The Night Before The Reveal - It’s All Going Pear Shaped at FA HQ

On the eve of Football Tasmania’s AGM, where the great reveal of our glorious leader for the next four years will finally occur, things at Football Australia HQ are going decidedly pear shaped.

And whether people like it or not, that matters to all of us.

Because while Tasmanian football often feels consumed by its own local politics, personalities and power struggles, the reality is that Football Australia still sits above the entire structure:

• governance,

• pathways,

• funding,

• national strategy,

• participation systems,

• and ultimately the broader direction of the game.

And right now the national governing body appears to be under extraordinary pressure.

Which means whoever emerges tomorrow night as Football Tasmania’s leader will immediately step into one of the most turbulent periods Australian football governance has faced in years.

The Headlines Keep Coming

Over the past fortnight the headlines have come relentlessly.

A reported $15.3 million loss.
More than 20% of staff facing redundancy.
Questions around APL debt arrangements and governance influence.
Three Football Australia board candidates withdrawing before election.
And now reports of an internal culture review describing Football Australia as “toxic, chaotic and negative”.

This is no longer just a football finance story.

It is starting to look like an organisation under pressure:

• financially,

• culturally,

• politically,

• and structurally.

And perhaps the most concerning part of all is that none of this feels entirely new.

Australian football has an extraordinary ability to repeatedly arrive at moments of:

• crisis,

• restructure,

• governance reform,

• “alignment”,

• fresh leadership,

• and promises of a reset.

Only for the same tensions to eventually reappear in slightly different forms.

At some point the game has to ask itself a very uncomfortable question:

Why does Australian football keep circling back to instability despite periods of enormous opportunity?

“Toxic, Chaotic and Negative”

The details emerging from the reported internal review are especially confronting.

Staff reportedly described Football Australia as:

• hierarchical,

• bureaucratic,

• egotistical,

• gruelling,

• and unprofessional.

There were allegations of:

• favouritism,

• low psychological safety,

• avoidance culture,

• “meetings about meetings”,

• and decisions made on “opinion not evidence”.

Whether entirely fair or not, it paints the picture of an organisation struggling internally while simultaneously trying to project stability externally.

And honestly, there is something deeper sitting underneath all this.

The language now coming from different parts of Australian football increasingly sounds exhausted.

Not simply frustrated.
Exhausted.

Journalists.
Supporters.
Former officials.
Fans.
Administrators.
Grassroots volunteers.

Different people with very different agendas are all starting to circle around similar themes:

• politics,

• fragmentation,

• distrust,

• blurred accountability,

• and power struggles.

That usually means something bigger is happening.

The Voting Blocks

And now, right in the middle of all this turmoil, comes the Football Australia AGM.

The governance mechanics matter here.

A lot.

Because Football Australia’s Congress is ultimately controlled through voting blocs:

• Member Federations,

• A-League clubs,

• the Women’s Council,

• and the PFA.

The Member Federations collectively still hold the majority voting power.

Which suddenly makes tomorrow’s Football Tasmania AGM feel even more significant.

Because whoever takes over locally immediately inherits influence within one of the most important voting blocs in Australian football.

And right now the pressure around those voting blocs is intensifying rapidly.

Following the withdrawal of Mark Schwarzer, Christine Holman and Cathy McGuane, the remaining Football Australia board candidates now all appear aligned with A-League interests.

That has triggered growing public debate around the future balance of power inside Australian football.

Will the Member Federations continue to collectively hold the line against growing professional game influence?

Or are we watching the gradual consolidation of A-League influence inside the national governing body itself?

Because if Football Australia is simultaneously posting massive losses, cutting staff and facing scrutiny around financial arrangements linked to the professional game, ordinary football people are inevitably going to ask difficult questions.

Grassroots football families already pay enormous registration costs.
Community clubs fight constantly for facilities and funding.
Volunteers hold the game together every weekend.

So when headlines emerge suggesting millions linked to the professional game have become the subject of settlements, restructures or financial “clarifications”, people naturally start questioning where the priorities of the game truly sit.

That is no longer some abstract governance discussion.

It sits right at the centre of where Australian football may be heading next.

Who Actually Controls The Game?

And hanging over all of it remains the unresolved question Australian football never quite seems able to answer cleanly:

Who actually controls the game?

The unbundling of the A-Leagues was supposed to create clarity and independence between the professional game and the governing body.

Instead, the lines increasingly appear blurred.

And beneath all of that sits another tension Australian football still seems unable to resolve cleanly:

Who is the game actually being governed for?

The whole football pyramid?
Grassroots participation?
The professional leagues?
Commercial growth?
National teams?
Community football?

Too often Australian football feels like a sport trying to be:

• a community game,

• an elite pathway,

• a commercial entertainment product,

• a FIFA bureaucracy,

• and a social institution

all at the same time.

That creates constant tension.

The Biggest Sport, Yet Constantly Fragile

This is perhaps the strangest contradiction of all.

Football is the biggest participation sport in the country.
The Matildas transformed the sporting landscape.
Participation continues to grow.
Governments want to invest.
Football is culturally stronger than it has been in decades.

Yet institutionally the game often feels remarkably fragile.

That is extraordinary.

Most sports decline culturally before they decline institutionally.

Australian football sometimes appears to be doing the reverse:

• culturally growing,

• while institutionally wobling underneath it.

That should probably concern everyone involved in the game.

Why This Matters In Tasmania

For ordinary football people this can all feel very distant from muddy boots, volunteer coaches, canteens and Sunday mornings.

But governance matters.

Because eventually governance decisions shape:

• registration costs,

• development pathways,

• facilities,

• investment,

• competitions,

• and the overall direction of the game.

Tomorrow night Tasmania will get its own answers about who will lead the local game for the next four years.

But nationally, Australian football still appears to be searching for much bigger ones.

And right now, the warning lights inside Australian football are flashing everywhere.

AGM Week: The Great Reveal

Got to love the new graphic capacity of AI!

Who is getting excited?

It is AGM week.

Tasmanian football’s own leadership spectacular is almost upon us.

After several weeks of whispers, coffee shop intelligence briefings, sideline diplomacy, constitutional interpretations, proxy mathematics and “sources close to the situation”, we are finally about to discover who wants to lead Football Tasmania for the next four years.

