Cheers to Happy Hour at Cunningham’s Court — it’s the series where everybody knows Dad’s name! And, if you don’t know his name yet, grab a drink and catch up with the series introduction in Memory #75. To celebrate his birthday in Memory #3, sit down and stay awhile.

🏀 5-minute read

Cheers from Cunningham’s Court: Billy Cunningham Birthday Story (Memory #3)

It all started with a hilarious question: “Are you a social media influencer?’

I laughed, boy did I laugh. I can’t even influence my dog to come to me.

Another friend chimed in, “She writes about motherhood. And so much more than that.”

That line got me thinking. So much more.

I’m so much more than a social influencer, okay, I’m not one, but that’s beside the point, if I could be one, I wouldn’t be. But I’m so much more than motherhood, or cancer, or basketball.

But speaking of social media, this week I made a new friend on the Philadelphia Basketball History Facebook page. And we weren’t talking about motherhood or cancer at all—just basketball. He doesn’t watch anymore, neither do I. But when we talk about photos from the past (or videos), he shared one of Dad announcing his retirement. Maybe that’s a story for another day, another memory (possibly from 1985, the years Dad returned). For now? Let’s let him be born first.

Kind of like Memory #3 on the basketball hotline. We might as well start at the beginning:

June 3, 1943.

The day my dad was born.

The Number Hook: #3 for June 3, 1943

Dad didn’t enter the world with a basketball in his hands (though as soon as he was walking and taking out the trash, I’m told he’d be dribbling that basketball. And Dad was born during the war, so I remember Grandma telling me they wanted him to be the Gerber Food baby. He was a beautiful baby who could have started a baby modeling career had Grandma said no.

He wasn’t yet the “Kangaroo Kid”; he couldn’t even leap out of his crib, though I think he did do that once.

The problem is that my memories of what Grandma told me are hazy. But before she died, she came to me with very explicit instructions: “You are getting all of my scrapbooks. He won’t want them. But I know you will take good care of them.”

I’m not exactly sure what happened, but when you get passed on “memories” like that, you know you’ve got to be part of the game. Yes, you can write about motherhood, but you better not forget the scrapbooks!

My Dad has never been one to care about stuff like that. ”It’s just stuff,” so Grandma was right to give them to me. However, I would sometimes love to know the stories behind all these photos.

June 3rd marked the beginning of the game. So let’s start there.

Billy Cunningham Basketball Story: How the Game Got Rolling

Grandpa’s story went like this:

My Dad had his sights playing ball (of any sport) long before he was as good as the older kids. So his dad—my grandpa—bought Dad a basketball and made a deal with the kids at the playground.

You can play with this ball, but you have to let Billy play, even if it’s just once. If he’s no good you can take him out.

And Dad quickly tuned into the game: if you’re good, they’ll let you keep playing.

And all Dad ever wanted was to play ball—any ball would do.

It just so happened a basketball is the one that he caught first (and last).

Personal Reflection – A Daughter Looking Up

We were sitting around the dinner table on Memorial Day weekend playing Blank Slate. (You’re given a word, in this case it was play____ and your job is to come up with the word to fill in that blank. We were all going around the room, play ground, play date, and then it was dad’s turn, play ball.

I started laughing and dad didn’t understand what was so funny. I was laughing because of course that’s what dad would say. It would be the first thing to come to mind.

He’s been playing ball ever since he knew how to hold one, he was dribbling while he was still driveling, in fact, that’s all he ever wanted to do even when Grandpa was trying to convince dad that basketball wasn’t a real career. (Do you know what those players got paid back then?)

But, regardless, we all know how it turned out, and it was all because of June 3, 1943.

And it reminds me why I write this series in the first place. Not just to tell stories about basketball (or cancer, or motherhood, or of so much more) but to capture what started it all.

Joy. Play. Family.

That’s the legacy I’m the custodian of. Grandma and Grandpa made sure of that.

This is Memory #3 in “Cunningham’s Court: 75 Basketball Memories” – a daughter’s collection preserving the legacy of Billy Cunningham, one of the NBA’s Top 75 Players of All Time.

Last call! For a birthday toast, swing by Memory #43 — “Happy Hour at Cunningham’s Court.” That’s the bar Dad opened at age 43 — yep, the same number as the year he was born: 1943. From the birth of Dad to the birth of a bar that gave this series its name. Serendipitous, just like this Cunningham’s Court round.

Cheers from Cunningham’s Court, Memory #3.