The NCAA passed a new rule which allows athletes to make money off of their name, image, and likeness, and the rule has already seriously influenced how some college athletes behave online. Through interviews with Nico Young, Raniyah Jones, Jackson Mestler, and others, Sheridan Wilbur explores the new athlete-influencer culture and its consequences.
[originally appearing in August 2021 issue of New Generation T&F magazine]
Raniyah Jones and her track team at Central Florida show up to most afternoon practices airing out intimacies from the night before. They gossip. They talk. “What’d your boyfriend get you today?,” Jones might ask her teammate whose new boo routinely brings her flowers.
And Jones would expect an answer to personal questions like this one because track practice was a sacred time. It was mutually understood that whatever they said was friendly and good-natured, never malicious—a social contract between friends and teammates, no audience, or NDA to complicate the dynamics.
Without a crowd at the UCF track, the women ran their mouths during warm up drills. Sometimes their much-older coach would inject herself into her Gen Z athletes’ conversations, tossing in cultural references she’d seen on Twitter. Warming up inevitably transitioned to working out hard, and as the UCF women started their reps, they descended into silence, entering more remote parts of themselves, doing the private work, only for each other to to see and hear.
All that could change with the addition of a camera. The update to the NCAA’s NIL rule, which was passed on July 1, may usher in the addition of photoshoots and vlogs at practice. The camera could certainly alter people’s behavior. Athletes suddenly might have a personal stake in accumulating clicks and views, now able to monetize the drama and personality of their team.
The update to the NIL rule changes the ownership of the publicity rights of college athletes; previously, the NCAA was the only body that could profit off of collegiate athletes. Athletes could be deemed ineligible for selling t-shirts with their faces on them, for receiving payment for speaking at a summer camp, or for monetizing their YouTube channels. The intention behind the new rule is about fairly compensating athletes for the value they bring to their school and the NCAA.
This freedom has limitations, though. For example, the NIL rule update could distort the purity of practice. Athletes’ intentions for remaining in the sport could change, potentially no longer singularly guided by a seemingly incorruptible love for the sport. The NIL rule invites athletes to go for the wrong kind of gold; they're now incentivized to make money off their status, which, for some, may be a more attainable goal than actually improving in the NCAA ranks.
The update to the NIL rule is not egalitarian; it will best serve college athletes who have already built an audience. True social capital only exists when an athlete has the power or influence to convince their followers to buy a certain product or follow a certain account. Most college athletes don’t hold that power.
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Nico Young has been on his phone a lot lately. He’s in conversation with a bunch of companies, trying his best to do everything right. With 32,000 Instagram followers, he’s eager to take advantage of his image and turn his platform into something profitable. But the sophomore at Northern Arizona University has reservations about this hustle. His priority is running fast. Young clocked a U20 record in the 5,000 meters this spring and placed ninth in the men’s 5,000 at the U.S. Olympic Trials later in the summer. That’s how he’s built his online following.
“I'm not being naive and accepting things that don't make sense,” Young tells me. He’s asked for advice from a handful of pro athletes that have sponsorships themselves. He’s also turned to AspireIQ, a website that will help minimize time and effort on his self-marketing. “I'm definitely going to do what I can do to make some extra money,” Young says. “But then also really make sure I have enough time to do the things that I want to do and train to the fullest that I can.” He’s hopeful that by relying on a third party, he can focus on running while ensuring that his name, image and likeness are commodified according to his true worth.
But no one knows what will happen when the NAU team returns to campus in Flagstaff—intangible elements of team culture are not easily calculated. Young says, “We just don't want it to consume our lives to the point where we're not focusing on running anymore and we're focusing too much on social media, you know.”
His coach, Mike Smith, is on board with Young doing what he needs to do to set himself up for a brandable professional career, but Young worries about the camera invading the sacred nature of practice. He understands that his reality exists in front of him at practice, not on Instagram, but with the opportunities created by the new NIL rule, Young might have to reveal more of what he’s doing in training and during meets to fully take advantage of his image. At just 18 years old, Young is young, and accepting the wrong partnership—perhaps one with too many hard rules or restrictions—could seriously burn him.
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The clock strikes 2 p.m, and Raniyah Jones and her teammates dropped their phones and started jogging. But Jones, the world-class hurdler, always held the desire to film at practice. Jones had seen other teams record their workouts, and she wanted her team to do the same. She always found it beneficial when her coach filmed her doing technical hurdle drills; she’d replay the videos to find things to correct, improve. She thought, why not make some money with the videos too?