Well… probably about 24 hours before the AGM.

Apparently that is considered more than enough time to decide who should oversee the future of football in Tasmania.

Because nothing says healthy modern governance quite like unveiling leadership candidates at almost the exact moment voting begins.

To be fair, maybe this is all part of the excitement.

Maybe Football Tasmania has simply pioneered a new governance format.

Less “member engagement”.

More surprise elimination reality show.

Because the whole thing currently feels less like a sporting election and more like an old game show nobody fully understands the rules to.

“Behind Curtain A is a candidate who believes in governance reform, strategic alignment, stakeholder engagement and sustainable pathways.”

“Behind Curtain B enjoys football sustainability, community consultation and perhaps a quiet bit of gardening.”

“And behind Curtain C… honestly we are still waiting for the nomination paperwork to clear.”

Cue awkward applause.

Some suspense music from 1987.

A volunteer nervously holding an envelope near the stage.

Somebody whispering “have they got the numbers?”

Then Tasmanian football collectively gets 24 hours to decide whether the future of the game feels inspiring, terrifying or mildly confusing.

Fait accompli.

There’s your AGM phrase of the week.

Democracy, But Make It Secretive

I still find it extraordinary that in 2026 we can buy a toaster online and spend three weeks reading customer reviews, comparison articles and watching YouTube unboxings…

…but the leadership of football in Tasmania can effectively be decided with less scrutiny than choosing a new kettle.

The clubs and Associations and their members fund the game.

The volunteers hold the game together with zip ties, raffle books and toasted sandwiches.

The members technically own the game.

Yet somehow the process of selecting the people steering the entire sport still feels oddly mysterious.

Who is standing?

What do they actually believe?

What would they genuinely change?

What is their vision for the future of the game?

Who knows.

Perhaps there will be white smoke released from outside the AGM venue once a decision has finally been reached.

Or grey smoke if someone is still counting proxies in the Salamanca Inn car park.

At this point Tasmanian football governance feels only a few steps away from a full Vatican-style leadership selection process.

Locked doors.

Whispered conversations.

Careful numbers counting.

People emerging from meetings saying things like:

“There is a strong feeling in the room.”

“We’ve had some constructive conversations.”

And somewhere outside, ordinary football people are still just trying to work out who is actually running the sport.

The 24-Hour Candidate Deep Dive

One of my favourite parts of AGM season is the completely serious expectation that members can fully absorb a candidacy overnight.

“Here are the nominations.”

“Oh okay.”

“Voting tomorrow.”

Excellent.

No meaningful time for discussion.

No proper opportunity for clubs to digest the direction of the people asking to lead the sport.

Just enough time for football people across Tasmania to quietly start ringing each other.

“So… what have you heard?”

“Does anyone actually know this person?”

“Who’s backing them?”

“Are they aligned with certain clubs?”

“Are they truly independent?”

“Has anyone checked the constitution?”

Somewhere across Tasmania right now, football people are pretending not to care while simultaneously trying to work out who has the numbers.

Does Anyone Actually Know The Board?

And here is the awkward question.

How many football people in Tasmania could actually name the current Football Tasmania board?

Not just the President.

The board.

Honestly, has anyone actually read the board bios?

Because if somebody can potentially become President this week and large sections of the football community are still saying “wait… who is that?”, then maybe that tells us something too.

Not necessarily about the individual.

But about the disconnect between governance and the everyday football community.

Football Tasmania can sometimes feel a bit like one of those mysterious upper floors in an office building where ordinary people assume important things are happening but nobody is entirely sure what they are.

The board appears during AGM week, constitutional discussions and major announcements, then quietly disappears back into the governance mist for another year.

Meanwhile the rest of football keeps rolling on underneath it all.

Wet grounds.

Volunteer exhaustion.

Parents appealing under-10 offside decisions like they are appearing before the High Court.

Committee members desperately searching for canteen volunteers at 10pm on a Thursday night.

You know… football.

And sometimes it genuinely feels like the people governing football and the people carrying football exist in completely different universes connected only by the occasional PDF statement and a strategic plan nobody fully read.

Yes, I Thought About Standing

I did briefly toy with standing myself.

Which certainly would have added some entertainment value to proceedings.

And I genuinely appreciate the people who encouraged me, contacted me and believed I could contribute.

That support meant more than people probably realise.

But the reality is I have stepped away from enough governance recently to know my own limits.

Family matters.

MSS matters.

CRJFA matters.

My own peace matters.

Besides, if I actually got elected, I would probably end up having to write about myself and the shite job people thought I was doing.

That feels awkward.

It is difficult to aggressively analyse governance decisions when you are the governance decision.

Although, to be fair, plenty of people would probably still volunteer to help with the criticism.

So instead I remain where I currently sit.

Inside the room through CRJFA.

Outside the big table.

Close enough to see how the machine works.

Far enough away to still say what I think.

Which, honestly, is probably the most interesting seat in the house anyway.

So unless I suddenly drop dead, I will still be here.

Writing.

Observing.

Revealing.

Sharing.

Asking awkward questions.

And occasionally annoying people sitting around the big table.

Because Football Tasmania is not some secret society requiring a special handshake and whispered passwords to enter the room.

It is supposed to be a member organisation.

A football organisation.

Built for the people actually participating in the game.

Which means asking questions should not feel rebellious.

Transparency should not feel threatening.

And ordinary football people should not feel like outsiders peering through the window trying to work out what is happening inside their own sport.

Anyway.

Enjoy the big reveal.

May the envelopes be dramatic, the smoke signals visible and the constitutional interpretations plentiful.

RIP The Volunteer

National Volunteer Week Feels Slightly Absurd

Today is the final day of National Volunteer Week.

Which honestly feels slightly absurd in modern football.

We celebrate volunteers while simultaneously building systems that are slowly crushing them.

This week I met with Michele from Football Tasmania Wise on CRJFA business. Michele is a wise, experienced woman who has spent 15 years working in football administration and our conversation kept circling back to the same thing:

The same tired people are now holding entire clubs together.

In many community clubs, if two or three key volunteers walked away tomorrow, the entire operation would wobble.

