I’ve been sitting on this thought for a few days, and I just need to get it out there because I feel like the vibe in the stands is shifting in a way that’s hard to put into words. We talk a lot about "modernizing" things, about "maximizing engagement," and about "securing the future," but I can’t help but feel like we’re slowly gutting the very thing that makes being a supporter worth it in the first place.
There is this unspoken social contract between a club and its fans. You give them your time, your voice, and your hard-earned money, and in return, you get a seat at the table—a sense of belonging. But lately, it feels like the table is being moved further and further back, and a velvet rope is being placed in front of it.
I remember being a kid and just showing up. You’d find a way to get a ticket, you’d grab a cheap pie, and you were part of the collective. There was a certain level of egalitarianism in the terraces. It didn't matter if you were a blue-collar worker or a local business owner; once you were in that stadium, you were part of the same organism. But now, it feels like clubs are increasingly moving toward these tiered, gated systems that prioritize "value" over "loyalty."
When you start implementing these complex membership layers where you essentially have to pay a premium just to have the *right* to attempt to buy a ticket, you aren't just increasing revenue. You are fundamentally changing the demographic of the crowd. You’re creating a hierarchy. If you have to pay a subscription fee just to stand a chance at seeing your team, you are effectively telling the lifelong fan who is living paycheck to paycheck that they are a second-class citizen. They are "low value" compared to the person who can afford the VIP tier or the premium membership package.
I’ve seen it happen in other sectors too. Look at how "loyalty programs" have taken over everything from airlines to coffee shops. It’s all about data mining and squeezing every last cent of "lifetime value" out of a person. In sports, that feels especially predatory. A club isn't a tech startup or a retail chain; it’s a community institution. When you treat a supporter like a "customer segment" to be optimized, you lose the magic. You lose the unpredictability.
And let's be honest about the "success" argument. The argument always goes: "We need this money to buy better players, to compete, to win trophies." And sure, on paper, that makes sense. If we win, we’re happy. But if we win a trophy with a stadium full of people who can afford the "Gold Tier" but none of the people who have been there through the dark years, what have we actually won? Have we actually preserved the club, or have we just turned it into a high-end entertainment product?
I worry about the long-term implications. If you price out the die-hards to chase the high-net-worth individuals, you're trading stability for volatility. The people who pay the premium might jump ship when the team starts losing, but the people who bleed the colors? They’re the ones who keep the lights on during the bad times. If you alienate them, you’re building your house on sand.
I’m curious to hear what the rest of you think. Are we witnessing the inevitable evolution of professional sports, where "access" is a commodity to be sold to the highest bidder? Or is there a point where a club's commercial "success" actually becomes its cultural failure? Is there a way to balance the books without selling our souls?
There is this unspoken social contract between a club and its fans. You give them your time, your voice, and your hard-earned money, and in return, you get a seat at the table—a sense of belonging. But lately, it feels like the table is being moved further and further back, and a velvet rope is being placed in front of it.
I remember being a kid and just showing up. You’d find a way to get a ticket, you’d grab a cheap pie, and you were part of the collective. There was a certain level of egalitarianism in the terraces. It didn't matter if you were a blue-collar worker or a local business owner; once you were in that stadium, you were part of the same organism. But now, it feels like clubs are increasingly moving toward these tiered, gated systems that prioritize "value" over "loyalty."
When you start implementing these complex membership layers where you essentially have to pay a premium just to have the *right* to attempt to buy a ticket, you aren't just increasing revenue. You are fundamentally changing the demographic of the crowd. You’re creating a hierarchy. If you have to pay a subscription fee just to stand a chance at seeing your team, you are effectively telling the lifelong fan who is living paycheck to paycheck that they are a second-class citizen. They are "low value" compared to the person who can afford the VIP tier or the premium membership package.
I’ve seen it happen in other sectors too. Look at how "loyalty programs" have taken over everything from airlines to coffee shops. It’s all about data mining and squeezing every last cent of "lifetime value" out of a person. In sports, that feels especially predatory. A club isn't a tech startup or a retail chain; it’s a community institution. When you treat a supporter like a "customer segment" to be optimized, you lose the magic. You lose the unpredictability.
And let's be honest about the "success" argument. The argument always goes: "We need this money to buy better players, to compete, to win trophies." And sure, on paper, that makes sense. If we win, we’re happy. But if we win a trophy with a stadium full of people who can afford the "Gold Tier" but none of the people who have been there through the dark years, what have we actually won? Have we actually preserved the club, or have we just turned it into a high-end entertainment product?
I worry about the long-term implications. If you price out the die-hards to chase the high-net-worth individuals, you're trading stability for volatility. The people who pay the premium might jump ship when the team starts losing, but the people who bleed the colors? They’re the ones who keep the lights on during the bad times. If you alienate them, you’re building your house on sand.
I’m curious to hear what the rest of you think. Are we witnessing the inevitable evolution of professional sports, where "access" is a commodity to be sold to the highest bidder? Or is there a point where a club's commercial "success" actually becomes its cultural failure? Is there a way to balance the books without selling our souls?