to speak out and take action. So did the sheer volume of
stories—a devastating statement on the coaching that
had previously been considered acceptable in the league
but a reminder that no player was alone.
A weekend of games were canceled. When players
returned, they halted play in the sixth minute of each
game, gathering in protest to mark the six years since the
first documented instances of abuse. “Because of players
coming forward throughout the season and players’ voices
actually being heard, it gave us a little bit more confidence,”
says Hatch. “In the past, we’ve vocalized our wants and
needs, and they’ve fallen on deaf ears. So I think it was
just time for us to be like, Hey, this is what we want. This
is the change that needs to happen.”
In the Spirit’s case, that meant speaking not just about
coach Richie Burke (no relation to Meghann) but about
toxic ownership. Another Post story, in September, found
that club owner and tech executive Steve Baldwin had
hired as CEO a man he knew from his youth soccer
experience who was otherwise unqualified to run a pro
team. Employees were given offensive nicknames, several
women were pushed out of their jobs and HR complaints
went unanswered. Baldwin responded to the scandal by
doubling down.
He refused to sell the Spirit, even when approached with
a competitive offer from minority investor Y. Michele Kang,
and he let the team’s working conditions fall into disar-
ray. At one point, they were booted from their practice
facility and left to train at a high school, where they had
little control over their schedule and found it impossible
to have any routines around basic work such as film ses-
sions. Ultimately, the players felt there was no choice
but to come forward with a demand for new ownership.
“No one wants to write a public statement about why
their boss needs to step aside,” says Kingsbury. “But it
was really our only option forward at that point.... We
just drew strength from each other.”
The situation would not be resolved for months, but ulti-
mately, Baldwin sold to Kang. Still, it presented the Spirit
as a model of collective action. That was something their
roster already had plenty of experience with: Midfielder
Tori Huster, who has played for the club since it was
founded in 2013, is also the president of the NWSLPA.
The players started to organize in 2017 and had their
union legally recognized in ’18. Yet it took years for both
sides to start the negotiating process for their first CBA.
They finally sat down at the table in April ’21. When the
league was rocked by scandal a few months later, it sent a
distressing message about their working conditions. But
it was also a reminder of what they were fighting for at
the bargaining table, Huster says.
“The timing of everything coming out—you know, it
was not pretty by any means, but it certainly just made
us as a player group very, very strong,” she says. “It really
strengthened what we knew to be right and what we knew
was going to be the best for us moving forward.”
That meant pursuing a clearer anti-harassment policywith avenues for players to file complaints. It meant
securing more robust medical staffs, including a sport
psychologist for every team. And while the players had
always wanted to pursue a right to free agency, it now
took on a different resonance—as a path not just to higher
salaries but to more autonomy over their careers, their
work environment and their lives. In a sense, everything
they were fighting for at the table was a declaration of
their need for a safe, secure environment, even something
as basic as a raise in the minimum salary. (They negoti-
ated it up to $35,000; while still modest, it’s a significantbump from $22,000 and higher than the league’s original
maximum salary.) The message was clear: Players appreci-
ated the NWSL, but it wasn’t enough for it to exist. They
deserved more.
The players said they did not want to come to training
camp without a deal. On the January night before they
were to begin reporting, the agreement was finalized.
The protections of the CBA might have helped a player
such as McCullough, who, at 23, left soccer after her expe-
rience in the NWSL. The greater clarity on anti-harassment
policy and the introduction of mental health leave seem
like they would have been game-changers. But she sees
70 room for further advancement. Many of the coaches whose
“YOU CANNOT
BUILD A
BUSINESS
BASED ON
VOLUNTEERISM
AND FREE
LABOR,”
BURKE SAYS.