Not dramatically.
Quietly.

One exhausted volunteer at a time.

The Club Culture We Used To Know

Gone are the days of dad playing senior football while mum worked in the canteen and the kids kicked a ball behind the goals until dark.

Football clubs once felt like extended families.

People stayed all day.
Children grew up at grounds.
Parents naturally drifted into helping because they were already there.

The club was part of life.

Now football often feels like another tightly scheduled appointment squeezed into an already impossible week.

Drop the child off.
Pick them up.
Rush to the next thing.

Not because people are selfish.

Because modern life is expensive and exhausting.

Children once grew up belonging to clubs.

Now many simply attend them.

And that matters because belonging creates volunteers.
Consumption creates customers.

Maybe Grassroots Was Never Quite The Utopia We Pretend

I write a lot about grassroots football like it is some kind of warm community utopia.

The canteen.
The committee.
The volunteers.
People helping because they love the game.

And yes, at times it absolutely felt like that.

But lately I have found myself looking back differently.

Twenty years of volunteering.

Twenty years of meetings, emails, politics, organising, stress, weekends and responsibility.

And honestly?

I am not even sure how I feel about it anymore.

And no, this is not the point where I ask people to say “thank you for your service” or tell volunteers how wonderful they are.

Plenty of people have done extraordinary things for their clubs over decades.

That is not really my point.

My point is that community sport has quietly become dependent on a relatively small number of people carrying extraordinary loads for very long periods of time while everyone else simply accepted that the work would somehow keep getting done.

And eventually you look back after twenty years and wonder:

Was this actually sustainable?

Did people genuinely value the work?

Or did many simply think:

“Great. Someone else is doing it so I don’t have to.”

That is the uncomfortable question sitting underneath community sport.

Because football often romanticises volunteerism while quietly relying on the same people over and over again until they burn out.

Community sport often relied on a relatively small number of people carrying extraordinary workloads while everyone else simply enjoyed the product.

And the work of volunteers is often only truly noticed once it stops being done.

Two Incomes And No Spare Capacity

Housing costs have exploded across Australia.
The cost of living keeps rising.
For many families, two incomes are no longer a choice, they are survival.

And when both parents are working, spare time disappears.

By the time families juggle work, school, shopping, cooking, traffic, bills and simply trying to survive their own week, there is very little left in the tank.

Volunteerism once relied on spare capacity.

Modern life has stripped much of it away.

Football Quietly Became A Job

At the same time volunteering itself has changed completely.

Once upon a time you simply helped.

Now you onboard.

Now volunteers need:

• Working With Vulnerable People checks

• Child safety training

• Online induction modules

• Governance understanding

• Risk management awareness

• Registration systems

• Incident reporting

• Parent communication

• Emails

• Committee meetings

And yes, most of these reforms came from genuine failures, risks or tragedies. None appeared from nowhere.

Child safety matters.
Good governance matters.
Safe environments matter.

But collectively they are creating something football is refusing to properly confront:

We are asking volunteers to operate inside increasingly professionalised systems without professional support.

Some volunteers are now effectively doing semi-professional administrative jobs after full days of work.

Registrars.
Treasurers.
Ground coordinators.
Junior convenors.
Presidents.

Many community clubs would simply collapse tomorrow if those people stopped.

The Risk-Reward Equation Has Changed

There is another shift too.

People are frightened of getting it wrong.

A volunteer coach or committee member now worries:

• What if I breach policy?

• What if a parent complains?

• What if I miss a compliance step?

• What if I say the wrong thing?

• What if I get accused of something?

The joy of helping has slowly been replaced by the fear of making mistakes.

The risk-reward equation of volunteering has changed completely.

The Emotional Exhaustion Nobody Talks About

Many volunteers now carry constant low-level guilt.

Guilt for not helping enough.
Guilt for missing messages.
Guilt for saying no.
Guilt for stepping down.

The emotional load is enormous.

Most are not leaving because they stopped caring.

They are leaving because they are tired.

And quietly, many long-term volunteers no longer feel valued.

They feel utilised.

The Irony Nobody Wants To Admit

I have sat through volunteering workshops in Tasmania with volunteers from my own club spending hours trying to work out how to recruit more volunteers.

Think about that for a moment.

Volunteers volunteering their time to attend workshops about how to convince other exhausted people to volunteer their time.

The irony is almost unbearable.

You sit in rooms watching glazed eyes slowly drift toward the exit while everyone talks about “engagement strategies” and “volunteer pathways” and “building capacity”.

But deep down most people already know the truth.

The problem is not recruitment strategy.

The problem is capacity.

People are tired.

Modern life has consumed the spare hours community sport once depended on.

You cannot endlessly professionalise volunteer roles while simultaneously wondering why fewer people are putting their hands up.

At some point the entire model starts collapsing under the weight of its own expectations.

And quietly, I think many people in community sport already know it.

The Endless Performance Of Community Sport

This week, clubs all over the country posted nicely framed graphics thanking volunteers.

And ironically, there is a good chance some exhausted volunteer stayed up late making those graphics because it felt like something the club should do.

The irony never really stops.

And to be clear, this is not mocking those volunteers.

Quite the opposite.

It is recognising how modern community sport now operates through an endless stream of emotional and administrative labour that somebody always has to carry.

Female Football Week.
Volunteer Week.
Mental Health Round.
Respect campaigns.
Social media expectations.
Acknowledgement posts.
Community obligations.

Again, none of these things are bad in themselves.

But collectively they become another exhausting layer of work added onto people already struggling to keep clubs functioning.

The expectation to constantly publicly demonstrate values has itself become another volunteer task.

Sometimes I think community sport now spends almost as much time performing community as it does actually living it.

And underneath it all are the same tired people quietly making sure everything happens because they feel responsible.

That feeling of responsibility is powerful.

But it is also dangerous.

Because eventually responsibility turns into obligation.

And obligation slowly turns into exhaustion.

The Disappearance Of Belonging

Clubs used to be social centres.

People stayed after games.
Shared meals.
Watched senior football.
Had a drink together.
Children played together for hours.

Now grounds empty quickly.

Because everyone has somewhere else to be.

Volunteers were once created by connection and belonging.

