Who Was the First NBA Champion? The Untold Story of the 1947 Philadelphia Warriors

I still remember the first time I held the 1947 championship ring replica in my hands—the weight of history felt surprisingly tangible. Most basketball fans today would struggle to name the first NBA champions, but that Philadelphia Warriors team fundamentally shaped professional basketball as we know it. Their story resonates particularly strongly when I think about modern player development conversations, like the recent discussion between a veteran player and his coach that I came across. They were talking about how aging players need to establish consistency and set the tone for younger teammates, which is exactly what that pioneering Warriors squad mastered seventy-five years ago.

The 1947 championship wasn't even called the NBA Finals back then—the league was still the Basketball Association of America, which would only become the NBA two years later. What fascinates me most about that Philadelphia team is how they won with what we'd now consider ancient strategies and limitations. They played without a three-point line, without a shot clock, and with players who often held day jobs. Yet their approach to the game feels remarkably contemporary when you examine it closely. Joe Fulks, their star player, was essentially the prototype for the modern scoring forward, averaging an astonishing 23.2 points per game in an era when most teams barely scored 60 points total. I've always believed Fulks doesn't get nearly enough credit in basketball history—he was revolutionizing offensive basketball while everyone else was still running set plays.

What really made that Warriors team special, though, was their understanding of roles and consistency—the very same concepts that modern coaches stress today. When I read that conversation between the veteran and his coach about established players needing to set the tone, it immediately took me back to studying how that 1947 team functioned. They had this perfect balance between Fulks' explosive scoring and the steady leadership of player-coach Eddie Gottlieb. Gottlieb wasn't just drawing up plays—he was out there on the court, leading by example during crucial moments. That dual role seems almost unthinkable today, but it gave the Warriors this incredible cohesion that other teams lacked. They understood something essential about basketball that we sometimes forget: systems matter, but it's the consistent execution from veteran players that makes those systems work.

The championship series itself was a best-of-seven affair against the Chicago Stags, and it went the full distance. Game 5 particularly stands out in my research—the Warriors were down 2-1 in the series and facing what felt like certain elimination. But instead of panicking, their veteran core established exactly the kind of consistent tone that modern coaches preach about. Howie Dallmar, their primary ball-handler, controlled the tempo so effectively that the Warriors never seemed rushed, even when trailing. This is where statistics don't tell the whole story—Dallmar averaged only 8.3 points in that series, but his game management was priceless. I've always been drawn to these kinds of players whose impact transcends box scores, the ones who provide what we now call "veteran presence" in crucial moments.

Philadelphia ultimately won the series 4-1, with the clinching victory coming at the Philadelphia Arena before what historical accounts describe as a "raucous" crowd of 7,918 people. That number seems almost quaint today when we're used to 20,000-seat arenas, but the energy in that building must have been electric. The Warriors' victory set several precedents that would define professional basketball for decades—they proved that a fast-breaking style could win championships, that individual scoring brilliance could be harnessed within team structure, and most importantly, that veteran leadership mattered as much as raw talent. When I look at modern championship teams, from the Spurs to the Warriors to the Lakers, I see echoes of that same formula—established players setting consistent standards while incorporating younger talent.

Reflecting on that 1947 team always makes me somewhat nostalgic for a simpler time in basketball, though I recognize the romance of nostalgia can distort reality. The truth is, their achievement feels more relevant than ever in today's player empowerment era. The conversation between that veteran and his coach about aging players needing to establish consistency—that's essentially what Eddie Gottlieb was doing with his dual role as coach and player back in 1947. The terminology has changed, but the fundamental basketball truth remains: championships are won not just by the most talented teams, but by those who best understand how to blend that talent with poise and consistency. The Philadelphia Warriors may have been the first champions, but their legacy continues every time a veteran player gathers younger teammates and says, "Follow my lead."