The night Chicago died

I realize most of you are experiencing a tingling sensation in your special regions since this is the first full Saturday of a new college football season. But for all of my fellow alt-football nerds, today is also a day to raise a glass and pour one out for the Chicago Winds. And while you’re at it, maybe do the same for the World Football League.

On this date 50 years ago the Winds played their final game, and three days later the franchise folded. This caused even the most optimistic WFL fans to realize the end was nigh for the struggling circuit. (The league went cleats up on October 22).

Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Bluesky @scottadamson1960.bsky.social

First, some background …

After a disastrous 1974 season – one dripping in red ink and resulting in two teams folding and two more relocating – the original WFL actually folded. It was replaced by New League Inc., doing business as the World Football League.

The 1975 reboot began with 11 franchises – the Birmingham Vulcans, Charlotte Hornets, Winds, The Hawaiians, Jacksonville Express, Memphis Southmen, Philadelphia Bell, Portland Thunder, San Antonio Wings, Shreveport Steamer and Southern California Sun.

The WFL was missing the top media market – New York – so it was vitally important that Chicago, Philadelphia and the Anaheim-based Sun provide a “major league” boost.

But Chicago was iffy from the get-go.

According to the Associated Press, when the franchise was formed (replacing the 1974 Chicago Fire) “certain partnership documents and other ownership arrangements” were not completed. Two of the Winds’ backers placed their investments ($175,000) with the league, pending clarification and finalization of ownership documents.

WFL commissioner Chris Hemmeter had devised a strict financial plan for the league, one that required minimum capital requirements for members. And his “Hemmeter Plan” was designed to make sure teams made payroll. Players would earn one percent of gate receipts while “stars” requiring greater compensation had to be paid through money placed in an escrow account.

Chicago’s ownership group reached an agreement with the WFL to supply enough money to assure a full season’s operation, so the Winds were admitted in the hopes they could be the bellwether franchise.

They could not.

In March of 1975, there was talk that the Southmen’s Big Three – Larry Csonka, Jim Kiick and Paul Warfield – might be sent to Chicago from Memphis owner John Bassett in an effort to “save the league.”

That never happened.

And in April, the Winds took their biggest swing when they tried to lure Joe Namath away from the New York Jets. But whether or not the man who helped boost the American Football League to prominence could do the same to the WFL became a moot point after Namath opted to stay in the NFL.

Babe Parilli was coach and general manager of the team up until late July, then he was released to make room for Abe Gibron and Leo Cahill.

Cahill had served as GM of the Southmen before heading north to his native Chicago.

Gibron was fired a year earlier by the Chicago Bears after going 11-30-1 over three seasons, but was brought in to assume the same role with the city’s WFL club.

“I can only promise it will be an aggressive team both physically and mentally,” Gibron told AP.

The franchise did manage to sign John Gilliam away from the Minnesota Vikings, and hoped the battery of quarterback Pete Beathard to Gilliam would put wins on the ledger and butts in the seats.

It did neither.

Chicago opened with two games on the road – a 10-0 loss to Birmingham and 38-18 drubbing at the hands of Shreveport.

The Winds’ home debut at Soldier Field drew a crowd of 3,501, who watched the hosts log a 25-18 overtime victory over Portland.

Game four was a 28-17 loss at the Hawaiians, and on August 30, 1975, the Winds traveled to Memphis.

The Southmen won big, 31-7, but that was the least of the Winds’ woes.

Remember that thing about clarification and finalization of ownership documents?

“There were continuous delays regarding those documents and other representations which they had made that were not fully clarified,” Hemmeter said on September 2 after learning the two original investors pulled out. “That brought the Winds below minimum capitalization requirements. We agreed from day one that kind of violation would not be tolerated.”

So, just three days after falling to 1-4, the Winds were done.

Hemmeter suggested the move to drop to 10 franchises would actually help the WFL.

