The National Rugby League has never been afraid of bold moves, but its latest expansion gambit—a high-octane push into the United States market, complete with glitzy Las Vegas showpieces and an invite to US President Donald Trump—has the sports world buzzing.
As the NRL kicked off its season in Las Vegas for the second year running, questions swirled about whether the league was flying too high, too fast. Is the NRL prioritising explosive growth over sustainable foundations and at what cost to its reputation and core values?
Pushing Boundaries: Growth vs. Sustainability
Allegiant Stadium in Las Vegas hosting an NRL double-header is a thought few could have imagined a decade ago.
Yet under the stewardship of Australian Rugby League Commission (ARLC) chairman Peter V’landys and NRL CEO Andrew Abdo, the code has embarked on a daring journey to globalise the game. A five-year agreement will see NRL season openers played at Las Vegas’s 65,000-seat Allegiant Stadium each year through 2028.
The rationale? To crack the lucrative US sports market and tap into new revenue streams. By staging games in America, the NRL hoped to grab extra eyeballs, court American broadcasters and pitch itself to US gamblers.
The ambition is undeniable. Last year’s inaugural Las Vegas venture drew 40,746 fans through the gates—a promising turnout for a game virtually unknown in the States.
On Australian soil, it was hailed as a triumph: a blockbuster clash between Manly and South Sydney attracted over 800,000 viewers on Fox Sports, the highest-ever audience for a regular season NRL game on the broadcaster. New global sponsors have jumped aboard too, enticed by the NRL’s expanded reach.
JD Sports, which signed on as the league’s official sports retail partner in a deal aimed at leveraging the brand’s US influence and connecting with youth culture. “We would not have had these sponsors had we not been growing in America,” Abdo noted, pointing to “real revenue coming in” from international subscriptions and partnerships born of the Vegas experiment.
But behind the glitter of the Strip lies an uncomfortable question: Is this breakneck expansion built on solid ground? Thus far, American interest in rugby league remains tepid—the first Vegas double-header barely registered in US TV ratings, pulling in well under 100,000 combined viewers for both matches—for context, CBS’ show 60 Minutes can rack up 7 million viewers.
This year, Nielsen said 371,000 Americans watched the opening match between the Canberra Raiders and NZ Warriors. While this is a significant improvement on last year, for context 511,000 Australians watched MAFS on catch up last night.
The NRL is still very much a blip on the radar for most Americans.
Sceptics worry that the NRL is chasing fool’s gold in the desert. With considerable resources poured into these overseas fixtures, the financial stakes are high. League officials insist the investment is justified, claiming the Vegas venture may break even sooner than expected.
“This year there’s a possibility that we’ll actually return a profit on Vegas and if not, it’ll be a small loss,” V’landys claimed.
This suggests the NRL’s gamble is at least not a budget black hole in the short term. However, the long-term payoff in fan growth remains uncertain.
Meanwhile, domestically, there are whispers that the NRL might be stretching itself thin. The league only just expanded to a 17th team in 2023 and has a Papua New Guinea team set to kick off its first games in 2028. Each new club dilutes the talent pool and demands more grassroots development—a challenge in itself to sustain quality of competition.
Racing into foreign territory while still expanding at home is a delicate balance. If the Vegas plan flops or drains resources, it could leave the NRL with scorched wings, struggling to maintain its core product in Australia.
Some club bosses and veteran commentators have urged caution, noting the history of the Super League war in the 1990s when an overzealous expansion (and a costly battle for markets and media rights) nearly tore rugby league apart.
The phrase “growth at all costs” looms as a warning: the NRL’s bold expansion could either usher in a golden era of international relevance, or burden the game with overreach. It’s a classic high-risk, high-reward scenario—and the risk side became glaringly apparent when a public relations firestorm ignited over the league’s latest show of hubris in Las Vegas.
Backlash in Sin City: The Trump Invitation Fiasco
The NRL’s American adventure took a contentious turn when news broke that the league had formally invited President Donald Trump to attend its season-opening fixtures in Las Vegas.
