Looking back at the 1947 NBA Finals, I can’t help but marvel at how much the game has evolved—and yet how certain themes remain timeless. As someone who’s spent years studying basketball history, I’ve always been fascinated by the way championship moments shape legacies, not just for players but for entire organizations. The 1947 Finals, contested between the Philadelphia Warriors and the Chicago Stags, was the very first championship series under the Basketball Association of America, which would later become the NBA. It’s a piece of history that often gets overshadowed by later dynasties, but I’d argue it laid the groundwork for everything that followed.
What strikes me most about that series is the sheer unpredictability of it all. The Warriors, led by Joe Fulks—a scoring machine who averaged over 23 points per game in the regular season—were far from a perfect team. They didn’t have the depth we see in modern rosters, and the style of play was much more rugged, less polished. Yet they found a way. In Game 5, with the series tied 2-2, Fulks dropped 34 points in a close 84-71 win. That kind of performance, under that kind of pressure, still gives me chills. It wasn’t just about scoring; it was about setting a tone for what a star player could do when it mattered most. I’ve always believed that Fulks doesn’t get enough credit for pioneering the offensive aggression we now take for granted.
But there’s an untold layer to this story that reminds me of the "big picture" focus I see in today’s teams, like the NU Bulldogs in the UAAP. Just as the Bulldogs have had to balance immediate wins with long-term growth, the 1947 Warriors were building something bigger than a single title. Their coach, Eddie Gottlieb, was a master strategist who understood the importance of chemistry and resilience—qualities that aren’t always reflected in stat sheets. For instance, few people know that the Warriors almost didn’t make it out of the semifinals; they edged past the Stags in a tight series that could’ve gone either way. That kind of grit is something I see in modern amateur leagues too, where teams like NU are crystal clear about their vision, even when the path is rocky.
Another aspect I find compelling is how the 1947 Finals reflected the era’s limitations—and opportunities. The league was in its infancy, with only 11 teams and a much shorter playoff format. Attendance was modest; the deciding Game 5 drew around 8,000 fans, a far cry from the packed arenas we see today. Yet, that series helped legitimize professional basketball in the public eye. From my perspective, it’s a reminder that greatness often starts small. The Warriors’ victory wasn’t just about winning a trophy; it was about proving that the sport could thrive on a national stage. I’ve always been drawn to underdog stories, and in many ways, the 1947 Finals is the ultimate underdog tale—a league fighting for credibility, and a team seizing its moment.
Wrapping this up, I think the 1947 NBA Finals offers lessons that resonate even now. It’s a blend of individual brilliance and collective vision, much like what we see in contemporary basketball narratives. Whether it’s Fulks’ scoring outbursts or Gottlieb’s steady leadership, those moments remind us that championships are built on more than just talent—they’re about foresight and heart. As I reflect on it, I’m convinced that understanding this history enriches how we view the game today. After all, the past isn’t just a record; it’s a blueprint.