“From a business standpoint, it is certainly a more responsible act to shut down a potential problem than to allow the potential for future problems to exist,” he said in an AP interview. “We are not willing to gamble on the future of the league.”

In reality, though, the WFL had no future.

There was no national TV contract, and attendance was terrible in most markets. Philadelphia averaged just 3,500 per game, with its final home contest drawing 1,293. Portland was bringing in less than 8,000 customers per home date.

Even Birmingham, whose WFL champion Americans averaged nearly 40,000 per home date in 1974, dipped to 24,100 in 1975.

While the league managed to hang on for another seven weeks after the Winds’ demise, Chicago’s exit was a harbinger of the World Football League’s doom.

“There wasn’t any single overriding factor in the decision,” Hemmeter said in a prepared statement announcing the end of the WFL. “When you go into any business venture, you realize there’s an upside potential and downside risk. As responsible people, we realized the risk had become too great.”

CFP expansion talk

A long time ago – in a journalism galaxy far, far away – one of my go-to columns concerned the need for a major college football playoff. I started my daily newspaper career in 1987, and back then the mere mention of a postseason tourney was considered a mortal sin by the NCAA brain trust.

If memory serves, a lot of fans didn’t like the idea, either.

Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Bluesky @scottadamson1960.bsky.social

They were all-in on mythical championships awarded by votes from coaches and writers.

That same year – in early October – the NCAA Presidents Commission voted to oppose a Division 1-A (now Football Bowl Subdivision) playoff. University of Maryland chancellor John Slaughter said the idea was rejected because a postseason beyond bowl games would not be “in the best interest of intercollegiate athletics.”

Later that month, the Big Ten and Pac-10 jointly announced their opposition.

“The conferences are skeptical that a college football playoff is feasible,” Pac-10 commissioner Tom Hansen told the Associated Press. “It is hard to imagine how the logistics could be accomplished of moving fans and teams during the holiday period of December and early January. Also, a playoff would conflict with, rather than bridge, examination periods that occur during this time.

“We support the current bowl structure and appreciate their contributions to college football. We fear most bowls would be lost if a playoff of any nature was adopted.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah … whatever. In my mind, the championship should be determined on the field and my solution came in the form of a nice and tidy 16-team playoff.

Then there were nine D-1A conferences – the SEC, Big Ten, Pacific-10, Big Eight, Southwest, ACC, Western Athletic, Mid-American and Pacific Coast. So, champs of those leagues would earn an automatic playoff bid along with the top seven wildcard teams (based on rankings). The field would be seeded one through 16.

There were 18 bowl games in ‘87, and my plan incorporated 15 of them. The title game would be played in the Rose Bowl, the semi-finals in the Sugar and Orange, and the Cotton, Citrus, Gator and Fiesta Bowls would host the quarterfinals. I had the Peach, Sun, Hall of Fame, Astro-Bluebonnet, Holiday, Liberty, Freedom and Independence hosting first round games.

That was before the internet, so people who thought my idea was stupid had to either call me and tell me that, or contact me through snail mail. And since our antiquated phone system didn’t yet have caller ID, readers could insult me anonymously.

Sometimes I actually miss being called a dumbass via landline.

Anyway, here we are in 2025. When this college football season ends there will be 12 teams vying for a crown. Before it’s settled in the College Football Playoff National Championship in Miami, the Peach and Fiesta (semis) and Sugar, Rose, Orange and Cotton (quarters) will be part of the process.

The 12-team model, which was introduced for the 2024 season, isn’t bad at all. No way to prove it, of course, but my guess is that any team that has a realistic shot at winning it all is gonna be in the field of 12.

That wasn’t the case during the original four-team playoff (2014-2023), which I always called an invitational. It was obviously better than the Bowl Championship Series (1998-2013) that came before it, but the sample size of championship-caliber schools was far too small.