The invite, extended alongside one to UFC president Dana White, was ostensibly a bid to generate buzz and legitimacy for rugby league’s US foray.
Yet the move detonated almost immediately. “Disappointing and frankly, tone deaf,” was the verdict from White Ribbon Australia, a leading domestic violence charity that for nearly two decades had partnered with the NRL on campaigns to end violence against women.
In the wake of the Trump invite, White Ribbon has ended its long-standing relationship with the NRL, accusing the league of undermining its own values by associating with men accused of violence towards women.
View this post on Instagram
The fallout was swift and very public. White Ribbon’s chief executive, Merinda March, lambasted the NRL’s leadership in unusually blunt terms.
“While the NRL has continued to promote their association with us, this decision by the NRL is wildly misaligned with our values and lacks integrity and respect,” March said, noting that “almost half [the NRL’s fans and participants] are female—[and] deserve better” .
The charity—which had worked with the NRL since the mid-2000s—insisted the league remove White Ribbon’s name from all promotional materials, not wanting to imply any endorsement of the Vegas spectacle.
The NRL complied, scrubbing White Ribbon from its partners list and marketing.
In a statement posted to social media, White Ribbon condemned the league’s choice to “associate with known perpetrators,” referring pointedly to the high-profile controversies surrounding the invitees.
Trump, as the charity and countless critics noted, was found liable by a US court in 2023 for sexually abusing and defaming writer E. Jean Carroll, resulting in a multi-million dollar damages order.
Dana White, meanwhile, was allegedly caught on video slapping his wife in a nightclub on New Year’s Eve 2022. For an organisation like White Ribbon – whose mission is to foster a culture of “safety and respect for women” – the NRL’s red-carpet welcome to Trump and White was a deal-breaker.
Public criticism of the NRL’s judgment poured in from all sides. Many fans and commentators decried the optics of the league cozying up to figures widely seen as antithetical to the inclusive, family-friendly image sport tries to project.
The phrase “tone deaf” echoed across social media as V’landys appeared on Fox News’s Fox & Friends (a show the President is known to watch religiously) brandishing a NRL match ball emblazoned with the word “TRUMP” as an on-air invitation.
Such a stunt may have been intended as a playful publicity grab, but to many it crossed into the absurd. Critics quipped that the NRL seemed desperate to make a splash in America, even if it meant diving into divisive political waters.
From a marketing perspective, inviting Trump and White might have been meant to signal that the NRL can play with the big boys of US sport—Trump has been a ringside guest at UFC fights and recently became the first US president to attend a Super Bowl.
Meanwhile NRL CEO Andrew Abdo staunchly defended the decision as routine protocol when hosting events abroad.
“We are playing this match in America. We’re being hosted by America,” Abdo said, explaining that “last year we invited Joe Biden, this year we invited Donald Trump. We invited the sitting president of the country in which we visit”.
Abdo insisted the league had no “political affiliation” and that rugby league is “about bringing people together no matter what your political beliefs, no matter what your background”.
The NRL’s equivalence fell flat for those outraged by Trump’s inclusion. As one fan wrote on an NRL forum, “Inviting a man found liable for sexual abuse and a promoter caught hitting his wife—how exact does that bring people together?”
Ethics on the Sidelines: Profit vs Principle
The Trump saga has cast a harsh spotlight on ethics in sports leadership. Should a league prioritise commercial opportunities and publicity over its social responsibilities?
It’s a question reverberating far beyond rugby league. In recent years, sports organisations worldwide have grappled with similar dilemmas—from the NBA facing criticism for appeasing foreign governments in the name of market access, to football leagues weighing lucrative sponsorships from regimes with poor human rights records. The NRL now finds itself in the crosshairs of this debate and how it responds could set a precedent.
On one side of the argument is cold, hard business. The NRL’s mandate (like any professional sports league) is to grow the game, increase revenue and serve its stakeholders, which include clubs, players and broadcast partners.
