Any team could beat any other. That isn't the case anymore.
With one hundred days before the 2026 season, the Los Angeles Rams' acquisition of Myles Garrett has made visible what the NFL has been quietly becoming: a league where competitive hope is no longer evenly distributed. A small number of franchises, empowered by visionary front offices and willing ownership, have accumulated talent so comprehensively that the sport's foundational promise — that any team might triumph on any Sunday — grows harder to believe. What was once the great democratic drama of American sport now risks resembling the NBA, where the outcome of a season feels less like an open question and more like a foregone conclusion.
- The Rams have assembled what may be the most talented roster since the 2007 Patriots, adding the league's all-time single-season sack leader to an already Super Bowl-favored team, compressing their championship odds to +600.
- Only nine franchises have appeared in a Super Bowl over the past decade, and four teams alone have claimed ten of the last thirteen titles — a concentration of power that exposes the myth of NFL parity.
- The same aggressive front offices — Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Kansas City — are doubling down this offseason, while a growing tier of franchises trades away stars and quietly surrenders 2026 in hopes of a better draft class in 2027.
- The NFL is simultaneously asking fans to pay more, stream more, and watch internationally — while quietly narrowing the number of teams with any realistic path to a championship.
- No structural remedy is in sight: the league cannot compel owners to spend or restrain, tanking has proven impossible to eliminate in any sport, and the Garrett trade suggests the superteam era is accelerating, not reversing.
One hundred days before the 2026 NFL season, the Los Angeles Rams acquired Myles Garrett — the league's best defensive player, who shattered the single-season sack record with 23 last year — and in doing so made something undeniable: professional football is becoming a league where hope is rationed. Already favored to win the Super Bowl, the Rams added Garrett alongside two elite cornerbacks from Kansas City, compressing their odds to +600 and assembling a roster as comprehensively dominant as the 2007 Patriots. They have elite talent at every meaningful position, a rebuilt special teams unit, and a front office that has operated without restraint.
But the Rams are only the most visible symptom of a deeper structural shift. Over the past decade, only nine franchises have appeared in a Super Bowl. Twenty-three teams haven't made one at all. Four franchises — New England, Kansas City, Philadelphia, and Seattle — have won ten of the last thirteen championships. The AFC Championship Game has not featured a team other than Kansas City or New England in over fifteen years. This concentration didn't happen by accident. A small number of empowered general managers, backed by committed ownership, have consistently outmaneuvered the rest of the league in free agency, trades, and roster construction. This offseason, those same franchises are pulling further ahead.
At the other end of the spectrum, Cleveland, Miami, Arizona, and New York are trading away their best players, effectively conceding 2026 in hopes of a better draft class the following year. The rest of the league occupies a purgatory — competitive enough to chase a playoff spot, nowhere near capable of chasing a championship. The Steelers, choosing stability over aggression, exemplify the trap.
The NFL built its cultural dominance on a simple promise: any given Sunday, any team could win. That promise required genuine parity — the reasonable belief, in Cleveland or Jacksonville or Detroit, that this might be the year. That belief is eroding. The league is already asking fans to invest more through streaming services, international games, and a fragmented viewing calendar, even as it quietly narrows the number of franchises worth watching. The NBA has lived with this problem for years, its regular season reduced to prologue. The NFL is beginning to feel the same way — and there is no obvious remedy in sight.
One hundred days remain before the 2026 NFL season begins, and for the first time in recent memory, the traditional optimism that sustains most fan bases feels hollow. The Los Angeles Rams just acquired Myles Garrett, the league's best defensive player and the man who shattered the single-season sack record with 23 last year, and in doing so they've crystallized something the NFL has been quietly becoming: a league where hope is rationed, where a handful of franchises own the future, and where everyone else is simply waiting.
