A $2.8 billion settlement will change college sports forever. Here's how
A federal judge has approved terms of a sprawling $2.8 billion antitrust settlement that will upend the way college sports have been run for more than a century. In short, schools can now directly pay players through licensing deals — a concept that goes against the foundation of amateurism that college sports was built upon.
Some questions and answers about this monumental change for college athletics:
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Q: What is the House settlement and why does it matter?
A: Grant House is a former Arizona State swimmer who sued the defendants (the NCAA and the five biggest athletic conferences in the nation). His lawsuit and two others were combined and over several years the dispute wound up with the settlement that ends a decades-old prohibition on schools cutting checks directly to athletes. Now, each school will be able to make payments to athletes for use of their name, image and likeness (NIL). For reference, there are nearly 200,000 athletes and 350 schools in Division I alone and 500,000 and 1,100 schools across the entire NCAA.
Q: How much will the schools pay the athletes and where will the money come from?
A: In Year 1, each school can share up to about $20.5 million with their athletes, a number that represents 22% of their revenue from things like media rights, ticket sales and sponsorships. Alabama athletic director Greg Byrne famously told Congress 'those are resources and revenues that don't exist.' Some of the money will come via ever-growing TV rights packages, especially for the College Football Playoff. But some schools are increasing costs to fans through 'talent fees,' concession price hikes and 'athletic fees' added to tuition costs.
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Q: What about scholarships? Wasn't that like paying the athletes?
A: Scholarships and 'cost of attendance' have always been part of the deal for many Division I athletes and there is certainly value to that, especially if athletes get their degree. The NCAA says its member schools hand out nearly $4 billion in athletic scholarships every year. But athletes have long argued that it was hardly enough to compensate them for the millions in revenue they helped produce for the schools, which went to a lot of places, including multimillion-dollar coaches' salaries. They took those arguments to court and won.
Q: Haven't players been getting paid for a while now?
A: Yes, since 2021. Facing losses in court and a growing number of state laws targeting its amateurism policies, the NCAA cleared the way for athletes to receive NIL money from third parties, including so-called donor-backed collectives that support various schools. Under House, the school can pay that money directly to athletes and the collectives are still in the game.
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Q: But will $20.5 million cover all the costs for the athletes?
A: Probably not. But under terms of the settlement, third parties are still allowed to cut deals with the players. Some call it a workaround, but most simply view this as the new reality in college sports as schools battle to land top talent and then keep them on campus. Top quarterbacks are reportedly getting paid around $2 million a year, which would eat up about 10% of a typical school's NIL budget for all its athletes.
Q: Are there any rules or is it a free-for-all?
A: The defendant conferences (ACC, Big Ten, Big 12, SEC and Pac-12) are creating an enforcement arm that is essentially taking over for the NCAA, which used to police recruiting violations and the like. Among this new entity's biggest functions is to analyze third-party deals worth $600 or more to make sure they are paying players an appropriate 'market value' for the services being provided. The so-called College Sports Commission promises to be quicker and more efficient than the NCAA. Schools are being asked to sign a contract saying they will abide by the rules of this new structure, even if it means going against laws passed in their individual states.
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Q: What about players who played before NIL was allowed?
A: A key component of the settlement is the $2.7 billion in back pay going to athletes who competed between 2016-24 and were either fully or partially shut out from those payments under previous NCAA rules. That money will come from the NCAA and its conferences (but really from the schools, who will receive lower-than-normal payouts from things like March Madness).
Q: Who will get most of the money?
A: Since football and men's basketball are the primary revenue drivers at most schools, and that money helps fund all the other sports, it stands to reason that the football and basketball players will get most of the money. But that is one of the most difficult calculations for the schools to make. There could be Title IX equity concerns as well.
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Q: What about all the swimmers, gymnasts and other Olympic sports athletes?
A: The settlement calls for roster limits that will reduce the number of players on all teams while making all of those players – not just a portion – eligible for full scholarships. This figures to have an outsize impact on Olympic-sport athletes, whose scholarships cost as much as that of a football player but whose sports don't produce revenue. There are concerns that the pipeline of college talent for Team USA will take a hit.
Q: So, once this is finished, all of college sports' problems are solved, right?
A: The new enforcement arm seems ripe for litigation. There are also the issues of collective bargaining and whether athletes should flat-out be considered employees, a notion the NCAA and schools are generally not interested in, despite Tennessee athletic director Danny White's suggestion that collective bargaining is a potential solution to a lot of headaches. NCAA President Charlie Baker has been pushing Congress for a limited antitrust exemption that would protect college sports from another series of lawsuits but so far nothing has emerged from Capitol Hill.