On the other side, there’s the view that major sports leagues carry significant social influence and thus bear responsibility for the company they keep. White Ribbon’s public rebuke is emblematic of the expectation that the NRL—which has heavily marketed itself as a champion of respect, inclusion and community values—should walk the walk if it’s going to talk to talk.
“Sporting organisations like the NRL have a vital role to play in promoting a culture of safety and respect for women,” White Ribbon argued pointedly.
The optics don’t just offend advocacy groups; they can ripple through the fan base and player groups. League bosses must ask: What message does this send to our players, especially when we’ve sanctioned and even banned athletes for similar transgressions?
Just a few years ago, the NRL introduced a “no-fault stand-down” policy to sideline any player charged with a serious violent or sexual offense, explicitly to uphold the game’s reputation for zero tolerance. How does that stance square with inviting a politician found liable for sexual abuse in a civil court?
There’s also a longer-term strategic ethical question: by prioritising short-term commercial wins, does a sport erode the very values that made it strong?
The NRL has invested in programs about respect and inclusion to keep that trust. Moves like the Trump invite risk breeding cynicism among those fans, who might wonder if all the league’s talk about respecting women is just lip service when money or publicity are on the line.
Culture Under Scrutiny: Old Wounds Reopened
This is not the first time the NRL’s culture has been questioned. The league has been dogged by off-field misconduct scandals for decades—from alcohol-fueled incidents to allegations of assault—and particularly by incidents of violence against women.
At one point, the litany of player misdeeds was so notorious that a News Corp publication tallied “66 scandals in four years” that had rocked the NRL, many involving accusations of domestic violence or sexual assault by players.
While the league has taken steps to punish and reform offenders, critics argue that a “boy’s club” mentality persisted for too long, protecting star players and downplaying victims’ voices. In 2019, a watershed moment arrived when several high-profile players were embroiled in serious criminal cases during one off-season, prompting then-ARLC chairman Peter Beattie and CEO Todd Greenberg to implement stronger sanctions.
Players such as Ben Barba were banned for life over domestic violence incidents caught on CCTV. Others, such as Jack de Belin and Jarryd Hayne, were stood down while facing rape charges (Hayne was later convicted while de Berlin’s charges were dropped and he was able to resume play).
In what was a painful period of introspection for the sport, the partnership with White Ribbon was part of the NRL’s effort to signal a cultural shift, leveraging the game’s popularity to champion “zero tolerance” for violence against women in society and within its ranks.
That’s why this Trump debacle feels like déjà vu to many observers—a sign that, perhaps, old habits die hard.
“When the NRL is ready to commit to an authentic zero-tolerance stance to abuse and violence against women, White Ribbon Australia would welcome the opportunity to meet and discuss an opportunity to collaborate on an organisation-wide intervention,” March said pointedly as she closed the door on the partnership.
Her implication was clear: the league’s leaders still don’t quite get it. Inviting Trump and Dana White, in White Ribbon’s view, proved the NRL is not truly practicing the values it espouses, but rather picking and choosing based on convenience. It highlights a deeper cultural problem—a willingness at the top to overlook or rationalise behaviors that would be roundly condemned if committed by one of the NRL’s own players or staff.
Some within the game also worry that such decisions can undermine the progress made in recent years. The NRL has invested heavily in its women’s competition (NRLW), junior development, and education programs to demonstrate it is cleaning up its act.
Those efforts have shown positive results: there’s greater awareness among players about respectful behavior, and offenders are increasingly being held accountable. Yet, how can the NRL convincingly enforce standards on a 22-year-old player when its bosses are happy to play host to celebrity guests with checkered pasts?
The Trump saga might just be the rude awakening that, in 2025, optics are everything and a misstep in the court of public opinion can overshadow even the greatest on-field spectacle.
