This is far from an illogical rationale. But the NRL stands at a crossroads here that may feel strangely familiar to American college sports fans of a certain vintage.
Unstoppable: Kareem Abdul-Jabbar during his time with the LA Lakers.Credit: Sports Illustrated via Getty Images
When league officials contemplated radical changes to the kickoff, they were treading ground once inhabited by college basketball officials who, in their infinite collective wisdom, decided that Kareem Abdul-Jabbar was just too good at dunking the ball through the hoop, so they had to stop him.
Let it sit. They were all-American college basketball players for a decade from the late 1960s forbidden from slam-dunking.
A change to rugby league’s kick-off rules would serve to overturn 119 years of convention. Allowing teams that have just awarded points to choose whether to kick off or receive a kick-off to restart play is the kind of innovation that might make sense in the boardroom; the type of upgrade that promises to add strategic depth and excitement to a fun-filled world.
If the 17 clubs unite in the vehemence of their opposition to the idea, they could sign some sort of binding death pact: each promising never choose to receive the ball after receiving points. As if that would ever happen…
The parallels between rugby league in 2026 and American college basketball in the 1960s seem absurd at first glance. What does a primarily Antipodean collision sport and its opening protocol have to do with banning basketball technique because one player designed it to perfection?
Both cases illuminate the dangerous calculus that sports administrators face when they consider rewriting the basic grammar of the sports they serve as administrators.
From 1967 to 1976, the National Collegiate Athletic Association in the US enacted one of the most controversial and transparently discriminatory rules in sports history: the ban on basketball slam-dunking during games.
The promulgated rationale spoke of preventing injury and damage to equipment. The unofficial reason was more straightforward: The NCAA wanted to stop a single player with his unstoppable slam, mocking opponents’ defensive strategies and game results in the process.
The player the NCAA wanted to suppress was Lew Alcindor; who later changed his name to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. The same player who held the NBA records for points scored and games played when he retired in the late 1980s.
He dominated college basketball at UCLA with his powerful dunks and overwhelming physical presence, leading the UCLA Bruins to three consecutive national championships from 1967-69.
After the 1967 NCAA Championship and after Alcindor put on his first championship ring, the NCAA Rules Committee, apparently concerned about Alcindor’s physical dominance and penchant for slam dunks, set about leveling the playing field by eliminating his most spectacular weapon from their repertoire.
Which in a sense is the antithesis of why the NRL wants to change the kick-off rules, because it wants to generate more razzmatazz. But it’s also the same reason because the NRL wants that dominance.
The NCAA’s “slam dunk ban” has failed. Amazingly. Instead of reducing Alcindor’s impact and physical dominance, the ban forced him to develop his signature skyhook, a nearly unblockable shot that has evolved into arguably the most devastating offensive weapon in professional basketball history.
Banning slam-dunking deprived fans of the most exciting game in basketball and thwarted the development of the game.
Rightly or otherwise, the ban was seen by many, especially in the African-American community, as an attempt by the NCAA to suppress the increasingly athletic style over the edge that was being added to the sport.
The rule had racial undertones that the NCAA could never adequately explain.
When the ban was finally lifted in 1976, dunking returned with a vengeance and became the core of basketball’s identity and marketing appeal.
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Imagine if Michael Jordan could never dunk at the University of North Carolina.
The NCAA’s attempt to legislate against athletic prowess stands as a cautionary tale about rule changes motivated more by fear of change than genuine sporting interests. It certainly remains one of the most regrettable decisions in college sports history — a short-sighted solution in search of a problem that never really existed.
The very structure of the sport is an important imperative. It should not be handled indiscriminately.
Successful rule changes target individual problems with surgical precision, while unsuccessful changes attempt to fundamentally alter the competitive balance or strategic incentives in ways that have cascading, unintended consequences.
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