In a world where millions still lack access to basic human needs, like clean water, the fact that one professional athlete holds a three-quarters of a billion dollar contract feels hard to justify. At the start of last year, Juan Soto signed a $765 million 15-year contract with the New York Mets, the highest-paying contract in Major League Baseball (MLB) history, at $51 million a year — an amount that could fund life-saving infrastructure around the world. But it’s all just part of the game, right?
Juan Soto’s contract follows a trend of increasing wealth across the sports industry: Stephen Curry and other stars of the National Basketball Association (NBA) have signed $200 million or more contracts; National Football League (NFL) quarterbacks like Patrick Mahomes have acquired half billion dollar extensions; and international soccer household names like Neymar, Messi and Ronaldo collect $100 million a year, and sometimes more.
As the numbers continue to rise, questions emerge. When our athletes make hundreds of times more than the people teaching our children or saving our lives, what does that reveal about our society? What does it say about our values and priorities that industries like professional sports generate enough money to help reverse climate change or end homelessness?
One of the most talked-about athletes in the United States in 2024, Caitlin Clark, has brought record-breaking attention to NCAA Women’s Basketball, increasing Women’s National Basketball Association (WNBA) viewership by bounds and earning a starting salary of only $76,000. Compared to NBA minimums of $800,000 and maximum contracts exceeding $50 million yearly, this is quite modest, to put it lightly.
The average National Women’s Soccer League (NWSL) player makes around $54,000 per year, while men who star on Major League Soccer (MLS) teams earn ten times that on average. Forbes’ 2022 althete earnings list showed top male athletes yielding $100 to $130 million, while no women exceeded $65 million.
Arguments as to why there stands a gender pay gap in professional sports take many forms, from the history of women’s sports being much shorter than men’s to the lack of public support, and in turn, revenue. But in the end, it continues to serve as a glaring reminder of societal gender disparities.
Compare professional athletes’ salaries with public service roles and you will see parallel disparities. Kindergarten and elementary school teachers earn around $60,000 a year, nurses tend to make about $85,000 and firefighters will usually land below $60,000, varying by state. These are the professions we trust with our children, our lives and our futures, yet we allocate $51 million, enough to pay 850 firefighters’ salaries, to one man every year for playing baseball.
I am in no way arguing against the talent and hard work of Soto or other professional athletes. These athletes are not the issue; they by all means deserve to be paid and recognized for their success. However, these contrasts beg the question: how worth it are these athletes and this industry?
The possibility of billions of dollars for individual athletes circulating through the sports industry is not only huge, but also immensely powerful. If a portion of the money spent on trades, deals, sponsorships and other expenditures went elsewhere, many modern crises could subside.
In 2023, the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development estimated that ending continual homelessness would take around $20 billion, less than the yearly revenue of the NFL.
The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) estimates that providing universal access to primary and secondary education in low-income countries would require $39 billion yearly, a mere 18% of what was spent on the 2022 Qatar World Cup. It is shown that providing healthcare to the uninsured population in the U.S. would cost between $33 and $44 billion yearly, less than the top five U.S. sports leagues’ combined revenue from broadcasting deals alone each year.
The list could go on and on. Maybe the scale of the sports industry justifies such high payouts, but in the end, the economic choices made around sports by corporations and fans alike reflect a bigger picture of where we choose to direct resources and why.
To their credit, many athletes do give back with their salaries and platforms. Take LeBron James, for example, who founded the PROMISE school in Akron, Ohio, or Serena Williams, who has funded the construction of schools in Kenya, Jamaica and Uganda and invested millions in Black-owned businesses.
But others fall short, such as boxer Floyd Mayweather, whose charitable donations are under $4,000 a year, which is a low number considering he is ranked sixth in all-time career earnings, which currently total over a billion dollars. The difference lies in intent. Wealth has the power to create real impact, but only when it’s directed with intention and care. We cannot blindly hope the ones we make famous will be the ones to repay our communities out of the goodness of their hearts.
All in all, these high salaries, the discrepancies between male and female, superstars and lifesavers, are not simply numbers to be debated. They reflect a culture where popularity and spectacle are treated as our greatest assets; where millions rush to support a team, but overlook crises threatening the very ground they play upon; where the thrill of a tournament upset justifies billion-dollar stadiums while homeless people sleep beside their gates.
I am not trying to say sports don’t hold value. I am an athlete and I want to watch my favorite players win championships. I am actively hoping to get tickets to a Dallas Wings v. Seattle Storm Paige Bueckers and Nika Muhl dual (once she is back from ACL recovery, of course). However, when the joy that sports inspires becomes more profitable than justice, I think it’s worth pausing to ask what we’re really investing in, and at what cost.