Potential Consequences: Fan Fallout and Stakeholder Jitters
What are the potential consequences if the NRL continues down this path of aggressive expansion intertwined with contentious decisions? For one, the league’s credibility is on the line. Losing the partnership of White Ribbon—an organisation that had been by the NRL’s side for 17 years—is not just a minor PR blip. It signals to sponsors, community partners, and socially conscious fans that the NRL might not be the safe bet it once was in terms of brand values.
Other corporate partners could quietly reconsider their alignment if they sense the public turning on the NRL’s judgement. Thus far, no major sponsors have pulled out, but these relationships often hinge on a sport’s positive public image. The NRL can ill afford a perception that it’s the “wild west” league where anything goes as long as it sells tickets.
Grassroots support could also weaken. Local junior clubs and volunteers form the backbone of rugby league in Australia, especially in suburban and regional areas. These are people who dedicate time to coaching kids, fundraising, and spreading the league’s gospel on the ground. If they become disillusioned by the actions of those at the top, that passion can dwindle. The risk is a slow burnout of the very community sentiment that the NRL relies on to nurture the next generation of players and fans.
Fan division is another real possibility. Rugby league has always had a broad following, from traditionalists who care only about the on-field contest to socially conscious younger fans who expect their league to reflect modern values. The Trump episode revealed a fissure: some fans applauded the NRL for “thinking big” and dismissed criticism as overblown political correctness, but many others—including lifelong supporters—felt alienated and angry.
Such splits can be corrosive. If a portion of fans feel the league doesn’t represent them or even offends them, they might disengage altogether. In an era where sports compete fiercely for the entertainment dollar, no league can afford to take its rusted-on fans for granted.
Internationally, the controversy could undermine the very expansion the NRL is chasing. In the US, tying one’s brand to Donald Trump is an overt political statement whether intended or not—it could just as easily repel as attract potential American fans.
The league risks being seen as pandering to one side of a polarised audience. And within Australia’s increasingly multicultural fanbase, aligning with a figure who is deeply unpopular in many countries could also jar.
Of course all of the outcomes are speculative and would require far greater polarisation before they would become a real problem, but they’re risks the NRL has undoubtedly heightened with this move.
Ultimately, the tale of the NRL’s rapid expansion and its attendant controversies is shaping up like a modern sports version of the Icarus myth.
The NRL’s leadership, buoyed by domestic success and brimming with confidence, has taken to the skies with grand visions: new continents to conquer, new audiences to wow, new revenue to seize. In doing so, they’ve shown a willingness to defy conventional limits. For a while, it seemed to be working; the league was riding high on a wave of publicity and optimism about taking rugby league to the world.
But the heat is starting to be felt. The Las Vegas venture, while still aloft, has revealed both glaring vulnerabilities and hubristic lapses in judgment.
As the NRL’s Las Vegas experiment continues, the league stands at a crossroads. The possibilities from here are dramatic in either direction. In one scenario, the NRL’s gamble pays off: rugby league gains a foothold abroad, new revenues flow, and the game’s profile soars, vindicating the risk.
In another scenario, the NRL alienates its base, fails to win new converts, and ends up retreating with its tail between its legs.
The more likely reality lies somewhere in between, but the coming months and years will reveal whether the NRL’s administrators have learned the lessons of caution and integrity that this episode has so starkly illustrated.
One thing is certain: the NRL’s reach must not exceed its grasp. Flying high is part of the sporting spirit, but survival and sustained success require knowing how close is too close to fly toward the sun. The league’s future, both in Australia and on the world stage, may well depend on striking the right balance between ambition and wisdom – between bold expansion and the core values that have long underpinned rugby league’s bond with its community.
In chasing new glories, the NRL must ensure it does not forget where it came from, nor the principles that will keep it aloft for generations to come. Otherwise, the only thing crashing down in Vegas might be more than just a wayward high ball. It could be the very wings of a league that dreamed of being global, only to be undone by its own overreach.
B&T approached both White Ribbon and the NRL for comment on the matter.
