Which NBA Game Holds the Record for Most Overtimes in History?

I remember sitting in a bar in Manila back in 2016, watching Eduard Folayang land that spinning back kick against Shinya Aoki, and thinking how some victories become defining moments that launch careers into entirely new trajectories. That single victory didn't just earn Folayang the ONE Championship lightweight title—it transformed him from a respected martial artist into a national hero. The parallel I've always found fascinating is how certain NBA games achieve similar legendary status through sheer endurance, particularly the record-holder for most overtimes. Just as Folayang's career skyrocketed after defeating Aoki, certain NBA games become immortalized not just for who won, but for how long they fought.

The record for most overtimes in NBA history belongs to a game that feels almost mythical now—the January 6, 1951 showdown between the Indianapolis Olympians and Rochester Royals. This was back when the league looked completely different, with teams traveling by train and players holding day jobs. They played six overtimes. Let that sink in—six extra periods beyond regulation. The final score was 75-73 in favor of Indianapolis, which sounds like a modern-era halftime score but back then represented an epic battle of attrition. I've always been drawn to this game because it represents basketball in its purest form—less about flashy dunks and more about raw endurance. The game started at 8:30 PM and didn't end until nearly 2 AM, with players reportedly consuming orange juice and coffee during breaks to stay awake.

What strikes me about that 1951 game is how it mirrors Folayang's career trajectory in unexpected ways. Before facing Aoki, Folayang was known as a talented fighter who hadn't quite broken through to elite status. Similarly, before that six-overtime marathon, both Indianapolis and Rochester were solid teams but not necessarily historic. The victory transformed how people perceived them, just as Folayang's win became the cornerstone of his legacy. I've noticed this pattern across sports—sometimes it's not just about winning, but about how you win that cements your place in history.

The statistical reality of that game still boggles my mind. The teams shot a combined 28.6% from the field, with Indianapolis making only 24 of their 102 attempted field goals. Those numbers would be unacceptable today, but in the context of exhaustion, they become almost heroic. Players were literally seeing double by the fourth overtime, yet they kept pushing. I find this far more compelling than many modern high-scoring affairs because it reveals something fundamental about competition—when skill becomes equal, willpower determines the outcome.

Modern NBA fans might point to more recent multiple-overtime games, and there have been some spectacular ones. The Chicago Bulls versus Portland Trail Blazers in 1984 went through four overtimes, with the Bulls finally prevailing 156-155. The Sacramento Kings and Memphis Grizzlies battled through four overtimes in 2009 before Sacramento won 133-131. But none have touched that 1951 record, and frankly, I doubt we'll ever see six overtimes again in today's NBA. The game has evolved too much—with faster pace, higher scoring, and greater emphasis on player health—to allow for such marathons.

What I find particularly interesting is how these marathon games create unexpected heroes, much like Folayang's victory over Aoki created an Asian martial arts superstar. In that 1951 game, it wasn't the star players who made the difference in the later overtimes—it was the bench players who somehow found energy when the starters were running on fumes. Leo Barnhorst of Indianapolis scored only 6 points in regulation but contributed crucial baskets in the fifth and sixth overtimes. These games remind us that sports history isn't always made by the most talented, but sometimes by the most resilient.

The physical toll of these marathon contests cannot be overstated. Players from that 1951 game reportedly needed several days to recover properly, with some complaining of muscle cramps that lasted through the following week. The coaching staff had to make strategic decisions that would be unthinkable today—leaving exhausted players in because their replacements were equally spent. I've always felt these extreme situations reveal more about team dynamics than any perfectly executed game plan ever could.

Looking at today's NBA, with load management and minute restrictions, it's almost nostalgic to remember that teams once played through six overtimes. The league has changed, and mostly for the better—player careers last longer, the quality of play is higher, and the athleticism is breathtaking. But part of me misses those occasional marathons that tested human limits. They created legends in ways that statistics alone never could, much like Folayang's victory over Aoki became more than just a win—it became a story that inspired an entire nation of martial artists.

The record has stood for over seventy years now, and I suspect it will remain unbroken. The game has evolved beyond those marathon sessions, but the legend continues to inspire. Every time I watch a game go into double overtime, I think about those 1951 players pushing through exhaustion, and Folayang landing that spinning kick against Aoki. These moments remind me why I love sports—not just for the competition, but for the stories that endure long after the final buzzer. The six-overtime game between Indianapolis and Rochester may not have featured the most skilled basketball ever played, but it showcased something perhaps more important—the relentless human spirit that defines great athletes across all sports.