The Long Ball's Humble (and Mocked) Beginnings

On a chilly October evening in 1979, as the Boston Celtics took the court against the Houston Rockets, no one could have predicted that the next play would etch a tiny footnote in basketball history. With a swish of the net and a collective shrug from the crowd, Chris Ford launched a shot from 23 feet and 9 inches away—a distance that would soon become both a weapon and a controversy. That shot, the first three-pointer in NBA history, landed with a quiet thud rather than a thunderous roar. It was a moment of humble beginnings for what would eventually explode into a revolution. The arena’s public address announcer barely paused before moving on to the next play, and the box score simply noted “FG” (field goal) without fanfare. No one cheered wildly, no one rushed the floor, and certainly no one thought, “This will change everything.” Instead, the three-point line entered the NBA as a curious afterthought—a gimmick dreamed up by league executives desperate to spice up a game increasingly criticized for its plodding, inside-heavy style. What followed was not immediate adoration but years of skepticism, mockery, and outright dismissal. The long ball was seen as a circus trick, a desperation heave for losers, a betrayal of basketball’s sacred geometry. Yet, buried beneath the ridicule, a seed was planted. This is the story of that seed—the unlikely, mocked, and stubborn origins of the shot that would eventually redefine the world’s greatest basketball league.

The NBA’s Pre-Arc Landscape: A Kingdom of Giants and Mid-Range Maestros

To understand why the three-point line was initially met with such disdain, one must first step back into the NBA of the late 1970s—a world that resembled a medieval castle, with the paint as its fortified throne room. The game was ruled by titans: Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s unstoppable skyhook, Moses Malone’s rebording dominance, Robert Parish’s steady post presence, and Bill Walton’s surgical passing from the high post. These were the days when “inside-out” was not just a cliché but a commandment. Offenses were built around feeding the big man, who would either score, draw a foul, or kick the ball out to a wing for a *mid-range* jump shot—a shot considered the pinnacle of skill, a test of nerve and touch from 15 to 18 feet. The three-point shot, by contrast, was viewed as a low-percentage Hail Mary, a gambler’s play unfit for serious competition.

The statistical landscape of the era underscores this point. In the 1978-79 season—the last before the three-point line—teams averaged 98.1 points per game, but the scoring came almost exclusively from the interior and the mid-range. The league field goal percentage was 47.6%, and teams attempted a mere 2.2 three-pointers per game *combined* across both teams in a contest. Yes, that’s not per team, but total for the entire game. The concept of “spacing” was foreign; defenses packed the paint, daring anyone not named George Gervin or David Thompson to beat them from outside, and those players were celebrated precisely because they *could*—but even they operated primarily in the 16-foot range. Gervin’s finger roll, Thompson’s soaring dunks, and later, Larry Bird’s passing and post moves were the artistry of the age. The three-pointer had no place in this aesthetic; it was seen as anti-basketball, a cheap trick that undermined the physical and strategic essence of the sport.

This philosophy was reinforced by the era’s coaching titans. Red Auerbach, the legendary Celtics patriarch, openly derided the three-point line as a “gimmick” that would ruin the fundamental beauty of the game. Coaches like Billy Cunningham and Jack Ramsay built their systems around ball movement, backdoor cuts, and post play. The playbook was a sacred text, and the three-point play was not in its index. When the NBA Board of Governors voted to adopt the three-point line in 1979—largely in response to the American Basketball Association’s (ABA) successful use of the shot to create excitement and the league’s own desire to boost sagging television ratings—many insiders saw it as a desperate stunt, not a strategic evolution. The ABA had used the three-pointer since its inception in 1967, and while it produced stars like Julius Erving and George Gervin who used it creatively, the NBA establishment viewed the ABA’s style as a sideshow—entertaining but not “real” basketball. Merging with the ABA in 1976 had brought the three-point line into the NBA’s toolbox, but for three years, it sat there, unused, a forgotten relic. Now, in 1979, it was being forced onto the main stage.

The First Shots: Chris Ford, Brian Taylor, and the Initial Adopters

When the 1979-80 season tipped off on October 12, 1979, the three-point line was there, a fresh arc painted on the hardwood, but no one quite knew what to do with it. The first attempt in NBA history came not from a star but from a role player: Boston’s Chris Ford, a solid guard known more for his defense than his shooting. With 3:53 remaining in the first quarter, Ford caught a pass on the left wing, elevated, and let fly. The ball swished through the net. The Celtics’ bench offered a polite pat on the back; the crowd murmured. Ford finished the game 1-for-2 from deep, a footnote in a 115-109 Celtics win. His post-game comments were telling: “It’s just another shot,” he said, shrugging. “If you’re open, you take it. But I’m not going to force it.” That sentiment—*take it if open, but don’t force it*—would define the three-point shot’s first decade. It was an afterthought, not a weapon.

If Ford was a cautious pioneer, Brian Taylor of the San Diego Clippers was a true believer—or at least, a true experimenter. A 6-foot-2 guard with a quick release, Taylor approached the three-point line not with fear but with curiosity. In that inaugural season, he led the league in three-point attempts with 120, making 37 at a 30.8% clip. To modern eyes, those numbers are laughably low—today’s leaders attempt over 900 threes per season—but in 1979-80, Taylor was a renegade. He averaged 4.4 three-point attempts per game, a figure that would be considered a quiet night for today’s role players. Yet, Taylor’s aggression was met with raised eyebrows. Teammates wondered why he’d pass up a drive or a mid-range jumper for a lower-percentage shot. Coaches scratched their heads. The media largely ignored his efforts, focusing instead on the Clippers’ 35-47 record. Taylor himself recalled in later interviews, “People thought I was crazy. They’d say, ‘Why are you shooting that? That’s not a real shot.’ I just thought, ‘If it’s worth one, why not take it if you’re open?’ But the game wasn’t built for that.”

Taylor wasn’t alone in his curiosity. A handful of other players dipped their toes into the arc: Don Buse of the Indiana Pacers, a defensive specialist, attempted 101 threes (hitting 26%); Mike Bratz of the Phoenix Suns tried 94 (making 22%). These were not shooters; they were role players asked to explore a new frontier. Meanwhile, the league’s premier scorers largely avoided the shot. George Gervin, the Iceman, attempted just 28 three-pointers all season, making 9 (32.1%). David Thompson, the human highlight film, tried 23, making 5 (21.7%). Even Larry Bird, the rookie sensation for the Boston Celtics, attempted only 34 threes, converting 9 (26.5%). Bird, who would later become one of the most iconic three-point shooters in history, was initially skeptical. In his 1989 autobiography *Drive: The Story of My Life*, Bird wrote, “I thought the three-point shot was a gimmick. I didn’t see the point of shooting from way out when you could get two points easier.” His coach, Bill Fitch, reportedly discouraged him from taking them, emphasizing the importance of ball movement and mid-range efficiency. Bird’s early reluctance is a crucial data point: even a basketball savant with unlimited shooting range failed to grasp the strategic value at first.

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