A tournament on native land makes millions, and a tribe wants a bigger cut

Shinnecock Hills Golf Club, on New York’s Long Island, lies less than a mile from the Shinnecock Indian Nation, from which it takes its name.

Economically, it is a universe away.

The reservation is a sparse mix of modest houses and ramshackle trailers on a 1.3-square-mile parcel where many tribal members live below the poverty line.

The golf club is one of the oldest and most exclusive in the country. Its members include New York business moguls such as Michael Bloomberg and Hamptons elite.

The stark inequity between the club and the tribe has existed at least since 1891, when the golf club was founded. And every decade or so, when the U.S. Open is played at Shinnecock Hills, the disparity is thrust into the open.

From Thursday to Sunday, there will be a crush of wealthy fans swarming luxury suites and snapping up pricey swag -- much of it adorned with the club’s logo, an Indian in tribal headdress framed by an arrow and a golf club. The scene is a far cry from the stretch of tribal smoke and vape shops nearby along Montauk Highway.

At previous U.S. Opens at Shinnecock, the tribe had received only about $100,000 of the millions earned by the tournament. This year, tribal leaders have negotiated a much more generous deal: upward of $800,000 from a variety of deals for tournament week, according to Seneca Bowen, treasurer for the tribe’s council of trustees.

This includes $200,000 for spectator parking for up to 3,000 cars; $200,000 for tribal youth programs; and $100,000 in tickets and other amenities, all from the United States Golf Association, which runs the tournament. The tribe will most likely take in another $300,000 or more from landing fees under a deal with a helicopter charter company, Bowen said.

“It’s the best deal we’ve ever struck,” he said. “It’s the single largest moneymaking event the tribe has ever had.”

It outstrips any short-term windfall the tribe has reaped from its many financial enterprises going back decades, from the pair of electronic billboards the tribe operates on nearby Route 27, to its annual Labor Day powwow, to cigarette and cannabis sales that can skirt some taxes by being sold on their sovereign territory.

Still, not all tribal members are satisfied. Some feel the tribe has once again been shortchanged. Maurice Williams, a tribe member with a family landscaping business on the reservation, criticized the deal as paltry, given the centuries of mistreatment, and a validation of the club occupying land the tribe considers to have been illegally taken from them and sold to the club’s founders.

Williams called the deal “a slap in the face.”

Golf club officials referred questions to Beth Major, a spokesperson for the USGA, who said the association had a strong relationship with the Shinnecock but would not address details of the group’s agreement.

“We’re very excited to work with the Nation in terms of delivering a successful 2026 U.S. Open,” she said. “They’re an important part of the local community, and we feel good about our relationship heading into this year’s championship.”

The second-ever golf U.S. Open was held at the club in 1896, five years after the club was founded by industrialist William K. Vanderbilt and other wealthy New Yorkers who purchased the original parcel from developers for $2,500.

The club used Shinnecock laborers to build the course on tribal burial grounds. Generations of tribal members helped maintain the course at a world-class level that has lured the prestigious national championship here five previous times: 1896, 1986, 1995, 2004 and 2018.

In 2018, protesters near the golf course displayed signs accusing the USGA of holding the tournament “on desecrated graves of Shinnecock Indians.”

The championship has become increasingly rich. By the end of the four-day competition, it will have paid out more than $20 million in prize money, but the USGA will make a substantial share of its annual event revenue of more than $100 million, most of which is folded back into championships and programs. The golf club’s revenues spike by several million dollars when it hosts the tournament.

For the tribe, the revenue from the tournament is a critical lifeline to improve conditions on the reservation, where roughly half of the tribe’s 1,600 members live, Bowen said. It will help fund infrastructure improvements, social programs, reservation maintenance and security, and payroll for the tribe’s 72 employees, he said.

Williams called the amount the tribe receives “peanuts compared to what the golf club is worth and what it could do for the community.” He called the deal a tactic by the club and the USGA to avoid bad press, with the message being, “Take this and be quiet.”

He recalled his grandfather telling him about relatives who gave up their homes to make way for the golf course. During its construction, bones of Shinnecock dead were found, some discarded and some left in the ground, he said.

Accepting the payment, he said, would mean “we’re OK with people golfing on the bodies of our ancestors.”

Some club members also take issue with the arrangement.

“In my opinion the Shinnecock Nation should get a bigger slice of the pie,” said Roger Waters, who is probably best known as a founder of Pink Floyd and has helped the tribe preserve local burial sites. He suggested that the tribe be paid a percentage of the tournament’s revenue.

“That would at least go some way to making up for some of the wrongs done to them, and other Indigenous peoples over the years,” he said.

The club and the tribe share a long history. Tribal members say the property that would become the golf course was taken from them in 1859 in a fraudulent land grab before eventually being sold to the club’s founders.

Sitting in the Shinnecock’s tribal offices on a recent weekday, the tribe’s chair, Lisa Goree, was unequivocal, saying that the club was on “stolen land.”

“We’re always going to consider that Shinnecock land,” she said.

Bowen said he was aware that some tribe members called the deal’s supporters “sellouts.”

“The only payment they’d accept is the land back,” he said.

But he said he believes it’s better to work with the USGA than fight it. “If we’re not engaging with them, we get passed over,” he said.

Goree said she warned tournament officials that she was not in a position to keep disgruntled members from protesting. “There’s still a lot of hurt,” she said.

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In 1995, there were reports of vandalism of cars and a man being accosted by some tribal members who demanded ransom for his car.

In 2004, the USGA did not offer a parking deal, but after a standoff and threats of a protest by the tribe, the golf association made a last-minute deal to pay the tribe $120,000 to allow several corporate hospitality tents on the reservation.

The situation came to a crisis point when the Open returned in 2018. After rocky negotiations, the tournament threatened that protesters on club property would be arrested. Protesters responded with signs.

“Human Remains Dug Up to Play Golf,” read one.

“We Don’t Play Golf on Your Cemetery,” read another.

After that, Bowen began having regular meetings with several top club officials about the 2026 Open. “We sat down and tried to figure out how to repair the relationship in a real way, more than just a photo-op and donating some money here and there,” he said.

In addition to payments, club and tournament officials agreed to a land acknowledgment and blessing by tribal members before the U.S. Open starts, Bowen said, adding that the club now offers lessons and practice space to young Shinnecock golfers. “The relationship’s done a complete 180,” he said, adding that “the idea was to be in partnership rather than being an afterthought.”

The tone has been amicable, but the tribe remained focused on the bottom line, he said: “We wanted to make sure we were being paid.”

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.

Copyright 2026 The New York Times Company

This story was originally published June 17, 2026 at 7:25 AM.