Football, Piracy, and Profits. But Profits for Whom?

Today morning, the BBC reported that Egyptian police had shut down Streameast, a piracy site which drew more than 1.6 billion visits in the past year. The site gave millions free access to pirated live streams of Premier League football matches, Formula One races, and Major League Baseball games — content that legally requires multiple costly subscriptions.

Only 7% of the money generated by Europe’s biggest competition — the UEFA Champions League — goes back into the sport. The other 93% is siphoned off by elite clubs, broadcasters, and investors. It is greed, not the game, that consumes the bulk of football’s riches. And that is why tickets keep climbing, subscription prices keep multiplying, and millions of fans are being priced out of watching the sport they love.

⸻

The economics of a boom

Sports broadcasting is now a global business worth over $60 billion a year in media rights. The English Premier League’s latest domestic TV deal is valued at £6.7 billion for 2025–29. UEFA will distribute €3.3 billion in prize money across its men’s competitions in 2024/25. In the United States, the NFL, NBA, and MLB have signed packages collectively worth tens of billions, locking in record sums for franchise owners.

At the top, it looks like a golden age. Clubs trumpet record revenues, broadcasters sell out their advertising slots, and private equity firms have begun to buy slices of competitions themselves. Spain’s La Liga handed over an 8.2% share of its future broadcast income to CVC Capital Partners in exchange for a cash injection. Rugby’s Six Nations sold a stake to the same group. The pattern is clear: sport has become another financial asset class.

But the more rights fees climb, the more pressure broadcasters face to recoup their costs. In practice, that means raising subscription prices and carving competitions into multiple packages. Fans who once paid a single cable bill now find themselves juggling three or four streaming services — or giving up altogether.

⸻

Where the money really goes

Despite the flood of revenue, only a modest share is earmarked for the broader game. UEFA’s solidarity payments — the money distributed to clubs not participating in European competitions — will rise from 4% to 7% of gross Champions League income in 2024–27. In England, the Premier League says it will direct £550 million into grassroots and community projects this year, with £1.6 billion committed over the three-year cycle. These are large sums in absolute terms, but when set against total league revenues above £6 billion annually, they remain single-digit proportions.

Most of the money flows elsewhere. Prize money and broadcast distributions reward those already at the top. Performance bonuses and “history coefficients” mean that the biggest clubs — Real Madrid, Bayern Munich, Manchester City — receive outsized shares, further entrenching their dominance. In the U.S., collective bargaining agreements at least guarantee players around half of league revenues, but even there, owners and media partners keep enormous profits.

The net effect is that the pyramid beneath elite professional sport — the lower leagues, the community clubs, the facilities where children first learn to play — receives only crumbs. That is why so many argue that the model is upside down: the more money comes in, the less affordable the product becomes for the very people who sustain it.

⸻

The cost to fans

For ordinary supporters, the impact is immediate. In Britain, the cost of watching top-flight football on television has risen by nearly 60% since 2020, as rights are split among Sky Sports, TNT Sports, Amazon, and now additional streaming services. To watch all Premier League and Champions League matches legally, a household can pay upwards of £1,000 per year. In Spain, following La Liga can run to €1,400 annually once all subscriptions are accounted for. In the United States, the new ESPN–Fox bundle costs $39.99 a month, on top of existing packages required to watch other leagues.

Stadium tickets have also soared. In England, average Premier League ticket prices are now above £60, with top matches exceeding £100. Clubs argue that demand justifies the increase. But critics note that the inflation in broadcast deals, which was supposed to strengthen clubs, has in practice raised costs for fans at every level.

Younger fans, in particular, are locked out. Many are used to free highlights on TikTok or YouTube. Faced with insecure jobs and rising living costs, they simply cannot afford premium subscriptions. For them, pirated streams are not an indulgence but the only way to watch live games.

⸻

Piracy as a symptom

The closure of Streameast was heralded as a major anti-piracy victory after it drew more than 1.6 billion visits in a year, offering free streams of Premier League matches, Formula 1 races, and Major League Baseball games. Authorities in Egypt arrested two men, seizing laptops, smartphones, and cash tied to an operation that had laundered millions through advertising revenue.

Yet the appetite that fueled Streameast remains. Shutting down one site often creates space for another. Fans priced out of the legal market will continue to search for alternatives. And with high-quality illicit streams only a few clicks away, enforcement alone cannot solve the problem.

The uncomfortable truth is that piracy has become a rational consumer choice in a distorted market. When the legal cost of following a sport exceeds what fans are willing or able to pay, the illicit option becomes the default. It is not greed that drives millions to pirate streams; it is exclusion.

⸻

Profits at the top

The concentration of profits at the summit of sport is striking. In European football, the biggest clubs earn multiples of what mid-table teams take in, thanks to both performance bonuses and legacy weighting. In the Champions League, historical coefficients mean that a club like Real Madrid can earn tens of millions more than a first-time participant, regardless of performance in the current season.

Private equity deals add another layer of extraction. La Liga’s agreement with CVC Capital Partners effectively commits Spanish clubs to divert future broadcast revenues for decades. The Six Nations rugby tournament has signed a similar arrangement. These moves provide cash injections now, but reduce the amount available to reinvest later — ensuring that much of tomorrow’s fan spending will service today’s financial deals.

In the United States, franchise models at least provide more revenue sharing, but valuations have soared into the billions. Owners treat teams as appreciating assets, often leveraged with debt, which means that rising rights fees are baked into the business model. Once again, the fan pays the bill.

⸻

What 7% tells us

The “7% problem” is a useful symbol. UEFA proudly raised its solidarity distribution from 4% to 7% of gross revenues, and the Premier League advertises its £1.6 billion contribution to community projects. But these figures reveal how little of the overall pot is committed to the broader health of the sport.

If solidarity were set at 15% or 20%, grassroots clubs could be transformed, ticket prices could be subsidised, and more matches could be shown on free-to-air television. Instead, over 90% of revenues flow into the same channels: elite clubs, wealthy owners, broadcasters, and investors. The imbalance is not accidental; it is structural.

That is why so many argue that fans are not wrong to feel shortchanged. They pay ever higher prices, but only a sliver of their money strengthens the game itself. The rest is skimmed off, polished into profits, and passed up the chain.

⸻

Searching for solutions

Fixing the model requires more than piracy crackdowns. Analysts propose consolidated “super-bundles” that would let fans access all competitions through a single subscription at a fairer price. Others call for minimum solidarity thresholds, requiring leagues and federations to direct at least 15% of gross revenues to grassroots sport. Legislators could mandate free-to-air access for a limited number of marquee events, easing the barrier to entry.

In the end, the choice is between regulation and erosion. If leagues and broadcasters continue to maximise short-term profits, piracy will flourish and younger fans will disengage. If they redirect a greater share of revenue — more than 7% — back into the sport and lower costs for consumers, they can rebuild trust.

⸻

A final reckoning

The modern sports economy is awash with money, but its distribution is distorted. Rights fees inflate, investors profit, and fans bear the cost. Piracy is not an aberration but a predictable response to exclusion. Unless the imbalance changes — unless more than a token 7% is devoted to sustaining the sport itself — ticket prices will continue to rise, subscriptions will become ever more fragmented, and millions will keep looking for illicit alternatives.

The question is whether those at the top are willing to give up a slice of their profits to make the game accessible again. Until then, the gap between what fans pay and what the sport gives back will remain the fault line running through the global game.

⸻