All-American at a Division 1 school and then become a first-round selection in the Major League Baseball First-Year Player Draft where he would sign an incentive-laden contract with either the New York Yankees or Chicago Cubs – depending on who made the best offer.

A long, storied professional career would end with him as a multi-millionaire baseball legend, one who would open a string of sports-themed restaurants right after making the National Baseball Hall of Fame on the first ballot.

Instead, as close as he got was playing beer league softball after work.

So, years later here he was on a Saturday afternoon in late June, sitting in his den watching the Yankees-Braves game with his granddaughter, Stella, daydreaming briefly about what was and what would never be.

“Papa,” Stella said, pointing at the TV screen, “you were like Jose Trevino once, weren’t you? Did you play the position like he plays it?”

Trevino was the New York catcher, and on this day, he was on the receiving end of Gerrit Cole’s four-seam fastballs.

“Oh, goodness no,” he said with a chuckle. “Jose is great. He played college ball, summer league ball, worked his way up from the minors … I’m afraid your dear ol’ grandad was never great. Or even good. I was more of a doorstop than a catcher.”

Stella smiled.

“I wish I could’ve seen you play,” she said. “I bet you were a lot better than you let on. Just to be out there on the field had to be fun. I’ll tell you what … that would’ve been enough for me. Just to have had the chance.”

Grady thought back to the days when he could get up and down with little effort, although the strain on his knees was more evident as he got older.

Even the pain in his catching hand still flared up now and again.

Still, knowing he had an opportunity that Stella never would put things in perspective.

“I played,” he said, “but you know the one thing I could’ve never done? Coached. I wasn’t smart enough to fill out a lineup card … to figure out what players were best at their positions. I would’ve never known the right time to make a pitching change, whether to send or hold a runner … none of that stuff. I was too busy trying not to screw up that I didn’t observe what was going on around me.

“But you can do all those things. I’ve watched you scribble on your note pad and strategize like a boss. And you’ve been filling out scorebooks since you were a little girl. Shoot, I bet you know more about baseball than I ever did – or ever will.”

Stella paused before responding, watching Cole strike out Marcell Ozuna to retire the side and end the fifth inning.

“I do love the game,” Stella said. “There’s something about it that makes me happy, and I can’t even explain it. So many sports seem – I don’t know – complicated. But when I watch baseball, I see players work together on defense but then have to stand alone on offense. It’s like two games wrapped up in one game, and that’s really, really cool. And knowing you got to do that when you were my age makes me jealous.”

Stella put down her notebook and manipulated the joystick on her electric wheelchair, allowing her to navigate closer to her granddad. She then reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Do you really think I could be a good coach, Papa?” she asked.

Grady’s eyes welled up.

“Are you kidding me, sweetheart? You’ll be the best there ever was.”

So many memories

When I walked through the gates of Rickwood Field on Tuesday, I didn’t realize what an emotional night it would become.

I’ve loved this place for as long as I can remember, and to find it better than ever 114 years after it opened was a genuine thrill. That incredibly warm feeling I got looking at all the signage leading to the entrance of “America’s Oldest Ballpark” had nothing to do with the 88-degree temperature.

It now has a gorgeous playing field, yet still proudly displays the rust and dust that preserves its character.

But as the evening unfolded, there was sadness intertwined with beauty.

On a night billed as “A Tribute To The Negro Leagues,” the great Willie Mays passed away at the age of 93.

The “Say Hey Kid” grew up in the shadow of Rickwood, and got his start playing for the Birmingham Black Barons here. He’d go on to have a Hall of Fame career, one that featured 24 All-Star selections, two National League MVP Awards, a batting championship, 12 Gold Gloves, and a World Series title.

Watching the Birmingham Barons and Montgomery Biscuits take on the personas (and unis) of Mays’ old team and the Montgomery Gray Sox was always going to be special, but it wound up being poignant due to the loss of one of the greatest baseball players who ever lived.

While a regular season Major League game will take place here in two days when the St. Louis Cardinals and Mays’ former team, the San Francisco Giants, clash, it’ll hardly be the first time big-league baseball has called the Magic City home.

Although it took MLB brass a century to make it official, the Black Barons checked that box as far back as 1920; thanks to them, Rickwood Field was once the friendly confines of Birmingham’s only major league sports franchise.

But while it’s rightfully shining in the national spotlight this week, it never stopped being a beacon for me.

May 15, 1975, was supposed to be my introduction to professional baseball when the reigning world champion Oakland A’s came to Rickwood to play their Southern League farm club, the Birmingham A’s.

My dad and I were among the 7,000 fans who got to the park early, and I was able to get second baseman Phil Garner’s autograph and stand on the field with guys like Reggie Jackson, Joe Rudi and Bert Campaneris. Pop was more interested in watching Vida Blue warm up, since No. 35 was one of his favorite pitchers.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature was in no mood for baseball on this particular Thursday night, so she dumped a ridiculous amount of rain on the field and – for good measure – provided some lightning bolts that knocked out a couple of transformers.

No game … only a mad dash back to the Gran Torino.

Disappointing, yes, but there would be many, many nights of baseball to come.

Once the late, great Art Clarkson spearheaded the Montgomery Rebels’ move to Birmingham and revived the Barons brand, I spent more time at Rickwood than any other sports venue in the city.

I didn’t care that it wasn’t some state-of-the-art, “modern” facility. In fact, maybe that’s why I was so enamored with it. It was cozy and comfortable … if it was a house, it was a house where you felt like you could put your feet up on the furniture and not worry about getting yelled at.

And that’s a good thing, because in a sports sense it became my home away from home.

But only as I got older – and Rickwood continued to stand while other stadiums fell – did I start to learn of its rich, glorious history.

Seeing the iconic BBB Black Barons logo on the field allowed me to imagine the days when Mays, Satchel Paige and Mule Suttles began their Hall of Fame journeys on this very spot.

And to think it has hosted everyone from Jackie Robinson to Hank Aaron to Josh Gibson to Babe Ruth to Ted Williams to Roberto Clemente to Stan Musial to Mickey Mantle to … well, you get the idea.

There’s a certain magic to the place, and the game on June 18, 2024, now stands as more than a re-opening of Rickwood, but a memorial to an icon.

For the record, the final score was Montgomery 6, Birmingham 5. The result, of course, was secondary to the experience.

The moment I sat in my seat in Section 41 on Row 18, I knew I was back at a place that feels like home. And when I drove away, all I could think about was Wille Mays – and how I wish he’d have been able to make one last trip home, too.