Sport's semi-pros: how part-time work funds the hope of permanent success

Professionalism in sport is a relatively recent development. Olympic athletes were ostensibly amateurs until the 1988 games in Seoul, while the first ever Socceroos World Cup squad was a motley mix of miners and milkmen. Rugby union only reneged on the sport’s commitment to its “first principle” of “amateur status without compromise or qualification” in 1995, and to this day nominal amateurism persists in American college sports.

Historian Tony Collins observed: “For almost a century and a half amateurism had defined the morality of sport. Even professional sport had genuflected to the supposed ethical superiority of the amateur ethos.” Yet, as Collins continued, “no significant sport in the world described itself as amateur by the end of the twentieth century.”

Despite its short history, the dominance of money in sport has been overwhelming. Kobe Bryant will earn more than US$23m ($26.4m) this NBA season, while Manchester United star Wayne Rooney pockets £300,000 ($540,000) every week. Football juggernauts Real Madrid and Barcelona enjoy half-billion dollar revenues, and even state-team cricketers reap the benefits of the sport’s commercial success.

For every Bryant and Rooney, though, there is also a Melissa Breen or Mark Tupalski. Witness Breen compete at the 2014 Commonwealth Games, and it is easy to assume that Australia’s fastest woman is a full-time athlete. Similarly, watch the extravagance of the Tour de France and it seems logical that competitive cyclists like Tupalski spend all day, every day training.

Yet the glitz and glamour of these television broadcasts often hide an unfortunate truth: away from the bright lights of the AFL or NRL, many Australian sportsmen and women dedicate their lives to athletic pursuits without significant remuneration. Whether they are at the top of their field in a code without adequate funding, or desperately trying to secure that lucrative overseas contract, such athletes are forced to balance work, life, sport and study commitments.

Speak to these “semi-professionals” – with the phrase used in a solely descriptive rather than pejorative sense – and almost in unison they are keen to dispel one common misconception.

“People just assume that we train and compete full-time – I don’t think they realise that racing does not really pay the bills,” declares road and mountain bike cyclist Tupalski. Breen, a sprinter who in February broke the longstanding Australian 100 metre record, shares a similar anecdote. At a Christmas party last year, her father’s colleague was shocked to learn that Breen spends several hours every day coaching to complement the small amount of funding she receives from Athletics Australia.

Without extravagant pay cheques, these athletes must supplement their training schedule with employment or education, a difficult juggling routine as they attempt to dominate their chosen sporting arena.

Take Tupalski. Despite competing for Avanti Cycling on the road and Torq on the dirt, the 24-year-old is mainly self-funded, necessitating part-time employment at a bike shop in Canberra.

“An average week would be working Monday to Thursday,” Tupalski explains. “I’m normally up at 5am, leave at 5.45 to get to the morning bunch and ride until 7am. Then I have an hour to fill, so I’ll usually do a lap of the lake before heading to work. After 5.30pm I’ll ride home, and throw in a high intensity session on the way.”

With a race every second or third weekend, the cyclist then spends most Fridays preparing to travel on Saturday and compete on Sunday. A late return home follows, before heading straight back to work the next morning. “Rinse and repeat,” Tupalski adds with a wry smile.

Although their stories differ, speak to other semi-professional athletes and the same theme stands out: an ever challenging balancing act. Holly Houston, a midfielder with W-League side Canberra United, works three days a week to allow sufficient time for training and recovery, but admits even that workload can prove difficult.

“It is a challenge – I know for me I have a very supportive family, but some people struggle so much that they find they cannot continue to pursue the game for the love of it,” she acknowledges. While Houston is loath to complain – she instead praises Canberra United’s understanding approach and moderate stipend – the lack of a full-time wage forces her to make tough decisions.

“You don’t really have a life – you choose sport instead,” she adds. “Myself and many others have to miss out on a lot of things: family birthdays, friends’ weddings, engagement parties. But I guess that’s the sacrifice you make to pursue something you love and enjoy.”

For Paralympic middle distance runner Michael Roeger, meanwhile, there are not enough hours in the day as he attempts to juggle training, employment and study commitments. Although the 2014 male para-athlete of the year enjoys top tier funding, he also works at the Australian Sports Commission to support his ambitions on the track.

“Everyone wants more money, but in reality that’s not going to happen, so I’ve managed to get a good part-time job, and I’m studying at university as well,” Roeger says over coffee at the Australian Institute of Sport on a brief lunch break. “I think I manage it well: two sessions most days, work and then a bit of university in the evenings.”

Another consistent theme across these interviews is the precarious nature of the small amount of funding that semi-professional athletes do receive. Particularly with Olympic sports, where the bulk of financial support is determined by performances in one or two races per year, small margins can have thousands of dollars worth of consequences.

“In 2012 I lost all my funding, and just like that you have no income,” admits Ben Treffers, a gold medal winning swimmer at the recent Commonwealth Games in Glasgow. “A fraction of a second can have a huge impact in financial terms. In 2013 I was 0.01 seconds off the necessary time, and so I missed six months’ funding. Those fine margins make it so critical to perform, and given you only swim in a few qualifying races a year, there is a lot of pressure not only to compete on an international stage but also to secure your financial future.”

Injuries are also more daunting for these athletes, lacking the six-figure wage and long-term contract safety net of their full-time counterparts.

“If you get injured before a major competition you risk losing most of your funding,” Roeger explains. “So I need to make sure I’m right before next September to win a medal at the World Championships, or my income will go south.”

Life as a semi-professional sportsman or woman is not easy. Aside from a training schedule that rivals their full-time colleagues, these athletes balance work, study and life commitments yet still find the energy to break records and win medals.

They do so because they love their chosen sporting pursuit. Without a large salary to buy their commitment, this dedication is what drives them out of bed at 5am the morning after a full day of competition. It keeps them in the pool with exam study on their mind, and it inspires them to front up at training after an exhausting day in the office.

“I’ve chosen to do this because I love sprinting, and that love overrides most things most of the time,” Breen concludes. “I enjoy what I’m doing right now, and I hope I never have to live ‘the normal 9am-5pm life’. I’m extremely happy running, and hopefully one day that pays the bills.”

Even if it does not, Breen – like so many other semi-professional athletes – will be satisfied in the knowledge that she is doing what she loves.