Modern life increasingly runs on convenience and efficiency instead.

Uber.
Food delivery.
Streaming.
Online shopping.

Sport is now one of the last parts of society still heavily dependent on collective unpaid effort.

And the tension is starting to show.

The Warning Sign Michele Mentioned

One thing Michele mentioned stayed with me.

She spoke about one of the biggest Little Athletics centres stopping because there were simply not enough volunteers left to run it.

That should terrify every sporting organisation in Australia.

Because when one of the biggest Little Athletics centres can no longer survive because there are not enough volunteers, this is no longer isolated burnout.

It is systemic.

The same warning signs are appearing everywhere:

• empty committee rooms

• clubs begging for team managers

• difficulty recruiting referees

• the same six people doing everything

• burnout hidden behind smiles and duty

Community sport is slowly leaning harder and harder on fewer and fewer people.

That is not sustainable.

The Invisible Labour Behind Junior Sport

If parents could actually see the amount of work required just to put teams onto a field every weekend, they would probably understand that community sport offers extraordinary value for money.

Fixtures.
Registrations.
Ground bookings.
Uniforms.
Insurance.
Lighting.
Referees.
Equipment.
Wet weather plans.
Communication.
Compliance.
Scheduling.
Safety.

Most of it is done quietly by volunteers who simply love their clubs and want football to happen for children.

Parents often look at fees and wonder where the money goes.

The real question is this:

What would those fees look like if every volunteer role suddenly had to be paid?

The User-Pays Future

At Morton’s Soccer School we employ more than 50 casual staff, many of them young.

They are not there because they feel virtuous.
They are not there because they want the emotional reward of volunteering.

They are there because it is work and they are being paid.

And maybe that is not some terrible cultural decline.

Maybe that is simply where modern society is heading.

People increasingly expect labour to be compensated.

Time has become too valuable.
Life has become too expensive.
And goodwill alone no longer sustains large sporting organisations the way it once did.

That may sound cold.

But honestly, I think much of community sport is already drifting in that direction whether we want to admit it or not.

If volunteering keeps collapsing, sport will eventually move fully toward user-pays systems.

Not because clubs want it to.

Because they may have no alternative.

If people no longer volunteer, clubs will either:

• reduce what they offer

• or pay people to do the work

And when that happens, costs rise sharply.

Parents stop belonging to clubs and start consuming them as services.

Community becomes transaction.

The Real Crisis

Football talks endlessly about participation numbers.

But perhaps the real crisis in community sport is not participation.

It is labour.

Because children can only play if somebody is still willing to organise it.

The future of community sport may not depend on how many children want to play.

It may depend on whether anybody is still willing to run it.

The Chosen Ones

The Email

An email arrived in my inbox today.

Anonymous source.

One of the strange things about stepping away from formal governance roles is that people suddenly feel safer sending you things. Safer forwarding concerns privately that they would never raise publicly.

Because I am no longer President of South Hobart.
No longer on the Board.
No longer sitting inside official structures.

So now things just quietly arrive.

And yes, I know exactly what some people think every time I write one of these pieces.

“Oh here she goes again.”
“Always causing trouble.”
“Always speaking up.”

But if football people continue anonymously sending concerns to the same handful of loud voices, maybe the bigger issue is not the people speaking.

Maybe it is the culture that makes others reluctant to.

A Step In The Right Direction

The email came from Football Tasmania CEO Tony Pignata to NPL and WSL club presidents announcing the formation of a new NPL/WSL Working Group.

The purpose sounds reasonable enough.

“The purpose of the group is to create a collaborative forum where key projects, current issues within the NPL/WSL, the future direction of the leagues, and opportunities to improve all aspects of the NPL and WSL competitions can be openly discussed.”

Honestly?

No issue with that at all.

In fact, I have been calling for exactly this kind of thing for years.

I constantly write about Football Tasmania needing to ask clubs what they think.
About reconnecting governance with grassroots football.
About clubs wanting a genuine voice.
About football people wanting to feel heard before decisions are made.

So this is, in theory, a step in the right direction.

But then the obvious question becomes:

If you genuinely want clubs to feel heard, why begin by making everybody wonder how the room was selected?

The Wording Matters

Because the email then moves from “discussion” into something far more significant.

“The working group will engage with all clubs throughout the process and will represent the collective interests of the clubs in discussions and decision-making relating to the NPL and WSL competitions.”

That wording matters.

Represent the collective interests of the clubs.

Decision-making.

Those are not casual phrases.

And naturally some pretty obvious questions follow.

Why these four presidents?

What was the process?

Were clubs asked for nominations?

Was there a vote?

Did clubs know this group was even being formed?

Why did Football Tasmania choose them?

Because that is essentially what has happened here.

Football Tasmania has hand-picked four club presidents to represent everybody else.

Maybe there are perfectly logical reasons behind the selections.

But if so, explain them.

That is what transparency looks like.

Seatgate

Honestly, the whole thing has a slight Seatgate energy to it.

The lucky recipients are announced.
Everyone else looks around wondering how the seats were allocated.
Who knew about it.
Who got the tap on the shoulder.
Who was already in the room before everyone else even knew there was a room.

And that matters because football governance is not just about intentions.

It is about legitimacy.
Transparency.
Trust in process.

Particularly in Tasmanian football where many clubs already feel major conversations happen in small circles before broader consultation begins.

The Tap On The Shoulder

And this is really the question sitting underneath the whole thing.

Who chose these four?

Seriously.

What was the criteria?

Geography?
Club size?
NPL success?
WSL involvement?
Good administrators?
Availability?
People unlikely to rock the boat?
People Football Tasmania already works well with?
People seen as “safe”?
Friendly fire?
What exactly?

Because if clubs are supposedly being represented collectively, surely the process for selecting the representatives matters enormously.

And maybe there was a logical process.

But if there was, it has not been explained.

That is the problem.

Because in the absence of transparency, football people do what football people always do:

They speculate.

And in Tasmanian football, speculation spreads faster than a wet winter rumour at a canteen.