“I feel like there's just a lot more things that I can record, especially in our practices and stuff that I can probably make money off of,” Jones says now. With the new NIL rule, if she were to record video at practice, she could use it to do more than improve her hurdling. She could make money too. Yet the UCF practices—once united by the solidarity of what they did unplugged—might transform into a series of divided performances in pursuit of lucrative limelight. And that’s favorable for some. But not for all. Jones's eagerness to record her life clashes with the interests of some of her teammates—who she admits might prefer to pick up their phones only after the session is finished.
Someone at UCF does have the same priority as Jones, though: the PR and communications person, Megan Pabian. In June, when Jones was in Eugene to compete in NCAAs and the Trials, Pabian got Jones integrated with social media so it was just another part of her experience competing at big meets. “She literally made us pick up a phone every two seconds to record something,” Jones says. As an energetic, fiercely confident 19-year-old, she seems to be naturally adjusting to the on-the-spot requests to take photos or produce a vlog. And she’s taking ownership over it.
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The NCAA didn’t always engender the flexibility of having their valuable athletes make their own profits. In January, Hunter Woodhall, the sprinter from the University of Arkansas, found himself frustrated with the system and decided to leave the NCAA to turn professional. Woodhall had been cultivating an online following since 2016, when he won silver and bronze medals at the Paralympics in Rio. Woodhall has since grown his social media following to have 281,000 followers on Instagram: a platform where he shares personal stories about being a double amputee and navigating a long-distance relationship with his girlfriend and Olympian, Tara Davis—all with a heartfelt yet self-deprecating sense of humor.
Woodhall, the All-American sprinter, ultimately decided that he didn’t need the NCAA like they needed him. He now makes roughly $7,500 per post and produces at least 10 per month. If the NIL rule had been in place a year ago, Woodhall could have accepted the money and remained a collegiate athlete. The rule changed a little too late.
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Earlier this spring, Jackson Mestler stood in confusion inside Hayward Field, donning the freshest pair of kicks he owned. A few of his teammates were scattered around the stadium in what Mestler calls “regular clothes.” They weren’t going for a run; they were preparing for a photo shoot. Uncertain of what he was doing, Mestler asked the University of Oregon’s team photographer, Matt Parker, if he was here for a graduation shoot. Parker responded, “No, no, we want to show you guys—not just you guys running, like you guys actually have these personalities and stuff. We think they're brandable.”
Parker later posted photos of the Duck athletes being more than just athletes to the team's Instagram and its 79,000 followers. After an initial resistance to what felt like a modeling gig, Mestler tells me he found the photoshoot to be fun and cool.
“At the end of the day, it was good for my brand,” he says. But at the end of the day, Mestler wasn’t profiting off his image; Oregon Track and Field was. This shoot represents a pre-NIL update reality: If the athlete doesn’t capitalize on their image or their influence, someone else will.
A few months later, once the Trials crowd cleared out of Eugene, and the NIL rule was updated, Mestler found a more transparent way to use his image and make some side money. He didn’t want to be lame and pull a sellout move. The sixth-year athlete who has aspirations to run professionally noticed that his popularity skyrocketed during the Trials. He received more media attention than ever before as the local kid from Eugene, “the hometown hero.” With his newfound recognition and a new freedom to profit off his NIL, Mestler thought, maybe he’d use his social media to brand himself the same way the broader media did. Being the “hometown kid” might foster his dream to run pro, possibly still in Eugene.
Heading down Agate Street after leaving Hayward Field, Mestler stopped at a bakery, a pizza place, and a convenience store—all local favorites on the same city block. Mestler wasn’t willing to sacrifice pride or ego for a sponsored ad on social media that he didn’t have a meaningful connection to. He thought, “Why not support the businesses I’ve actually gone to my entire life?”
As he went door-to-door, the locals—who may even remember what Mestler looked like when he was an infant—didn’t understand the twenty-three year old’s requests. He tried his best to explain to them that growing their business on the internet is important too. But the owners of some of Eugene’s most charming businesses didn’t understand. “Yeah, we’re not really looking for ambassadors,” they told him. They aren’t really in the influencer game, Mestler rationalized. Despite his attempt to foster an authentic partnership for paid advertisements, the reality is that locals might love the hometown kid in person, but they don’t care about Mestler’s digital persona.It doesn’t take a pilgrimage to reveal the mirage of online influence; Mestler discovered the banality of his image in his own backyard.
