A look back at the 1970s Thunderbirds Roller Games era, by Scott Stephens—author of ROLLING THUNDER: The Golden Age of Roller Derby and The Rise & Fall of the LA T-Birds.

The decade opens with momentum. In 1970, Roller Games shifts from far-flung international ventures to U.S. expansion, and Los Angeles becomes the sport’s beating heart. The T-Birds’ core brain trust—GM John Hall, coaches Ralph Valladares, Shirley Hardman, Terri Lynch, and Danny Reilly—anchors a roster thick with familiar names. The year’s World Series pits L.A. against their classic foil, the Detroit Devils, steered by showman-antagonist Leroy Gonzales and rising women’s captain Diane Syverson. The Thunderbirds ultimately prevail, but 1970 is remembered as much for spectacle calibrated by “Hoppy” Haupt as for skating: the athletic baseline remains high, while theatrics tick up just enough to pack arenas. Nothing illustrates the draw better than the ten-game stand in Mexico City’s 20,800-seat Palacio de los Deportes—ten straight sellouts.

In 1971, drama becomes an art form. Roller Games formalizes the general manager role across teams; John Hall ascends to T-Birds GM in a flurry of letters read live on TV. The season is a soap opera on skates: Adeline Hocker’s contractual odyssey, Hardman’s suspensions and reinstatements, Hall’s match-race duels with Gonzales—storylines fans must follow week to week. The Aussies arrive (skaters and even a referee), inflaming rivalries with Texas GM Lester Quarles. On the track, rookie Jim Terrigno bursts for 55 points in his debut. It all crescendos at the Fabulous Forum on September 4, when 15,250 set a U.S. indoor attendance mark for Roller Games and the T-Birds beat the Texas Outlaws 161–134 to repeat as champs.

The summit is 1972. Raquel Welch’s Kansas City Bomber hits theaters August 2, mainstreaming roller derby’s image and feeding attendance on both coasts. Six weeks later, a cross-league showcase at Chicago’s Comiskey Park draws an unmatched 51,118 for Pioneers vs. T-Birds—an enduring banked-track record. Inside Roller Games, two mega-promotions dominate: Dave Pound, a brilliant skater playing the ruthless on-screen executive, and Danny Reilly, granted his own squad, Reilly’s Renegades. Pound vs. Hall sells out the Forum; Reilly’s persona becomes a ticket machine. Yet 1972 also marks transition: Terri Lynch retires; the league experiments with Cleveland’s Bucks and Baltimore’s Cats. Just as the product proves it can fill stadiums and multiplexes, internal stresses and looming economic shocks gather.

In 1973, Bill Griffiths runs solo after partner Jerry Hill exits—taking a large cash payout that thins reserves. The oil embargo is months away, but the margins already tighten as Roller Games juggles L.A., Philly, Cleveland, Baltimore, and Canada with lean management. The Canadian venture (CNRL) has decent weekend houses but heavy travel costs and fickle TV. Even so, the T-Birds still have star power—Julie Patrick, Gwen Miller, Sam Washington, John Hall, Ronnie Rains—and they win the World Series again. Meanwhile, Derby up north stumbles; Seltzer’s organization collapses in December 1973 after a rain-bitten Shea Stadium gamble and a strike hangover, leaving Griffiths the last major operator.

The response is the 1974 International Skating Conference (ISC), Roller Games’ umbrella for a unified, post-Derby landscape. It creates the never-thought-possible sight: Bay Bombers legend Charlie O’Connell and icon Joan Weston in T-Birds colors alongside Valladares, Reilly, Rains, Tony Roman, and others. The bet doesn’t pay the way Griffiths hopes. Pay disparities (Derby stars kept their higher salaries), culture clashes (Games’ theatricality vs. Derby’s straighter style), and overextension erode consistency. A summer all-girls county-fair tour brings flat fees but little long-term brand value. The Warriors—stacked with Philly stalwarts and led by Richard Brown and Buddy Atkinson Jr.—win the ISC title at Madison Square Garden; for the first time the T-Birds miss the finals. TV syndication terms disappoint Griffiths; without a viable deal, the ISC shutters after 1974. A golden era ends—though the story isn’t over.