So now everyone immediately starts analysing:

• which clubs got representation

• which clubs did not

• which personalities are considered “constructive”

• which clubs are viewed as difficult

• who is seen as aligned with FT

• who regularly challenges FT

• whether northern and southern football are balanced

• whether WSL concerns will genuinely be heard

• whether stronger clubs dominate the conversation

• whether smaller clubs feel invisible again

That is not because football people are paranoid.

It is because representation itself is political.

Particularly in a small football ecosystem where relationships and access matter so much.

And honestly, this is why process matters more than personalities.

Because the moment Football Tasmania hand-picks representatives instead of creating an open nomination or election process, the conversation shifts away from:
“How do we improve the leagues?”

And towards:
“Why them?”

That is avoidable.

That is the frustrating part.

Consultation Or Managed Feedback?

The irony is that the email repeatedly talks about collaboration and engagement.

Yet the structure itself appears to have been created before engaging with the clubs it now claims to represent.

That is the uncomfortable part.

Because consultation after the representatives are already chosen can start to feel less like collaboration and more like managed feedback.

And on a forensic read of the email, there is another issue.

There is actually no explanation of what this group formally is.

Not really.

No terms of reference.
No explanation of authority.
No clarity around whether this is advisory or decision-making.
No explanation of how members are selected or replaced.
No indication of term length.
No mention of whether minutes or recommendations will be shared with clubs.
No explanation of whether clubs get a say on proposals before anything progresses.

Just:
“The working group has now been established.”

Done.
Decided.
Announced.

That is why this risks being set up to fail before it even begins.

Not because involving clubs is wrong.

Quite the opposite.

It is because the process itself lacks transparency.

And when transparency is missing, football people immediately start filling the gaps themselves.

The Politics Of Representation

Structure without process quickly becomes politics.

And in Tasmanian football, politics is rarely about formal power.

It is about access.
Relationships.
Who gets information first.
Who gets heard.
Who gets invited into the room.

So when four clubs are selected, every other club immediately starts mentally mapping:

• north/south balance

• bigger clubs/smaller clubs

• established clubs/emerging clubs

• clubs aligned with FT

• clubs often critical of FT

• NPL priorities vs WSL priorities

That is inevitable.

Because representation in football is never neutral.

The Missing Perspective

And then there is another detail quietly sitting in the email.

This is supposedly an NPL and WSL Working Group.
Men’s and women’s football.

Yet among the selected club presidents representing the future direction of both competitions:

Not one woman.

Now to be fair, there may well be female representation from Football Tasmania itself within the broader discussions.

But that is not quite the same thing as lived clubland experience.

The experience of trying to build women’s football from inside clubs.
Finding coaches.
Retaining teenage girls.
Fighting for changeroom space.
Balancing budgets.
Managing volunteers.
Negotiating training access.
Building pathways.
Trying to make women’s football feel genuinely valued inside football culture.

That perspective matters.

Football loves promoting women’s football in strategy documents and social media graphics.

But when influence and access are being allocated, the room still somehow ends up looking very familiar.

This Was Avoidable

And the frustrating thing is this was probably easily avoidable.

Football Tasmania could have:

• called for nominations

• explained the selection criteria

• allowed clubs to elect representatives

• rotated positions annually

• created clearer north/south or NPL/WSL representation structures

Transparency would probably have removed half the politics immediately.

Instead, the process itself has become the story.

Hang On A Minute

And football has a habit of accidentally revealing its real power structures in moments exactly like this.

Small moments.
Emails.
Committees.
Working groups.
Quiet selections.

The kinds of things most people skim past.

Until somebody awkwardly points at them and says:

“Hang on a minute.”

Darren “Frosty” Frost, New Town Eagles, football, resilience and life in a wheelchair

Darren Frost - photo by Nikki Long

I have known Darren Frost, “Frosty” to most football people, through years of President meetings, sideline conversations and those old Southern Championship battles before the Victory League and NPL era changed the landscape of Tasmanian football.

To be honest, I was a little nervous about asking the personal questions.

The wheelchair questions.

Should I be direct?

Should I skirt around it?

Would I upset him by asking openly about his chair and what life in football looks like now?

Frosty made that easy almost immediately.

No question was out of bounds.

So we decided to tell the story honestly.

Football and disability.

Clubs and infrastructure.

Community football and what happens when life changes in an instant.

What followed was one of the most open and candid interviews I have done.

Because underneath all of it, the committees, the Presidents meetings, the old league structures, the accessibility frustrations and the wheelchair, is simply a football person.

And Frosty is unquestionably that.

Green Point, Brighton, Metro and two games every Saturday

Football started early for Frosty.

He began as a goalkeeper for Green Point Primary School Under 8s before moving to Brighton, where he played in goals until Under 12s.

From there he moved to Metro, where he played Under 13s, Under 14s and Under 15s as an outfield player while representing Tasmania at Under 14 and Under 15 level under coach David Smith. He was also playing high school football at the same time.

Two games every Saturday.

And he loved it.

There was a season at Juventus before the move that would shape the rest of his football life.

White Eagles.

He joined the club at 17 and, apart from one season in Queensland playing in the Toowoomba District League, he has been there ever since.

He remembers that Toowoomba competition fondly, especially one game in Dalby played in 40-degree heat.

“It was the slowest game of Football I have ever been apart of. Lol.”

The White Eagles family

At White Eagles, Frosty walked into a football culture that immediately felt different.

His first year was in the State League reserves under Les Ware, with Bobby Rybak around the senior side and players such as David Stoddard, Craig Pitt, Andrew, Mark and Richard Leszczynski and “Slugger” around the club.

“Some great players to train alongside & learn the game from.”

The senior and reserve teams were successful for many years through the 1990s and Frosty remembers everyone heading back to the Polish Club after games to celebrate those victories.

But what stayed with him most was not just the football.

It was the feeling around the place.

“It was a club that always felt like a true family club where the players looked after each other.”

The mums helped with food after games.

Families were encouraged to come back to the club after matches.

That feeling of football club as extended family sits underneath almost every answer Darren gives.

And for older Tasmanian football people, especially those connected to ethnic clubs, it will feel very familiar.

Tasmanian football in the 1990s

Ask Darren about football in Tasmania during the 1990s and the names immediately begin rolling out.