The Rams were already favored to win the Super Bowl before the trade. After adding Garrett—along with cornerback Trent McDuffie and fellow Chiefs corner Jaylen Watson—their odds compressed to +600. On paper, Los Angeles has assembled something the modern NFL rarely permits: a superteam. They have elite talent at quarterback, pass rush, cornerback, wide receiver, offensive line, tight end, running back, and in their front office. The last roster this comprehensively dominant was the 2007 Patriots. The Rams lost the NFC Championship Game last season largely due to special teams failures, a problem they've now addressed with a new coordinator. Everything else they've simply upgraded.
But the Rams' moves are merely the most visible symptom of a deeper structural problem. Over the past decade, only nine different franchises have appeared in a Super Bowl. Twenty-three teams haven't made one at all. More franchises have reached multiple Super Bowls in that span than have reached even one. Four teams—the Patriots with three titles, the Chiefs with three, the Eagles with two, and the Seahawks with two—have won ten of the last thirteen championships. The AFC Championship Game has not featured anyone other than Kansas City or New England in over fifteen years. The Rams, if they win it all, would make five franchises responsible for eleven of the last fourteen titles.
This concentration of power didn't happen by accident. It reflects a deliberate strategy by a small number of empowered general managers—Les Snead in Los Angeles, Howie Roseman in Philadelphia, Brett Veach in Kansas City, John Schneider in Seattle, Jason Licht in Tampa Bay—whose owners gave them the resources and autonomy to re-sign star players, chase big-name free agents, and trade draft capital without restraint. The most aggressive teams this offseason were, predictably, the same ones that have dominated the last decade. Kansas City added Super Bowl MVP Kenneth Walker. Philadelphia reinforced its pass rush and receiving depth. New England traded for A.J. Brown.
Meanwhile, a growing list of franchises has begun operating under a different philosophy entirely. Cleveland, Miami, Arizona, and New York are trading away their best players, apparently banking on the 2027 draft class rather than competing in 2026. The rest of the league occupies a purgatory: good enough to chase a playoff spot, nowhere near good enough to chase a championship. The Steelers exemplify this trap, choosing stability over the kind of aggressive spending that might actually threaten the elite.
The NFL built its dominance in American culture on a simple promise: any given Sunday, any team could beat any other. That model required genuine parity. It required that a fan in Cleveland or Detroit or Jacksonville could reasonably believe their team might win it all. That belief is becoming harder to sustain. The league is already asking fans to invest more time and money through streaming services, international games, and an increasingly fragmented viewing experience. But it's simultaneously narrowing the number of franchises worth watching, the number of teams with a realistic path to a championship.
The NBA has lived with this problem for years—the sense that three or four teams will inevitably meet in May, that the regular season is prologue. The NFL is beginning to feel the same way, even though the season hasn't started. There's no obvious remedy. The league can't force some owners to spend aggressively or others to pull back. Other sports have learned that eliminating tanking is nearly impossible. The Myles Garrett trade proves it. At some point, fans will notice. They may have already.
Notable Quotes
The NFL is starting to resemble the NBA—a small handful of teams appear capable of winning the Super Bowl, while everyone else is stuck in the middle.— Analysis of league structure
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does it matter that the Rams got better? Isn't that just how sports work—the richest teams win?
It matters because the NFL sold itself on being different. The whole appeal was unpredictability. Now you're seeing the same five franchises in the conversation every year. That changes what the product feels like.
But the Rams were already favored. Did Garrett actually change the math that much?
He changed it enough to make the point visible. He's the best defensive player in football. When you can trade for that, it signals that the system isn't constraining the teams that are already winning.
What about the teams that are tanking—Cleveland, Miami, Arizona? Isn't that a rational response?
It is, which is the problem. If you're not one of the five, you're either trying to be or you're trying to reset. There's no middle ground where you can actually compete.
So the salary cap isn't working?
The salary cap exists, but it doesn't prevent the concentration of talent. Smart management, good ownership, and the ability to attract free agents—those things compound. The teams that are good stay good.
Is this fixable?
Not easily. You'd need to fundamentally change how teams can spend or trade, and the league can't force that. The owners who are winning won't accept restrictions. So the imbalance just deepens.
What happens if fans stop believing their team can win?
You lose the thing that made the NFL different from basketball. You lose the reason people watch in September.