Yet, as clunky as my 16-team format might have appeared many years ago, there has now been discussion (prompted by Big Ten folks) of going as high as 28 teams.

And why not?

The Football Championship Subdivision has had a 24-team playoff since 2013 and it seems to work just fine.

Reports suggest a 28-team field would see the Big Ten and SEC receiving seven automatic bids each, with the ACC and Big 12 getting five apiece. The other four spots would be split between a pair of wildcard teams and two top non-Power 4 programs.

“The more spots the better, man. Make that thing 40 and let’s go,” Nebraska coach Matt Rhule said on Husker Online, with tongue only partially in cheek. “I think, again, you’re talking about a league (Big Ten) that we play nine conference games where some others play eight (the SEC voted Thursday to move to a nine-game league schedule in 2026). So, I think that puts you at an automatic disadvantage.”

Clemson coach Dabo Swinney has a pair of CFP titles under his belt and says no matter how a champion is determined, his ACC team will show up.

“As I’ve said many times, when there was a BCS, we made it,” Swinney said in July. “We got to the BCS down in the Orange Bowl and got in the mix of that and played Ohio State. When it was the Final Four, we got there six times. Four final twos. And when it went to 12, somehow, someway, with a 56-yarder (a field goal that won the ACC championship for the Tigers in 2024), we made it. We got there.

“So, if it goes to 14 or it goes to 16 or 24 or if there’s a new number, I don’t know … I have no idea. I just know this: at Clemson, we’re gonna always have a chance to be in whatever tournament people want to create.”

The SEC and Big Ten basically run college football, so – like it or not – whatever they decide is what will ultimately happen. And while saying, “I hope (fill in name of school here) finishes at least seventh in the (Big Ten or SEC) so they can make the playoffs” sounds ridiculous, this is a moneymaking business and big, bold expansion would rake in cash in by the millions.

Look, big-time college football – certainly from a Power 4 perspective – is NFL Lite now. Thanks to revenue sharing, NIL deals and the transfer portal, it’s pro football that just happens to have marching bands, cheerleaders and a fully-paid education if a player chooses to take advantage of it. Whatever college football once was, it is now something else entirely.

And since you can’t turn back the clock – except when Daylight Saving Time comes – you can either embrace it or ignore it.

But hey – these teams are still attached to universities.

Saturday tailgating continues unabated.

And there are almost too many bowls to count (OK, I counted – there are 42).

In other words, some vestiges of tradition remain. Thus, if your team doesn’t qualify for the 24 or 28-school CFP in the future, the consolation prize could be an invitation to the Extreme Cheese Bikini Atoll Atomic Bowl.

That said, my 16-team playoff idea remains there for the taking – and I’m ready for the Astro-Bluebonnet, Freedom and Hall of Fame Bowls to make a comeback …

Living the dream

The mural in front of the Dream World/Your World Institute was a feast for the eyes, a canvas of vibrant colors and various shapes. Stare at one part of it long enough and the imagery seemed to move, sometimes forming the shape of two people sharing an ice cream cone while snuggling on a bench, and other times simulating miniature dachshunds running through fields of green.

It was always different, depending on the eye of the beholder.

Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Bluesky @scottadamson1960.bsky.social

Located in what had once been an urgent care clinic, the DW/YWI had become something of a cultural phenomenon. Podcaster Snacker Burlington – who rose to fame claiming to have been abducted by aliens only to kill them, commandeer their spacecraft and fly back to earth – had been promoting the company on his program for several months. And why not?

After all, he owned it.

And according to the DW/YWI scientists he has hand-picked, clients are able to enter an ethereal plane that allows them to, quite literally, live a dream.

“Folks,” Burlington bellows to his millions of followers, “we at DW/YWI don’t just offer temporary relief from the struggles of daily life, but a life-changing adventure in a dream world of your own making. When you wake up, you’ll be a completely different person. And better yet, when you finally pass away and go to the Great Beyond, you’ll return to your dream state for eternity. Guaranteed.”

