In the world of college football, a half-billion dollars in sports debt at a public university might sound like a crisis, but in reality, it's often met with a collective shrug. Take Florida State University (FSU), for example.
They closed the fiscal year 2025 with a staggering $437 million in athletics-related debt, marking a $200 million increase from the previous year. This figure is the highest among any public FBS program.
To put it into perspective, FSU’s total institutional debt for 2025 was $617 million, with athletics accounting for 71% of that number. Just five years ago, the athletics debt stood at a mere $17 million.
That’s an eye-popping 2,470% increase in just half a decade. If this doesn't spark a conversation about the economics of modern college football, what will?
FSU’s athletic leadership maintains that this $437 million is planned debt, not a desperate measure. They argue that the borrowing was intended for renovations to Doak Campbell Stadium and the construction of a new football operations center. We're talking revenue bonds, fixed assets, premium seating projections, and booster commitments-a long-term strategy.
Penn State has since overtaken FSU as the most debt-ridden public-school athletic program, with about $534.7 million in athletics-related debt, primarily due to the massive $700 million renovation project at Beaver Stadium.
In theory, this is leverage, not desperation. Universities routinely borrow for infrastructure-dorms, labs, student centers-so why not stadiums?
If these facilities can generate revenue and enhance competitiveness, the logic holds. But here's the catch: infrastructure debt demands revenue growth.
Sustained growth, not just hope or booster optimism.
The real question isn't whether the borrowing was strategic but whether the underlying business model can sustain it. College football is touted as a financial powerhouse with television contracts, conference payouts, ticket sales, merchandise, and donations.
And yes, at the top, it works. But beneath the surface, the economics are less glamorous.
The truth is, very few of the 130 FBS athletic departments operate in the black when you consider total revenues, expenses, and debt service. Many require subsidies-either direct institutional support or mandatory student fees-to survive. At FSU, about 16% of athletics expenditures in FY25 were covered by campus subsidies, a significant shift from previous years.
If football is truly self-sustaining, why does it increasingly need academic lifelines? The cash cow of college football is starting to look more like a cash drain. When athletic directors squeeze this so-called cash cow, they find no milk, only dust.
The transformation of college football into a quasi-professional model has intensified financial pressures. NIL contracts now command multi-million dollar budgets, revenue-sharing mechanisms are expanding, recruiting resembles free agency, and coaching salaries mirror those in the NFL.
In Florida, the state’s Board of Governors recently allowed universities to loan funds internally to athletic departments to cover athlete revenue-share payments. When a university must lend money to its sports arm for compensation, are we still talking about a cash cow?
Buyouts have become financial landmines. FSU head coach Mike Norvell reportedly has a buyout exceeding $60 million, and many believe he retains his position because FSU would need another loan just to part ways with him.
When leadership decisions are dictated by amortization schedules rather than strategy, something fundamental has shifted. Consider these what-ifs: What if TV rights plateau?
What if cord-cutting accelerates? What if donor fatigue sets in?
What if NIL collectives cannibalize traditional booster giving? What if on-field performance dips and ticket demand softens?
Debt models assume rising revenue, but stagnant or declining revenue can lead to a crippling debt spiral. The University of California’s long-standing stadium debt of over $400 million is a cautionary tale of how ambition can become a burden. If Cal’s athletic department were a regular taxpayer, the repo truck would’ve arrived long ago.
Rutgers University recently reported a record $78 million operating deficit for the 2024-25 fiscal year, with total deficits around $500 million since joining the Big Ten in 2014. Even the University of Michigan faces financial pressure, requiring a $15 million subsidy to balance its projected $266.3 million budget for 2025-26.
These aren't small programs; these are major players from the biggest conferences in the country. The radical question remains: could a major public university ever shut down top-level athletics because it’s too expensive?
Today, the answer feels politically impossible. Football drives alumni engagement, brand visibility, and legislative support.
It occupies a cultural space no marketing department could replicate.
But financially, is it worth the cost? Universities exist to educate and research. When athletics consumes 71% of institutional debt, shouldn’t state governments start asking questions?
Florida State’s leadership insists its debt is a strategic investment to ensure long-term competitiveness in a professionalizing sport. That may be true. But when athletics debt grows 2,470% in five years, when universities change state rules to loan money for athlete compensation, when coaching buyouts resemble private equity exit packages, and when conference membership becomes a legal battlefield, isn’t it fair to question whether the cash cow is actually producing milk?
Or has it turned into something else entirely? Because if this cow has become a pig, it’s not producing milk-it’s just consuming everything in sight and squealing for more.