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When you’re really fast, you’re a natural influencer already—with or without social media. For example: the Ethiopian long distance runner, Yomif Kejelcha, who smashed a 7:26 3,000 meter race in Norway. His track performance spoke for itself. For somebody like Kejelcha, running fast is enough. That's the only thing he wants to do for the crowd. There’s no reason for him to think about the inconsistency between who he is and how he’s represented online.
Signing at 19 years old, Kejelcha had competed with the Swoosh on his chest for the past five years. Then this summer, he accepted an offer from Adidas. As a newly minted Adidas athlete, he wore fresh spikes and gear with their famous three stripes during his stellar Diamond League race in Norway. But when anyone tapped their fingers over to Kejelcha’s Instagram afterward, he was a self-described Nike sponsored athlete. He never changed his Instagram bio.
No one questioned the integrity of his personhood, despite having the wrong brand in his profile (and many blurry, low quality photos). Branding is clearly the last thing on Kejelcha’s mind. He may even say that it’s irrelevant to his inspiring performance at the Bislett Games. Any of his 15,000 Instagram followers can see the inconsistency between his reality and the one he’s created digitally. They may even hold the lack of care he puts into his social media as a form of endearment. Kejelcha eventually edited his Instagram to designate himself as an Adidas-sponsored athlete, but not every runner has the luxury to disregard their appearance to focus on running itself.
Katelyn Tuohy also holds the luxury to neglect social media. The NC State distance phenom owns four national high-school records on the track and consequently has accumulated a robust 80,000 Instagram followers. She’s focused on running, and the massive number of followers seem to be incidental to her pursuit of fast times. Tuohy would have an easy time capitalizing on her image, but she doesn’t seem to have much desire. As a full scholarship athlete, Tuohy has the privilege to run with financial security anyway. “She is not a big fan of being a public figure,” her former high school coach, Brian Diglio, told me. “She really just wants to run.”
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On July 1, Emily Cole picked up her phone and had over 10 text messages—all from people asking her how she plans to make money on her NIL. Cole has integrated social media posting throughout her day as just another part of her college-athlete experience. The senior distance runner at Duke University is popular on TikTok, Instagram, and Facebook and has been living the life that the NIL encourages for several years. Now, she says we can “successfully pursue a professional career with less stress of worrying about the financial cost of chasing our dreams.” Growing up, Cole’s older sister turned into a pop star and internet sensation, so this kind of online curation comes naturally to her.
“I am absolutely going to take advantage of this opportunity over the next few years to build my community and set myself up to be successful after my collegiate career ends,” Cole says. For the most part, it’s understood that social media is not a depiction of real life, even though it could provide a livelihood; the rejection of social media usually comes from Boomers, who see it as antiquated, or from enlightened Zoomers, who may say it’s post-dystopian. There’s certainly a grotesque element to marketing your own personality and character online, but there’s a practical one too. This rule is nothing but advantageous for Cole.
But in order to succeed under the updated NIL rule—and relish in the power and profit of one’s own image—the college athlete may require a healthy detachment from their alter ego online. It would appear delusional to believe that an “authentic” and “genuine” self can always be transmitted through a screen. Cole seems to be well adjusted to her online presence; she feels comfortable posting any sponsored ads in order to establish a viable form of income.
Raniyah Jones, for example, says she’s able to maintain some semblance of her true self through the close friends setting on Instagram; she can post things that are more personal, without leaving any stains on her brand as a high-caliber track athlete. Using her NIL is a brilliant thing, but it’s also a separate thing, from Jones herself.
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Athletes, in between mediocrity and greatness, hold the power now; they wield the ability to profit off their name, image and likeness—deciding which deals to accept and which ones to ignore. Yet, as more athletes create content for the public to see, the less time they may have to genuinely indulge in juicy conversations about each other’s romances, like the women at Central Florida. The focus at track practice may shift toward content creation for an audience, despite nobody being in the stands. Athletes might shy away from team talk and the intangible rewards of team culture may be compromised.
The athletes are owning themselves, in some way, but there’s an opportunity cost for what they don’t experience away from the screen. Because when there’s always an image to be made, a video to be shot, and content to be created, the athlete has the company of a spectator in mind, always influencing someone else, even when they don’t have to. Then again, if they don’t grasp the power of their influence, someone else will. And that’s who gets paid.