Burlington stressed to listeners that his highest calling was to get word out about DW/YWI through the Right Time Podcasting Network.

“I can’t wait to make my own dreams come true forever at DW/YWI,” he’d say. “But I feel I owe it to both my employer and you, my loyal patrons, to continue to speak truth for as long as my ratings remain high – and I remain healthy.”

Although one might think the cost of participating in such a project would be prohibitive, that wasn’t the case at all. To become a client, a person needed only to agree to appear in future promotional segments for the podcast and share testimonials about their experience “living the dream.” And based on those testimonials, the satisfaction rate was 100 percent.

Gully White – standing at the entrance of DW/YWI – had been ready to sign up from the moment he first heard about it.

A loyal fan of Burlington, he used to listen intently to earlier podcasts when the “Earl of Burl” shared startling revelations day after day. One of the biggest was that the state of California was merely a hologram and its 40 million residents didn’t actually exist. White believed everything he heard from the verbose host, so when he weighed the pros and cons of becoming a DW/YWI client, he didn’t hesitate; there was absolutely nothing to lose.

As soon as White opened the door to the facility, he was greeted by a smiling attendant adorned in a pale orange lab coat.

“You must be Mr. White,” said the small, ruddy-faced man, whose name tag read BRIDGES. “We’re so excited to have you here! Would you like a glass of water, or perhaps some hot tea?”

White declined, preferring to get straight to business.

“No, hoss, I just wanna fill out my paperwork and jump right in if I could,” White said. “I’ve settled on what dream I want to live and everything.”

Bridges led White to a small table that displayed the contracts required to become a part of the DW/YWI program. White didn’t bother to read over the details on the paperwork – he simply scribbled his name and began looking around.

“So, do you give me something to put me to sleep and then hook me up to some machine or something?” White asked the attendant. “I can already tell you what I want … blonde girlfriend, 36-24-36, two cars – one a Corvette and the other a Jaguar – a big mansion right on the ocean, maids and a butler. And 30 – no, 40 – billion dollars.”

The attendant grinned.

“Come this way, Mr. White.”

The two men walked to the back of the institute and came to a small, brightly-lit room. Inside was an exam table, stool and handwashing station with a small clear jar of green liquid.

“Have a seat, Mr. White.”

“Do I need to get undressed?”

“Oh, no, no … just have a seat.”

White sat down, and slapped his knees with his hands.

“OK,” he said. “I’m ready.”

Bridges grabbed the liquid, shook it vigorously, removed the lid and handed it to White.

“Drink up, Mr. White. I know it doesn’t look very inviting, but it has no taste at all.”

White knocked out the liquid in two gulps.

“I guess I’ll be getting sleepy pretty soon, huh?”

White took the empty jar and placed it back on the handwashing station.

“Actually Mr. White, you’ll be dead in, oh, about another 10 seconds.”

White’s eyes glazed over and he fell onto the floor. Bridges leaned down, placed his fingertips on the client’s neck, and no pulse was detected.

Bridges opened the door to the exam room and Burlington entered.

“Good work Bridges … that seemed easy enough.”

“It was, Commander. Truthfully, they’ve all been relatively easy. It was genius of you to assume the body of Burlington. They’re true believers, so they’re easy marks.”

Burlington picked up White and put him back on the exam table.

“This human worked at a hardware store, so let’s put a worker drone lifeforce in him,” Burlington said. “The company will get a better worker, and we’ll be a step closer to taking over the planet and building a new Enceladus. Oh, and let’s set up a testimonial for next week.”

Burlington turned to leave, and then chuckled.

“Hey, Bridges … it’s hard to believe how we’ve taken over in such a short amount of time, isn’t it?”

Bridges looked at White’s lifeless body.

“Not at all, sir. More than 15 million humans follow Burlington’s podcast religiously. If he says he can make all their dreams come true, they believe him.”