There are fewer call-ups to the NBA come March, which means that the primary motivation for G League players is disappearing—fast. The carrot that’s been dangled in front of their faces since training camp has been chewed down to its stem. For some teams, especially those out of playoff contention, this changes everything. The investment in winning plummets. Team basketball becomes hero basketball. Attitudes shift from I’ll follow the blueprint to Screw it, I’ll make my own blueprint. Of course, disjointed teams stand no chance of winning a G League championship. But also, disjointed teams don’t care about winning a G League championship.
All of this was top of mind when the Squadron front office began assembling its team over the 2021 summer. Pannone and his staff had coached a group that was fragmented and at times apathetic during their first season together in Erie. It was a young squad, talented but not cohesive. Their unity crumbled when adversity hit.
This year’s roster was constructed with more care, informed by those past mistakes. The move to Birmingham had provided a blank slate—an opportunity to establish a new culture.
“The culture that we’re trying to build is based off of good people,” Pannone said on the first day of training camp. “And anything that’s built off of culture starts with the people in the organization, your coaching staff. That would be the foundation of your culture, and then the players are built on it. So if there’s a crack within your foundation or within the building blocks of the house that you’re making, your culture is going to break. And we had some experiences with that the first year, and that’s why the point of emphasis, number one, is just get high character, good people that love the game. That’s the very first thing we looked for.”
That approach, however simple it sounds, was not ubiquitous in the league. For the Squadron, it had proven incredibly successful. The team was close-knit, unselfish, committed; it cared about the right things. Coaches were not the least bit worried about fracturing, even as the calendar flipped to March.
The house was very much intact.
There was another disease outbreak on the Squadron in mid-March. This time, it was the flu’s turn to wreak havoc. Harper and Wright-Foreman tested positive first, leaving the team with just eight players as it traveled to Texas for a game against the Austin Spurs.
When Young awoke at the Hilton Garden Inn Cedar Park on game day, he, too, had flu-like symptoms. And center Zach Hankins had a concerning amount of swelling in his surgically repaired knee. So less than ten hours before tip-off, the Squadron were down to six players. Chasanoff called the league office right away, hoping to get the game canceled. Proceeding with six players was not just absurd; it was dangerous. This was Birmingham’s fourth game in six days, and the threat of an injury was real.
Chasanoff and Campbell exchanged fifteen calls that afternoon, each with a different update on the process. It was dragging along, with no clarity from the league. Campbell knew, from his experience working as a basketball operations coordinator for the D-League, that officials were hesitant to cancel games unless the circumstances were extraordinary. And the definition of extraordinary was a bit different in the minors.
Everyone met in the lobby around 5:00 p.m., with the bus waiting outside to shuttle them to the arena. Chasanoff called again with a more definitive ruling: “We’re not going to play,” he told the team on speaker phone. “For your health and safety, we do not feel like it’s appropriate. We don’t want anyone to risk their career.”
Players wanted to make doubly sure of the decision before switching gears mentally. “So . . . what’s the percent chance that we’re going to play?” they asked.
“We are 90 percent not going to play,” Chasanoff replied.
Ninety percent? Okay, that was pretty conclusive. A few players returned to their rooms. Ra’Shad James and John Petty Jr. fired up Call of Duty. Others stayed in the lobby to watch the NCAA Tournament. Campbell was fidgety. The whole situation brought him anxiety. He didn’t think guys should relax until it was 100 percent certain that the game was off. He was concerned about the potential consequences of them not showing up without a formal cancellation. What might the league do to discipline them? he pondered.
Chasanoff called a last time, just an hour and a half before tip-off, with a new plan. “We’re playing,” he said. “We gotta get on the bus.” The league had threatened the team with fines and other punishments. Rumors swirled that they could potentially be banned from the playoffs. A message was dropped in the team chat: “Game is on. Bus is leaving in five minutes.”
What followed was something out of a sports movie. The Squadron pulled up in time for a very abbreviated warm-up. Birmingham had seven active players—six and a half, really, since Hankins was fighting through knee pain. One of those seven was Jordan Swing, a veteran forward acquired less than twenty hours earlier. Swing had been overseas playing for BC Kyiv in Ukraine but managed to escape just before the war with Russia began. Another was Daulton Hommes, who started the season on a two-way contract with the Pelicans, was waived in December, and rejoined the Squadron in late February.
Birmingham fell behind—way behind. Which, given its predicament, was to be expected. No Harper, no Young, basically no pregame. With a minute left in the third quarter, the Squadron trailed 91–69. Frankly, it made sense to just concede, to look ahead to the next game, to not risk any freak injuries. But the guys kept fighting. Riley LaChance and Ra’Shad James scored key buckets. The wounded Hankins hit a nice hook shot. Cheatham bounded all over the floor, swallowing every rebound and protecting the rim. Hommes couldn’t miss from behind the arc, sinking seven total three-pointers in the game, including one that cut the deficit to 100–98 with thirty seconds left. Birmingham had a chance to tie or win it on the final possession. The ball was inbounded to Cheatham by the right corner, he took two dribbles to his left, elevated for a fourteen-foot jump shot and . . . clank. It hit the front rim.