Collin Sheppard, David Stoddard, Craig Pitt, Ian Parker, Romeo Frediani, Mark Falzon, Marty Collins, Warren Iles, Tim Dale, the Huigsloots, the Furjanics, the Browns, Brett Pullen, Ben Hardbinson, the Scottish imports Metro brought in. Olympia even had a player with German Second Division experience who Frosty says was “amazing to watch”.

“Some will disagree with this, but I believe Football back then in the 90’s was the best Football has been in this State.”

And then comes one of his strongest observations.

He believes that if Tasmanian players of that era had the opportunities players have today, many could have gone further than playing only in Tasmania.

That is not nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake.

That is someone remembering the standard.

The packed grounds.

The atmosphere.

“The ground would be packed at KGV for Olympia v Juventus or White Eagles v Croatia.”

He remembers stronger connections between clubs and communities.

Clubs had local identities.

They had ethnic identities.

There were more supporters and more atmosphere.

It is hard not to read that and think about what modern football has gained, and what it may have quietly lost.

The accident

In 2002 Darren’s life changed dramatically after a motorbike accident.

He broke his back at Thoracic 4, sustained a mild ABI and had many other broken bones.

He spent six months in rehabilitation in Melbourne.

When he returned to Tasmania, he tried to stay connected to Eagles and to sport as much as possible.

But returning to football was hard.

He attended a few Eagles games but found it difficult at first.

“I so wanted to be out there kicking the ball with my mates & to help the club out.”

At the time, Eagles had lost a lot of senior players the season before, so the club was rebuilding too.

He jokes that he did not miss the freezing cold nights at Clare Street.

But the thing he missed most was not quite what people might expect.

“The funny thing with that was, while I missed playing, I actually missed training more.”

“Hanging with your mates, kicking a football around Clare Street twice a week & having a laugh while you did it.”

That feels instantly recognisable to football people.

Not trophies.

Not status.

Training.

Routine.

Belonging.

Friendship.

He also found himself still coaching from wherever he was.

“Going to games was hard for a while as I found myself yelling in the car at players to move into different positions or yelling at them to pass. Lol.”

Some friends were awkward at first because they did not know what to say.

But once they realised Darren was still Darren, still ready to laugh at himself and at them, things settled.

They treated him as they always had.

Becoming President

Football was never going to disappear from Darren’s life.

He says he always knew he would stay involved in some way.

He had even thought about committee work while he was still playing.

A year after his accident, he was asked to become President of White Eagles.

He admits he knew very little about that side of the game.

Then came balance sheets.

Sponsorship.

Responsibility.

“Seeing the balance sheets & understanding that you need to get out & sell the club to potential sponsors to get monies in made it really hit home that you are in charge of something bigger & that people rely on you.”

That line will resonate with just about every volunteer football administrator in Tasmania.

Moving from player and coach into committee and President roles changed how he saw the game.

He suddenly understood how clubs were run, how much they depended on volunteers, how Football Federation Tasmania decisions could affect clubs and leagues, and how much impact councils could have over clubs too.

“It really was an eye opener.”

As a player, he says, it is easy to grizzle about fees going up or extra charges being added.

As an administrator, you start to understand the costs, rules and regulations behind those decisions.

Darren would go on to win many trophies at Eagles, at both senior and reserve level.

He also won the Southern Tasmanian Under 23 Coach of the Year award, back when Tasmania had Under 23s.

He was awarded Life Membership of White Eagles, something he sees as a massive honour.

And he was part of a rebuild that produced some outstanding young senior players.

Andy Clarke.

Ben Whitehall.

Alex Leszczynski.

Nathan Pitchford.

Cormac Collins.

Just to name a few.

The Victory League and what changed

When asked about the hardest decision of his Presidency, Darren immediately goes to the formation of the Victory League, now the NPL.

White Eagles had seven junior teams, six senior male teams and two female senior teams at the time.

The club believed it had ticked all the required boxes for inclusion in the new competition.

Missing out had a devastating impact.

Many players who had grown through the club left for teams accepted into the new league.

“It really did rip our club apart.”

Darren believes there was greater competition and togetherness when football was run through Southern and Northern Leagues, or even the old State League.

After Eagles missed out, he says the Southern Championship became a strong and competitive competition.

Players who were not getting regular NPL game time moved across to clubs in that league.

But then FFT added NPL reserve teams into the Southern Championship the following season.

Frosty is blunt.

“It kind of ruined that league.”

And he is just as blunt about how clubs outside the NPL often feel.

“FT only seem to care about the NPL & not the clubs outside of that.”

Keeping clubs alive

Darren does not pretend running community clubs is easy.

When asked what people outside clubs do not understand, he starts with lack of money.

“One thing. WOW. Lack of funds that come into a club, unlike other sports.”

He talks about the time and effort spent each year trying to bring sponsors on board.

He talks about how difficult it is to find volunteers now because families have so much happening on weekends.

And importantly, he says most clubs in Tasmania survive because of volunteers.

Then there is Andrew Leszczynski.

Darren calls him “the biggest hero of the club”.

Andrew has been treasurer for as long as Darren can remember and still is.

He has basically kept the proud club running through tough times and is always at Clare Street whenever needed.

He was also a great player and coach.

“He is one of the nicest people you will ever come across in the Football landscape.”

“I have never heard a bad word said about him by anyone.”

That is a football tribute.

Simple.

Local.

And deeply earned.

Darren says Eagles have been asked several times about merging with other clubs.

But they want to stand on their own.

“We are a very proud club that have won a lot.”

It has been tough.

But they are bouncing back.

For Darren, getting the right people into a club is the key.

So is getting former players and members back involved.

So is bringing in new faces.

He also makes a point that matters.

Having both men and women involved in club decision-making is vital for growth.

Eagles now has its first female President.

He believes clubs should attract sponsors that align with the morals of both the club and the wider community.

And there is one line that probably sums up the reality for community clubs.

“You cannot sit still or you get left behind.”

Accessibility, football grounds and the everyday reality

The accessibility part of this interview matters because Darren speaks about ordinary things most able-bodied football people never think about.

Car parks.

Mud.

Steps.

Shelter.

Viewing areas.

Toilets.

Simple things that determine whether someone can comfortably attend football or not.

While access to grounds is improving, some grounds are still difficult.