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AP college sports: https://apnews.com/hub/college-sports
Eddie Pells, The Associated Press
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I reached out for a flute, thinking it was maybe just a fucked-up piece of art, and gasped as the hand let go of the stem, disappeared into the hole, and emerged seconds later with another full champagne glass. Past the champagne glory hole wall — there was really no other way to describe it — was a massive outdoor swimming pool, surrounded by chefs serving up endless portions of steak frites, unguarded magnums of Moët casually stacked in ice buckets, the professional Beautiful Women of Las Vegas draped around Peter Schiff, the famous economist/podcaster/Bitcoin skeptic. When not booked for private events, the crescent-shaped pool at Ayu would be filled with drunk people in swim suits, dancing to DJ Kaskade. No one was in the pool tonight. Depravity was not happening here. In fact, there was more networking going on than partying, and it was somehow more engaging than Bone Thugs-N-Harmony suddenly appearing onstage to perform. And it was distinctly not just about making money in crypto. A good percentage of this crowd wore some derivative of a MAGA hat, and anyone who could show off their photos of them with Trump did so. This, I realized, was how crypto bros did politics — a new game for them, where success and influence was not necessarily quantifiable. 'Crypto got Trump elected,' Greg Grseziak, an agent who manages crypto influencers, told me, showing me his Trump photo opp. 'In four years, this is going to be the biggest event in the presidential race.' Grzesiak walked off to do more networking, I finished my glory hole champagne, and in the meantime, Bone Thugs had started performing 'East 1999'. A fellow reporter leaned over. 'Who do you think those guys are?' he asked, pointing to a group of extremely tall white men in suits and lanyards, standing behind a velvet rope to the left of the stage. I walked over to investigate. They looked like the group of Steak 'n Shake executives I met at the Expo Hall — the ones with the beef tallow jars and derivative MAGA hats — and they were lurking next to the stage, watching the rappers like vultures but barely moving to the music. This scene was too preposterous to actually be real: Steak 'n Shake executives, at the Bitcoin Conference, attending a party for America250, in the VIP section, during a Bone Thugs-n-Harmony set? 'Shout out to Steak 'n Shake for being the first fast food restaurant to accept Bitcoin!' announced one of the Bones. The company logo appeared on a screen above his head. No flashy Vegas magic (or dancers in cow costumes, now shimmying onstage with Steak 'n Shake signs) could mask what I just saw. This party was co-sponsored by a MAGA-branded fast-food chain owned by Sardar Biglari, a businessman who had purchased Maxim, became its editor-in-chief, and used the smutty magazine to endorse Trump in 2024. So was Frax, the stablecoin exchange, and Exodus, one of the biggest crypto wallet companies in the market. Bitcoin Magazine's logo flashed across the stage at one point, as editor-in-chief David Bailey, in his own derivative MAGA hat, tried to hype up the crowd for J.D. Vance's speech the next day. ('You only get to live history once,' he said, to faint cheers.) For some unknown reason, these companies were all putting their money into America250, and as I had to keep reminding myself, America250 — the government nonprofit in charge of planning the country's celebrations of the 250th anniversary of the Declaration's signing — was currently working to get tanks in the streets of Washington DC for Donald Trump's birthday. I went for one last champagne flute from the glory hole, just for the novelty, and as the hand disappeared back into the wall, I caught something I'd missed earlier: above the hole was a logo for TRON, the blockchain exchange run by billionaire Justin Sun. He had faced several fraud investigations from the SEC that magically disappeared after he invested $75 million in a Trump family crypto company, and seemed more than happy to keep throwing crypto money at Trump. Recently, he won the $TRUMP meme coin dinner, spending over $16 million on the token in exchange for a private and controversial dinner with the president. TRON was also cosponsoring the America250 party. Earlier, I'd run into the Australian emcee in the elevator of The Palazzo. She'd spent the day teetering across the Nakamoto Stage in dainty kitten heels, a pinstriped blazer and miniskirt suit set, and given the gratuitous Trump praising and the fact she was blonde, I had stereotyped her as MAGA to the core. But the program was over and she was holding her heels by their ankle straps, barefoot and sighing in relief. This was not her usual style, she told an attendee. She'd take a pair of sneakers over heels if she could. But the conference organizers had told her to dress up because there were senators in attendance. 'Tomorrow, the real Bitcoiners are coming,' she said, and she'd get to wear flat shoes. And the next morning, on the day of Vance's speech, I found myself stuck outside the conference with the 'real Bitcoiners.' In spite of all the emails that the conference had sent me reminding me of how strict security measures would be, possibly to overcorrect from last year's utter shitshow around Trump's appearance, I'd woken up too late, eaten my bagel too leisurely, got sidetracked by a police officer-turned-Bitcoin investor excited I was wearing orange (whoops), and barely missed the cutoff for the Secret Service to let me in. But the conference had set up televisions with a live feed of Vance's speech, and the rest of the general admission attendees were remarkably chill about it, opting to mingle in the hallways until the Secret Service left. I found myself in a smaller crowd near the expo hall door, next to a young man carrying a live miniature Shiba Inu ('It's a tiny doge!' he said proudly), and the podcaster I'd seen earlier in the sequined bomber jacket. He introduced himself as Action CEO, and with nothing else to do but wait — 'You can watch the [Vance] replay,' he reassured me, 'these events are mainly about networking' — we got to talking. 