“Roller Void” (1975) is the low point and a hinge. The last ISC World Series, essentially the traveling/Chicago T-Birds vs. Eastern Warriors, plays out across Chicago, Philly, Cherry Hill, and Baltimore. L.A. is no safe harbor—TV is gone and crowds have cratered—so the series leans East. The T-Birds clinch the title 4–1 on June 7; immediately afterward, Games closes shop. Three weeks later, Rollerball storms theaters, amplifying public curiosity about banked-track combat just as no league can capitalize. Still, 1975 quietly seeds the modern game: John Hall and Valladares convince Griffiths to move from two jammers per team to one, simplifying the sport and reducing fan confusion. Voices change too: Dick Holway and Jim McInerney effectively replace Dick Lane and Hoppy Haupt.

Rebirth starts in 1976 with concrete and sweat. Hall and Valladares lease a failing rink in Pico Rivera and build the Thunderbird Rollerdrome—part training academy, part incubator for a new roster. With only a game a month and meager TV (KBSC-52 at odd hours), conditioning slips and the pack slows; veterans hang on, rookies learn on the fly, and Griffiths experiments with promotions to goose gates. Yet the Rollerdrome becomes crucial infrastructure: classes priced for access, banked-track fundamentals, whips drilled until muscle memory takes, and a pipeline of skaters—Debbie Garvey, Darlene Langlois, Patsy Delgado, Ray Robles, Bren Futura and more—who will stabilize the league. Hall and Valladares handle everything from insurance to training while skating as needed.

By 1977, the lights brighten. VIP Video lands KCOP-13 Saturday-morning broadcasts under the banner Roller Superstars; a car-dealer sponsor becomes a recurring on-air character. TV restores the virtuous cycle: ratings drive attendance, attendance funds touring, touring feeds ratings. The Six Million Dollar Man airs a roller derby episode (“Rollback”) filmed at the Olympic with T-Birds and Hawks; John Hall doubles some stunts. Dave Pound returns to shape the New York Bombers.

In 1978, a symbolic shift: the T-Birds trade their worn red-white-blue for sharp green-and-gold uniforms—an aesthetic reset for a franchise intent on forward motion. On the track, the Chicago Hawks are terrifying: Harold “Mr. Mean” Jackson flies—sometimes literally, launching over the top rail in end-game blow-offs—while brother Bernie anchors the pack. With Roberto “El Fabuloso” Juarez as infield maestro, the Hawks go undefeated in the regular season. The T-Birds counter with Gwen “Skinny-Minnie” Miller, Donna Young, Jennifer Richards, and, on the men’s side, Washington, Reilly, Rains, and the ageless Frankie Macedo, with Hall and Valladares available in reserve. In a sold-out Olympic Auditorium, the champs remain the champs—the T-Birds edge the Hawks in a close World Series, restoring L.A.’s flag.

1979 consolidates the comeback. Roller disco fever (Roller Boogie, Skatetown) keeps eight-wheeled culture in the zeitgeist. The T-Birds add rookies Ray Robles and David Martinez—baptized by “kill jams” but destined for long careers—while the league deepens: Bombers (Greg Quinn, Brenda DeShields; Ken Saunders and George Fernandez on the men’s side), Devils (the brilliant Larry Lewis), Outlaws (bolstered by Bernie Jackson), and Hawks (still the hottest red-shirt draw). El Fabuloso’s showmanship keeps turnstiles spinning; the T-Birds beat the Hawks again in the 1979 championship, with Ronnie Rains sealing the final half after a novelty “handicap” race. One ominous footnote: inline skates, still a niche training tool in 1979, loom as a cultural shift that will siphon casual skaters in the decade to come.

Taken together, the 1970s are the T-Birds’ saga in three acts: ascent and apotheosis (1970–72), fragmentation and collapse (1973–75), then reinvention and resilience (1976–79). Through it all, two constants steady the brand: the pairing of John Hall and Ralph Valladares—administrators, teachers, and occasional emergency skaters—and the simple truth that TV plus a banked track equals a crowd. When the cameras returned and the Rollerdrome began to churn out serviceable pros, the Thunderbirds reclaimed their place: not always the prettiest version of the game, but the most durable, the most televisual, and still the name most fans remembered when they heard the wheels sing.