Some grounds in Tasmania, Darren says, are not accessible at all.

Car parking is an issue.

So are viewing areas.

So are toilets.

KGV once used its accessible toilet as a storage room, meaning Darren could not use it.

At Clare Street, the car park was gravel for many years.

In winter, Darren’s wheels and clothes would be covered in mud on a wet day.

That car park has now been sealed, which is a major improvement.

But the council only installed one accessible parking space.

And some accessible spaces are simply too narrow to physically get a wheelchair out beside the car.

If Darren arrives on a big game day and someone else is already parked there, there is often nowhere suitable for him to park.

KGV has two accessible parking spots, which is good.

But Darren remembers attending Presidents meetings and finding a former referee parked in one of them.

“It did make me laugh.”

Then comes the important qualifier.

“Now I’m not saying I want everything done for me.”

He is asking for practical thought.

A wider space to get a wheelchair out.

Somewhere dry to watch from.

A toilet that can actually be used as a toilet.

He says accessible toilets being used as storage spaces is common.

“Mops, buckets, general office equipment.”

He has even seen disability companies use accessible toilets as storage rooms too.

There have been times when it was cold or raining and there was nowhere undercover to watch from.

Sometimes getting into the clubroom was not an option because it was locked, including at KGV.

Darren says councils in some regions could do much more with simple accessibility improvements.

Small things matter

Darren repeatedly returns to one simple point.

Small things matter.

“Most people go about their day & not realising how one small thing can have an impact on someone with mobility issues.”

He points out that many accessible parking spaces are not actually designed well for wheelchair users.

He has had many conversations with councils about on-street accessible parking and why many spaces do not work for someone in a wheelchair.

His suggestion is simple.

If you are developing grounds or clubrooms, include someone with accessibility issues in the design process.

He also points out that accessibility issues extend beyond football grounds.

Scooters left on footpaths.

Cars parked across driveways and blocking footpaths.

Small obstructions for some people.

Big barriers for others.

Darren believes facility grants should absolutely require accessibility standards.

“Sports grounds need to be made more accessible to everyone.”

Tasmania has an ageing population too.

If football wants older supporters to keep attending games, grounds must be easier to access.

Not just for wheelchair users.

For everyone.

He also believes clubs themselves should keep putting pressure on councils and politicians to improve accessibility.

What better looks like

When asked what three things he would change about Tasmanian football facilities, Darren does not ask for luxury.

He asks for sealed car parks.

Because wet, muddy car parks mean filthy wheels, filthy clothes and mud taken back into the car.

He asks for good undercover viewing areas.

Because people with mobility issues should still be able to sit and watch when it rains.

And he asks for all games to be filmed and shown on YouTube.

Not as a replacement for attending.

As another way to stay connected.

On horrible weather days, people could still watch from home and feel part of the club and the game.

It would also allow people who no longer live in Tasmania to stay connected with their former clubs.

That last point matters.

Because access is not only about ramps and toilets.

It is also about connection.

Darren says YouTube coverage has made it easier for him to keep up with local football, but at the moment it is really only NPL games that are covered.

That circles back to the earlier point.

The clubs outside the top tier matter too.

Their people want to stay connected too.

Grounds that have improved

Darren is fair when talking about facilities.

He recognises improvement where it has happened.

Clare Street has had a makeover.

The car park is sealed now.

There are accessible toilets.

But there is still only one accessible parking space.

KGV being sealed is also a positive because it makes moving around the facility easier.

But even there, small design issues remain.

The shed behind the goal has a roof, which is good, but there is a step to get into it.

Someone in a power wheelchair cannot access that area if it starts to rain.

He has also looked around Metro’s new clubrooms and was impressed.

They are well designed, with lift access between the two floors and good viewing areas inside and outside.

He is not sure whether the top ground is accessible, and says he could be wrong.

He has not yet seen Kingborough’s new upgrades, but is keen to have a look.

Again, that detail matters.

This is not Darren complaining from the sidelines.

This is Darren observing football infrastructure with lived experience.

Football people looking after football people

Despite the frustrations, Darren repeatedly returns to one thing.

The football community.

He says the football community as a whole has always been welcoming.

Because he already knew many people at different clubs, when he went to their grounds or clubrooms they generally made him feel welcome and helped where needed.

The Polish Club physically modified its building to support him.

The Polish Committee put money into a concrete ramp at the front door.

They created an accessible toilet.

They also installed a small lift so he could get down into the function area of the Polish Club.

That is practical inclusion.

Not a slogan.

Not a policy document.

A ramp.

A toilet.

A lift.

There is also a wonderfully Tasmanian football story from a Presidents meeting at the Hellenic Hall.

The meeting had been booked upstairs.

So a few of the people attending carried Darren and his chair up the stairs.

They laughed about it.

Imperfect.

Chaotic.

Human.

Football people simply figuring things out together.

Family, football and belonging

Darren’s family sits quietly underneath the entire story.

His dad became his coach at Under 8 level because nobody else wanted to do it.

He knew nothing about football, so he learned on the go.

His mum was always there.

Every game.

And then comes one of the great community football images of the whole interview.

“Mum always made Scones, Jam & Cream for the KGV night games to share amongst the Eagle parents. Lol.”

His poor sister was dragged along too.

When Darren talks about how his injury affected family life, he says from his perspective it did not change things too much.

But then he pauses on his mum.

“It was hard on my Mum I guess as no one expects their child to have a spinal cord injury & their life get turned upside down.”

He also says that question might be better answered by his family because he was in Melbourne for rehab and did not fully see the impact it had on them.

After the accident, before Darren got his licence back and could drive again, he relied on his mum or friends to get him to games.

Whether he could attend also depended on where the game was being played and whether he could access that ground.

What mattered most to him was not pity.

Not sympathy.

Just honesty and normality.

“The things that have meant the most, & this goes for friends too, is when they have asked questions about my disability but also not treated me like I have disability.”

His daughter and the football life she did not see

Darren’s daughter has never seen him play football.

That line stopped me for a moment.

“She has seen some photos of me back then & gets a smile on her face & asks questions.”

He says it is hard to explain things about the game because he cannot physically show her.

She is not especially interested in sitting through a full game, so he does not really take her to football.

