Sport does not break all at once. It fractures in stages – first at the edges, then along the seams, and finally at the centre. And often, by the time a national governing body (NGB) feels the impact, the damage has already cascaded through clubs, volunteers, and local networks.
This is the uncomfortable reality of continuity in sport: fragility rarely announces itself at the top. It begins quietly – a missed payment, a cancelled session, a committee member who no longer replies – and spreads, imperceptibly at first, until the disruption becomes visible. By then, the trust of participants has been dented. Programmes are paused. Events are dropped. And rebuilding is no longer just a logistical task – it is a reputational one.
Continuity planning, when it sits only at the organisational level of the NGB, misses this entirely. Because the NGB is not the sport. It governs, enables, and represents – but it does not deliver in the day-to-day sense. That work is done by clubs, and if continuity does not exist there, then it does not exist at all.
It is not enough for an NGB to be ready to recover. It must ensure that the delivery chain can hold – and that begins with clubs.
Clubs are the primary site of experience for most participants. They are where skills are developed, friendships formed, and identities shaped. When a club disappears – whether due to financial trouble, volunteer burnout, facility loss, or a reputational incident – the impact on individuals is immediate and personal. And if it happens too often, across too many regions, the sport itself becomes associated with instability.
We do not always talk about this, because the idea of club collapse can feel awkward – or worse, like an admission of failure. But in truth, club fragility is a normal feature of any grassroots model. Most clubs are not built for scale. They are lean, volunteer-led, and dependent on a small number of key individuals. This makes them nimble, yes – but also vulnerable. One resignation, or worse an expulsion, can unpick the entire structure.
This is where continuity planning can and should intervene – not to remove the risk entirely, which is unrealistic, but to buffer it and ensure that clubs are not left to face disruption alone. To give them a framework for action, a known point of contact, and a sense that their governing body has considered what support might be needed when things go wrong.
The risk is not just that a club might fold. It is that a club’s failure sets off a chain reaction – competitions postponed, other clubs left without fixtures, officials unpaid, venues underutilised, regional development plans disrupted. When one link fails, the system stretches. When multiple links fail, it snaps.
The more sport relies on integrated calendars, shared venues, and tightly linked competition structures, the more exposed it becomes to this kind of systemic fragility. Continuity must therefore be thought of as a networked exercise – not a singular strategy held at the centre, but a distributed culture of preparedness that is shared, rehearsed, and supported across all levels.
What might that look like in practice?
It begins with visibility. NGBs must know where the risks lie – not in abstract terms, but through real insight into their club structures. Which clubs are facility-dependent? Which rely on one or two key individuals for critical functions? Which operate with financial margins so tight that one unexpected cost could lead to insolvency?
This is not about interference or control. It is about partnership. A club that is seen, heard, and supported is more likely to engage in continuity planning willingly. A club that feels judged or inspected will disengage. The tone of this work matters.
From there, the NGB’s role is to enable. That might mean creating template continuity plans tailored to the size and nature of different clubs. It might mean offering light-touch scenario planning sessions at regional meetings – asking clubs to think through what they would do if they lost access to their venue, or if their treasurer stepped down, or if a safeguarding concern arose and the usual lead was unavailable.
The aim is not to push paperwork. It is to normalise resilience thinking – to move the conversation from “What if?” to “When it happens, we’ll do this.”
That conversation should include clarity about where the NGB steps in – and where it does not. In a well-functioning system, clubs know when and how to escalate. They know what kinds of support are available – financial, logistical, communications – and what the process is for accessing them. They know who to speak to. And they are not left guessing in the middle of a crisis.
In parallel, the NGB must do its own scenario planning – not just for its operations, but for systemic risks. What happens if ten clubs disaffiliate in a short period? If a key regional facility becomes unavailable for six months? If a regional committee cannot recruit new officers? These are not niche hypotheticals – they are structurally significant events.
For sports operating in a devolved or federated model, the challenge is even greater. Disruption in one part of the system can have political, operational, and reputational implications elsewhere. Continuity planning here must be collaborative – with agreed escalation protocols and a shared understanding of impact and mitigation responsibilities.
The biggest cultural shift, however, comes when continuity planning becomes a marker of leadership – not of bureaucracy. A club that has thought through its risks, trained a deputy safeguarding lead, backed up its membership data, and engaged its members in emergency planning is not only more resilient – it is more credible. It becomes a node of strength within the system.
And that matters – because continuity, at its best, is not about maintaining the status quo. It is about enabling the sport to grow safely. It gives confidence to funders, who want to know that their investment is protected. It gives assurance to parents, who want to know that sessions will continue. It gives clarity to event organisers, who want to know that infrastructure can flex without collapse.
This is not abstract reassurance – it is practical. A resilient club can adapt when its venue closes. It can pivot to online activity during weather disruption. It can call on neighbouring clubs for support in a pinch. It does not fold at the first sign of strain – and that, in turn, protects the rest of the system.
The chain reaction works both ways. Continuity failure can cascade downward – but so can resilience. One club planning well encourages others to do the same. A regional coordinator who speaks publicly about preparedness makes it normal. An NGB that treats continuity as a leadership responsibility, not a back-office task, reframes the whole culture.
None of this needs to be burdensome. The best continuity planning is simple, conversational, and built into the everyday. It asks basic but vital questions: What are our key dependencies? What would we do if they failed? Who would lead, who would support, and how would we tell people?
When those questions are asked across the system – not just in the boardroom – the sport becomes stronger. Not perfect. Not invulnerable. But more likely to endure, more able to adapt, and more trusted by those it serves.
And that, ultimately, is what continuity in sport is for. Not to prevent all disruption. But to prevent disruption from becoming decline.