In case you missed it, the league dissolved the 2026 supplemental draft entirely, citing specifically in a letter to Sorsby and his candidacy “issues presented by your Petition [that are] are too significant, and too closely tied to the League’s core integrity interests, to permit meaningful review within the timeline presented."

Sorsby, of course, admitted to betting nearly $100,000 on sports. After it became clear that an Infinity Wars–level uprising would take place if Sorsby tried to participate in a college football game this coming season, he set his sights on the NFL. Depending on who you ask, he may or may not have been a legitimate option for a team (though probably not in the near future).

The answer doesn’t really matter, at least for now. What matters is the NFL’s ability to be taken seriously as a professional sports entity, alongside profiting handsomely off a multitude of sportsbooks that act as title sponsors and in-game content partners. To this point, I would argue that it has not gone well. While a majority of fans are not overtly suspicious that gambling money alters the outcomes of games, most of them would lean that way if nudged by a gentle wind. Get stuck in one of these Instagram black holes one night after the Chiefs win a game on a phantom holding call. It’s JFK-level deep and reflects the sheer depth of our imagination on the subject. Hilariously, it has not stopped people from losing hundreds of millions of dollars collectively betting on professional football. 

It will also not stop the NFL from looking blatantly hypocritical, given that its openness to gambling partners probably, in some way, shape or form, helped spike a generation of addicts with similar issues to Sorsby. This is the ultimate bartender’s dilemma: knowing that alcohol sales are imperative to making a living, yet understanding that overserving can lead to an accident far more catastrophic in scope, involving people nowhere near the pub. Although hypocrisy—read, inconsistent punishments for players versus punishments for owners—has never been a serious roadblock for this sports monolith.  

Enter Sorsby, who is playing the game’s most important position, one that may ask him to someday become the face of a franchise. Having Sorsby enter the supplemental draft would invite months of coverage, not only of Sorsby’s impromptu pro day, but also analysis from endless media about the results of Sorsby’s individual meetings with different teams. The Sorsby sweepstakes would undercut the league’s dominance of the training camp period, which is a necessary crop duster of opiate-grade hope that keeps interest at a fever pitch for the fall. It would also reflect the startling number of teams desperate for a cost-controlled quarterback with upside that would be willing to ignore that Sorsby was a compulsive gambler with only a 30-day outpatient treatment under his belt. I sadly believe that eventually his misdeeds would get baked into our overwhelming obsession with a possible franchise savior emerging from nowhere and costing less than a first-round pick. Our ability to forget the very recent and horrendous misdeeds of others has reached a societally legendary status. 

Now, Sorsby and his comeback will be neatly buried underneath a quarterback class in 2027 that offers several much better alternatives. Sorsby will have also had time to put in a more convincing effort to kick what is a serious addiction (as a side note, while Sorsby’s camp will posture about the indignity of it all, they are on record as acknowledging that Sorsby wanted more starts to develop as a quarterback, and while he may not be able to play in 2026, he has the requisite runway to hire a private quarterbacks coach and develop his game ahead of next year’s draft without the risk of having his stock tanked by factors outside of his control à la Drew Allar or Garrett Nussmeier).  

By disallowing Sorsby from entering the draft, the NFL buys itself what it needs most regarding his specific issue: time to set a rock-solid precedent in terms of a punishment that can withstand the near future. Sorsby will not be the last high-profile collegiate player to fall down the purposely addictive rabbit hole of sports betting, or succumb to the attraction of making additional money off a sport they are playing anyway. They will never be immune from the outside influences of immoral family members and friends or, yes, even organized crime. At the very least, the NFL can act like a police detective who stumbles over a heinous crime, wants no part of it, and proclaims that it’s out of his jurisdiction. By inheriting Sorsby, the league takes on the role of final arbiter in a case that collegiate sports have proved too incompetent to fairly adjudicate. Given the NFL’s history of nailing punishments the first time, the prospect of doing so again probably felt like a needless risk to take.

The NFL wins because anything smacking of desperation from Sorsby’s camp undercuts its initial message: This gambling problem was a very real addiction, and that Sorsby was as much a victim as he was a perpetrator of some high crime against sports purity. Healing from an addiction takes time. Getting to the root of the issue—of one’s reasons for seeking out this behavior—takes work and rarely fits into a convenient window between the end of one league’s play and the beginning of another’s. Maybe Sorsby and his lawyers will argue loudly that the NFL opened Pandora’s box and now has no moral high ground. And the league will do what it can, knowing this deep down inside, while still trying to establish one anyway. 

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Conor Orr is a Senior Writer for Sports Illustrated with more than 15 years of experience covering the NFL. His work has been cited in Best American Sportswriting and has won a PFWAA award. Prior to Sports Illustrated, he covered both the Giants and Jets for The Star-Ledger. Conor lives in New Jersey with his amazing wife and three children.