So, you want to know who owns the Green Bay Packers? It’s a fair question, but the answer is weirder and more wonderful than you’d ever guess. Spoiler: it’s not one billionaire sitting in a luxury box, sipping champagne and yelling at the refs. Nope. The real owner is you—well, you and 537,000 other lunatics.
The People’s Team (Literally)
The Green Bay Packers are the only community-owned major sports team in the United States. That means they have no single owner—no Bezos, no Ballmer, no creepy guy who yells “sell the team” on Twitter. Instead, they’re run by a non-profit corporation, and the “shares” are just ceremonial pieces of paper that give you exactly zero money and a lifetime of bragging rights.
In 2023, the Packers held their sixth stock sale since 1923. They sold 300,000 new shares in a few months, raking in millions. But don’t get any ideas about cashing out—these shares never increase in value and can’t be sold for profit. You’re basically buying a very expensive, non-refundable souvenir that says, “I helped keep Aaron Rodgers’ salary from bankrupting a small city.”
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Wait, No One Person Owns Them?
That’s right. The “owner” is actually a board of directors and a seven-member executive committee. These are mostly local businesspeople from Green Bay, Wisconsin—which, if you’ve never been, is a town of about 107,000 people where the biggest rivalry is over which bar has the best cheese curds. Imagine if your local Little League team was owned by the neighbors who ate at the same diner every Tuesday. That’s the Packers.
When the team needs a new quarterback or a bigger stadium, they don’t call a rich guy. They call the shareholders. And those shareholders? They’re your Aunt Carol from Milwaukee, a guy in Tokyo who fell in love with the green and gold, and that one kid in Alabama who painted his face for a viral TikTok. It’s chaos, but the best kind of chaos.
Who Owns the Green Bay Packers? Ownership Structure
The “Gift That Keeps on Giving” (To the Team, Not You)
Fun fact: the Packers are a non-profit organization. That doesn’t mean they’re broke—they made over $500 million in 2023. It means they don’t have to pay federal income tax because all their profits go back into the team, the stadium, or their famous “Shareholder Christmas Card.” I’m joking about the card, but they do send you a game program and a cute certificate.
But here’s the kicker: you can’t sell your shares. Imagine buying a piece of Apple stock and finding out you can never sell it, it never pays dividends, and you’re legally required to cry when they lose to the Bears. That’s a Packers share. Yet people fight to buy them. In 1997, the stock sold out in six weeks. In 2011, it sold out in a week. Why? Because being a Packers owner means you get a vote in electing the board—and the power to angrily complain at the annual meeting about the field goal kicker’s haircut.
Policy officially takes over for Murphy as president/CEO at Packers
The Real Owner? The Town Itself
Here’s where it gets genuinely sweet: the Packers have stayed in Green Bay because the community literally owns them. Every time a billionaire threatens to move a team to Las Vegas or London—looking at you, Raiders—Packers fans just laugh. You can’t move a team owned by 500,000 people who all live within driving distance of a Culver’s. It’s a legal nightmare. The team’s bylaws say any sale would have to be approved by a shareholder vote, and they’d probably rather lose every game for 20 years than let someone move Lambeau Field.
So, who is the owner? It’s the 85-year-old woman who’s had season tickets since 1962 and crochets cheesehead hats for the entire offensive line. It’s the 12-year-old who got a share for his birthday from his uncle in Appleton. It’s the weird guy on Reddit who insists the Packers should draft a punter in the first round. You, me, and my neighbor Jerry—we’re all owners. And we’re all equally powerless when they miss a field goal.
Who Owns The Packers
The Bottom Line (It’s in Your Wallet)
If you ever want to try, the next stock sale is probably in 2028. Mark your calendar. For about $300, you get a piece of paper, a vote you’ll probably use to yell about the weather, and the knowledge that you bought a piece of a football team—without the guilt of helping a billionaire buy a fourth yacht. Just don’t expect to ever see your money again. That’s not the point. The point is you own a sliver of something that belongs to everyone. And if that sounds corny, well, welcome to Wisconsin. Pass the cheese.
So next time someone asks, “Who owns the Green Bay Packers?” just smile and say, “We do.” Then hand them a cup of brandy old-fashioned and tell them to sit down—the kick-off is in ten minutes. Go Pack Go.