'I'm actually excited that Trump isn't even here, I'll be honest with you,' he said, speaking with a rapid cadence. Trump was ultimately just one guy, and the fact that he sent his underlings and political allies — the ones who could actually implement his grand promises for the crypto industry — proved he hadn't just been paying lip service. That said, it had come with some uncomfortable changes, including the re-emergence of Justin Sun. 'It's a little bit concerning when you say, All right, we don't care what you did in the past. Come on out, clean slate,' he continued. 'That's the concern right now for most people. Seeing people that did wrong by the space coming back and acting like nothing happened? That's a little concerning.' And not just that: Sun was back in the United States, having dinner with Trump, and giving him millions of dollars. 'If you're sitting in a room and having a conversation, people are literally gonna go, yeah, it's kind of sketch that this guy is back here after everything that's happened. You're not gonna see it published, because it's not a popular opinion, but we're all definitely talking about it.' If Action's friends weren't comfortable talking about it openly, that fraudsters with enough money were suddenly back in the mix, it was certainly not the kind of conversation the CEOs were going to have in front of the General Admission crowd. (Though it did mean that the emcee, looking much happier than she did the day before, got to wear low-heeled boots and shorts.) But behind closed doors — or at least at the Code and Country panels, where the base pass attendees couldn't boo them — they gave a sense of what their backroom conversations with the Trump administration did look like. 'I was actually at a dinner last night and one of the things that someone from the admin said was, What if we give you guys everything you want and then you guys forget? Because there's midterms in 2026, and hopefully 2028, and beyond,' said Sam Kazemian, the founder and CEO of Frax, which had sponsored the America250 party. 'But one of the things I said was: We as an industry are very, very loyal. The crypto community has a very, very, very strong memory. And once this industry is legalized, is transparent, is safe, all of the big players understand that this wasn't possible without this administration, this Congress, this Senate. We're lifelong, career-long allies.' 'Loyalty' is a dangerous concept with this president, who's cheated on his three wives, stopped paying the legal fees for employees who'd taken the fall for him, ended the careers of sympathetic MAGA Republicans for insufficiently coddling him, withdrew security for government employees experiencing death threats for the sin of contradicting him in public by citing facts. It was only weeks ago that he and Vance were publicly screaming at Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky, who was at the White House to request more aid in the war against Russia, for not saying 'thank you' in front of the cameras. It would be less than a week before he began threatening to cancel all of Elon Musk's government contracts when the billionaire criticized the size of Trump's budget, even though Musk had given him millions and helped him purge the government. And if you were to find a photo of any political leader, billionaire or CEO standing vacant-eyed next to Trump and shaking his hand, the circumstances are practically a given: they had recently made him unhappy, either for criticizing him, making an imagined slight, or simply asserting themselves. The only way they could avoid public humiliation, or their businesses being crushed via executive order, was to go to Mar-a-Lago, tell the world that the president was wonderful, and underwrite a giant party for his birthday military parade. Maybe Kazemian knew he was being tested, or maybe the 32-year old Ron Paul superfan had no idea what the administration was asking of him. Either way, he responded correctly. At least one person at the conference was thinking about ways that the government could betray the Bitcoin community. As the panel on Bitcoiners becoming sycophants of the state wrapped up, and the other panelists finished telling the government pigs to go fuck themselves and keep their hands off their nerd money, the moderator turned to Casey Rodarmor, a software engineer-turned-crypto influencer, for the last question: 'Tell everyone here why Bitcoin wins, regardless of what happens.' 'Oh, man, I don't know if Bitcoin wins, regardless of what happens,' he responded, frowning. He had already gamed out one feasible situation where Bitcoin lost: 'If we all of a sudden saw a very rapid inflation in a lot of fiat currencies, and there was a plausible scapegoat in Bitcoin all over the world, and they were able to make a sort of marketing claim that Bitcoin is causing this — Bitcoin is making your savings go to zero, it's causing this carnage to the economy — If that happens worldwide, I think that's really scary.' The moderator froze, the crowd murmured nervously, and I thought about the number of times Trump had blamed a group of people for problems they'd never caused. An awful lot of them were now being deported. 'I take that seriously,' Rodarmor continued. 'I don't know that Bitcoin will succeed. I think that Bitcoin is incredibly strong, it's incredibly difficult to fuck up. But in that case… man, I don't know.' I had asked Action CEO earlier if Kazemian, the Frax CEO, was right — if the crypto world was unquestioningly loyal to Trump, if their support of him was unconditional. 'Oh, it's definitely conditional,' he said without hesitation, as his Trump jacket glittered under the fluorescent lights. 'It's a matter of, are you going to be doing the right things by us, by the people who are here?' We walked down the expo hall, past booths promising life-changing technological marvels, alongside thousands of people flooding into Nakamoto Hall, ready to learn how to become unfathomably rich, who paid $199 to be there.
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