Contracts in the NRL are supposed to signify commitment, trust, and stability, binding both player and club in a professional agreement that ensures mutual benefit.
Yet in 2024, it seems this idea is starting to feel more like a quaint notion than a legally binding obligation.
Ben Hunt’s exit from the St George Illawarra Dragons, despite having a year left on his contract, highlights a stark truth: players in today’s game can extricate themselves from agreements with relative ease.
This trend, where the ink on a contract is barely dry before rumours of departures and early releases circulate, has me believing the very concept of a contract in the NRL is losing its meaning.
Hunt’s case wasn’t isolated. Over the past few years, there has been a rising number of players seeking exits from their contracts before they expire, citing various reasons.
Whether it’s personal grievances, desire for a change of scenery, or even the pursuit of premiership glory with another club, the rationale doesn’t seem to matter as much as the trend itself; commitment is flexible, and contracts are breakable.
There’s an argument to be made for the human side of the game. Rugby league players are not immune to struggles and deserve the same rights as anyone else when it comes to making decisions in their best interest.
Family, mental health, and life considerations are valid reasons to reassess commitments. Yet when the rate of early exits balloons, the foundational purpose of contracts—providing a sense of certainty and planning for player, club and even supporter—becomes eroded.
When a club signs a star player on a three-year deal, fans invest emotionally, and clubs invest financially with expectations that this player will be a cornerstone of their strategy for the agreed period.
But when “long-term” deals now frequently end halfway through, it creates a kind of contractual ambiguity. The term “commitment” begins to feel subjective, and clubs are left scrambling, rearranging their rosters with little forewarning. This isn’t just an issue for clubs. Fans, too, are left in the lurch.
Supporters form attachments to players, seeing them as representatives of their club’s values and ambitions. When players move mid-contract, it leaves a bitter aftertaste. It signals that loyalty and dedication are sometimes overshadowed by other motives.
Perhaps my take is a bit harsh, but it feels like the era where the binding nature of a contract meant something, is fading away. If a player signs a three-year deal, they should, by principle, honour it barring extraordinary circumstances like severe health issues— physical or mental.
To sign with one club and then use personal dissatisfaction or better opportunities as a ticket out, undermines the integrity of these agreements.
Where does this leave us? If the NRL wants to maintain the trust of its fanbase and ensure clubs have some level of predictability in their long-term planning, there needs to be a shift back towards making contracts mean something again. Otherwise, the term “contract” will continue to be diluted, merely a starting point for negotiations rather than a binding promise to see out a commitment.
In today’s NRL landscape, it might be time for clubs, players, and the league itself to revisit what contracts really mean and how to balance player welfare with professional commitment.
Only then can we regain faith in the notion that when a player signs on the dotted line, it truly counts for something.