Two-thousand fans breathed a sigh of relief. Cheatham fell to the ground, glaring up at the basket with an expression that said, How did I miss that?
The loss was heartbreaking, of course, but there was no reason for Cheatham—or any of his six teammates that evening—to hang his head. This was more than a moral victory; it was a confidence booster.
“That definitely gave us a mindset that we can kind of roll with the punches and deal with anything that’s thrown at us,” said LaChance. “I think that definitely gave us confidence going forward and put us in the mindset that we can rattle off a bunch in a row here and get ourselves in a good position for the playoffs.”
Ra’Shad James was a star in the G League before it was even called the G League. He spent three seasons in the minors from 2013 to 2016—averaging 20.8 points in 2014–15—before embarking overseas, where he suited up for teams in eight different countries. This was year nine of his career, and although James was still hopeful for a call-up, he was very much at peace with his journey no matter what happened.
James was one of few players who had remained with the Squadron all season. Harper, Cheatham, and Hill were back and forth from the NBA; Holder and Adams had been waived; Banks had been traded to the Texas Legends. James was in Birmingham the entire time, with his role constantly shifting and his minutes constantly fluctuating. One night he would start; another he would play fifteen minutes off the bench. He was the ultimate professional regardless.
As Birmingham entered the final stretch of the season, James introduced a new team mantra: “We all we got.” It was as fitting as it was catchy. The slogan reflected both the players’ togetherness and their commitment to being present—to focusing on the opportunity right in front of them (a G League championship), as opposed to the one that might exist down the road (the NBA).
Given the condensed season, the playoff race was extremely tight. Only the top six seeds from each conference would make the tournament. Squadron coaches wrote the West standings on the whiteboard in the locker room at Birmingham-Southern, updating the order every morning. On March 20—two weeks before the playoffs were set to begin—it appeared as follows:
In the wake of a brutal home loss to Sioux Falls, which Pannone believed to be the team’s worst of the season, Birmingham responded with two dominant victories. First, it got payback on Sioux Falls with a 136–95 drubbing; then it destroyed the Legends, 127–97, in front of a raucous Legacy Arena crowd of 3,233.
That resurgence put the Squadron in position to lock down a playoff spot with a win at Iowa. At 11:00 a.m. on the morning of the game, the New Orleans Pelicans announced that they were signing Harper to a two-way contract—again. The team had promoted Jose Alvarado to a standard contract so that the rookie guard—now a solidified part of their rotation—would be eligible for the NBA playoffs. That left a spot open, and New Orleans was quick to award it to Harper.
Harper wasn’t going anywhere, though. New Orleans wanted him to stay in the G League and help the Squadron pursue a championship. Less than twelve hours later, Birmingham got one step closer, defeating Iowa 114–106 to clinch its first-ever playoff berth. Harper put up 22 points and 5 assists, Young led the team with 24 points, and Hankins notched his fifth double-double of the season.
Back in the visiting locker room, the guys sprayed water like champagne. They mobbed Pannone, dumping what was left of the cooler on his shiny bald head. Music blasted from the speakers, including—Wait . . . is that Zylan? Cheatham rapped in his spare time and occasionally, when the vibe was right, played his music for the team.
Making the postseason was an achievement worth celebrating, but only for a couple of hours. The job was far from finished.
The final game of the regular season was a matchup with the Hustle out in Memphis, a city the coaches loved to visit for one reason and one reason only: Gibson’s Donuts.
The bus went straight to the little shop on Mount Moriah Road, with its beckoning neon sign. Pannone bought a dozen, and that was just to hold him over for the next twenty-four hours. He scarfed down five right away, bested only by player-development coach Andrew Warren, who devoured seven in record time. When LaChance and Hommes compared the shop’s signature glazed doughnuts to that of Krispy Kreme, Pannone told them, with a straight face, “I feel bad for you that you think that.” A Gibson’s glazed, Pannone went on (of course, he would not let this go), was like a 40 percent three-point shooter. And a Krispy Kreme? That was like a 33 percent three-point shooter. One was great; one was eh.
There would be more trips to Gibson’s, but there was other—more important, even Pannone had to admit—business to attend to. Beating Memphis, which sat at 15-18, would secure the Squadron home-court advantage for the first round of the playoffs. That was no small thing, particularly for a new organization and even more so for a new organization in Birmingham. Locals appreciated winning. A playoff game—perhaps a playoff win—would help build significant fan support.
