How football’s amorality and transactionalism became the game within the game | Aaron Timms

The quest for revenue is the defining struggle of modern football, and many fans have correctly come to see higher revenue as the surest route to on-field glory

In the grand churn of the money machine that is modern football, it ranks as a fairly small deal. But when Liverpool recently announced they will earn more than £60m ($76.3m) a year from a new kit deal with Adidas starting next season, the reaction from the club’s supporters across social media said a lot about the nature of modern fandom. Apart from the habitual grumbles about what this might mean for the design of the team’s kit, fans mostly seemed to respond to the announcement in one of two ways: why doesn’t the new deal bring the club into line with the £90m ($114.3m) that Manchester United receives from Adidas for a comparable arrangement? And more pressingly: what kind of squad investment can an extra few million pounds a year secure? “Enough to pay Virgil,” declared one user on Reddit. “Does that mean we will buy a RB and a 10?” asked another.

These are, of course, completely normal reactions; any other club announcing any kind of commercial “win” would face similar responses from its supporters. But they highlight the extent to which we, as fans, have all become psychologically colonized by the grubby extractionism that defines the modern Premier League, applauding from the sidelines as a new content deal or shirt sponsorship or asset sale or fresh suite of unaffordable subscription packages lurches into view on the club balance sheet. That seat upgrade “layer” and points-based VIP fan tier might be part of the commercial drift that’s making football less affordable, carrying it ever further from the communities it claims to represent, but if they nab us a quality back-up keeper to put pressure on that number one chronically fumbling under the high ball? Well, maybe they’re not so bad after all.