Not that support was lacking. It had grown steadily over the season, enough to give the staff tremendous hope for the future. Fans varied from business owners entertaining clients, to families enjoying an evening out, to UA and AU alumni who showed up with signs for Petty (“Petty’s Platoon”) and Harper (“Harper’s Heroes”). Even a few superfans had emerged, including Kelvin Davis, the sixty-two-year-old man from open tryouts. Davis liked to stay close to the team in the rare event that it might need an extra player during a game. “I’m so optimistic; who knows what’s going to happen during the year?” he said with a smile. “I’m still here, guys!”
By no means was Legacy Arena rocking for Squadron games. It was more like gently swaying. Part of the problem was the sheer size of the building. The average attendance for the season was 2,470, which ranked third in the entire G League (the average across the league was 1,598). But the atmosphere felt crazier at venues like Kaiser Permanente Arena, home of the Santa Cruz Warriors, because its full capacity was a mere 2,505.
The goal was “to throw twenty-four parties for twenty-four home games,” said David Lane, the Squadron general manager of business operations, prior to the season. And the organization had succeeded at that goal. There was everything from HBCU (historically Black colleges and universities) Night, when the entire Miles College marching band occupied a section of the lower bowl; to Star Wars Night, when entry came with a free Squadron lightsaber; to Literacy Day, when the shrill screams of hundreds of kids left players plugging their ears. Halftime shows leaned more toward the absurd, with cookie eating contests and random three-on-three games between fans. A man named Andy, who worked at a popular local brewery, attended every game and led “Let’s go, Squadron!” chants. These were parties, yes—just minor league parties.
A playoff game, though, would be the biggest party yet. Staff members had already begun preparing for the possibility, selling refundable tickets and organizing marketing efforts. It would all be for nothing if the team did not beat Memphis.
But the team beat Memphis.
Birmingham fell behind early, maintained composure, clawed its way back, and seized total control in the second half. Seven players scored in double figures. The ball zipped around the court, resulting in 35 assists and 18 three-pointers. It was a tutorial on how to run Coach Pannone’s offense, and it left the mastermind beaming on the sideline. The final score was 126–111, Birmingham’s fifth straight victory. The team would return to Legacy Arena to host the Texas Legends in the playoffs.
Walking off the court, Pannone looked overwhelmed, as if a host of different emotions were hitting him at the same time. “Fuck,” he mumbled quietly, smiling and shaking his head. He was otherwise rendered speechless. After pacing in the hallway for a minute, he took a deep breath and entered the locker room.
Most of his postgame speech focused on the Squadron’s unsung heroes, players such as James and LaChance, who, over the past six months, had filled every conceivable role. It was an element unique to the G League, a product of the constant roster changes. Those who stayed put jumped from understudies to leads—from leads to understudies—as the season ran its course.
“I want to acknowledge something that is very important to me,” Pannone said to the team, his voice quavering. “I know sometimes the rotations are frustrating, and I appreciate how well you guys handle it. Some games you might play twenty minutes, some games you might play two minutes. I understand it is very difficult. And the way that you guys have handled that is a big reason why we are here—a big, big, big fucking reason. It is not anything personal or intentional. I want to acknowledge that we would not be here in the position to host a playoff game without how professional you guys are and how well you’ve handled the role. So, I just want to say thank you.”
“Appreciate that, Coach!” James hollered.
“Hell of a fucking job,” Pannone continued. “Look at what we’ve done: five in a row. You guys have earned every bit of this. You’ve responded. You fought for this. Now we get home-court advantage in the playoffs. Tomorrow will be an off day. Recovery is mandatory. We have one day to prepare. On your off day, watch our last Texas game. Watch some of their recent games. How we approach this mentally is going to determine how we handle it. Also, Zylan asked to stop at the liquor store on the way home.”
Players leaned forward in anticipation, like students waiting for the final bell to ring.
“You guys have earned it. . . . We will stop at the liquor store.”
“HELL YEAH!” Cheatham screamed.
“I ask you to remain profess—”
Pannone’s voice was drowned out by a rowdy ovation. Professional, he meant to say. But to hell with that.
The ride home felt like the perfect—almost storybook—ending to a surreal year. Bellies were full with Olive Garden, per Pannone’s request. Leftover bread sticks made their way up and down the aisles. As the bus cruised on Interstate 22 through the pitch black, players sipped from beer cans and sang along to a playlist of throwback anthems. They took turns controlling the speaker, each player trying to top the last with his song choice, everything from “21 Questions” by 50 Cent to “Shawty Is Da Shit” by The-Dream to “Can You Stand the Rain” by New Edition:
Sunny days, everybody loves them
Tell me, baby, can you stand the rain?
Storms will come
This we know for sure (This we know for sure)
Can you stand the rain?
They snapped their fingers and danced in their seats. They talked about the upcoming playoff game, how electric Legacy Arena might be. They swapped stories and shared laughs. For four hours, no one even thought about the NBA.
For a fleeting moment, they were all exactly where they wanted to be.