But she watches Liverpool highlights with him on YouTube.

She knew he was President of the club.

But she did not really understand what that meant.

Quietly, this might be one of the saddest and most revealing parts of the interview.

There is a whole football life that existed before her.

A version of her dad she knows through photos, stories and a smile.

More than just playing

At the end of the interview I asked Darren what he would say to someone newly injured who thinks football is no longer part of their life.

His answer was immediate.

“Football offers you many roles outside of playing. Playing is just a small part of it.”

Then came the line that probably sits underneath this entire interview.

“The club needs to keep connected with the player.”

He believes players also need to get around an injured teammate and keep them involved.

That might mean coming to watch a game.

Helping in the kiosk.

Joining a committee.

Taking on an executive role.

Whatever the role, the point is the same.

A player who has given years to a club should still feel supported by that club after injury.

Darren also makes a generous offer.

If a player or club wants to talk to him about access needs, or if a player has been injured and wants to talk about their new life, he is more than happy to have a chat.

That tells you something about him.

Not just what he has lived through.

But what he is willing to give back.

How he hopes he is remembered

When I asked Darren how he hopes people remember his time at New Town Eagles, his answer was simple.

He hopes people saw him as someone committed to the club.

Committed to every team he played in.

Passionate about White Eagles.

Someone who gave his all, “most of the time,” he laughs, to the club as a player, coach and committee member.

That probably tells you everything you need to know about Darren Frost.

A football person.

A White Eagles person.

A community person.

Someone who stayed connected to the game after life changed completely.

And someone who still wants football to be a place where others can belong too.

Tell Him He’s Dreaming

I sat down and read through the Tasmanian Budget papers today before training.

Every year I do it with the same tiny piece of hope.

Maybe this will be the year there is finally some transformational thinking around football infrastructure in Tasmania.
Maybe this will be the year participation sport gets treated as something more than an afterthought.
Maybe somewhere buried in the hundreds of pages there will be a genuine surprise.

Some magical football pot of gold.

Instead, it was very much a “tell him he’s dreaming” moment.

Again.

And honestly, that feeling is becoming less surprising every year.

Because once again, the Budget papers reveal a Tasmania that thinks very strategically about elite sporting infrastructure and far less strategically about participation sport.

OMG the Money

The Budget confirms $567.8 million toward the Macquarie Point multi-purpose sporting and entertainment precinct.

That figure includes:

• $331.4 million from the Tasmanian Government

• $221.4 million from the Australian Government

• $15 million from the AFL

And further borrowing support is already flagged beyond that.

When you actually stop and sit with the scale of those numbers, it is hard not to have the same reaction:

Oh my God, the money.

Not just the stadium itself.

The layers underneath it.

The planning.
The governance.
The authorities.
The venue structures.
The tourism integration.
The economic modelling.
The urban renewal language.
The long-term strategic protection.

And that is before revisiting the other AFL-linked spending Tasmania has already committed itself to over recent years:

• AFL licence funding

• the High Performance Centre

• York Park upgrades

• Dial Park upgrades

• and now the stadium itself

At some point you stop debating whether Tasmania is serious about AFL investment.

Clearly it is.

Football Exists in a Different Conversation

Meanwhile football continues to grow quietly in the background.

Women and girls football keeps growing.
Junior football keeps growing.
Participation keeps growing.
Demand for facilities keeps growing.

But the infrastructure conversation around football still often feels stuck in survival mode.

Not transformational mode.
Survival mode.

The conversation is still about:

• access to grounds

• lighting

• changerooms

• training space

• scheduling pressure

• councils trying to keep up

• and volunteers trying to stretch infrastructure further than it was ever designed to go

Football is one of the largest participation sports in Tasmania.

Yet it still often feels like it exists in a completely different funding universe to AFL.

That is the part football people are tired of pretending not to notice.

What the hell do participation sports actually need to do to get noticed in Tasmania?

Run naked through Salamanca Market juggling a soccer ball?

Actually no, scratch that.
That would probably “bring the game into disrepute” and land football on the front page of The Mercury for all the wrong reasons.

Because sometimes it genuinely feels like football can:

• grow participation

• grow women’s football

• grow junior football

• fill grounds

• overload facilities

• stretch volunteers to breaking point

…and still somehow remain politically peripheral.

Meanwhile other sports receive:

• strategic infrastructure planning

• dedicated authorities

• coordinated investment

• economic framing

• and transformational public spending

as if their importance is simply accepted as fact.

That is the disconnect football people are increasingly struggling with.

Not jealousy.

Recognition.

Recognition that one of Tasmania’s largest participation sports still often feels like it exists outside the main conversation when the really serious money is being discussed.

The Grant Trap

And yes, football can apply for grants.

That line gets rolled out constantly.

But AFL can apply for grants too.

That is the bit people dance around.

Football often feels like it is permanently applying for help while AFL receives strategic infrastructure investment as a matter of policy.

One side gets transformational investment.
The other gets application forms.

One side gets long-term infrastructure planning.
The other gets told to be patient.

Again.

The Difference in Language

This is not an anti-AFL argument.

People are excited about the Devils.
The JackJumpers have been enormously important for Tasmania.
Elite sport absolutely creates identity, visibility and economic activity.

But reading these Budget papers, what struck me most was the difference in language surrounding different levels of sport.

Elite sport gets discussed as:

• economic infrastructure

• activation

• investment

• tourism

• state growth

• urban renewal

Participation sport gets discussed as:

• community

• wellbeing

• inclusion

• volunteering

• participation

Both matter.

But only one of those categories consistently seems to attract transformational public investment.

And maybe that is the real divide sitting underneath all of this.

What Governments Choose to Build Around

Budgets are not just financial documents.

They are statements of priority.

They reveal what governments think matters enough to build systems around.

Reading this Budget, it is impossible not to conclude that Tasmania now has a sophisticated, coordinated, long-term strategy around elite sporting infrastructure.

What remains far less clear is whether Tasmania has anything resembling the same strategic ambition for participation sport infrastructure.

Because for most Tasmanians, sport is not a stadium.

It is something they actually play.

And increasingly, football people are looking at the scale of public investment flowing into elite infrastructure and asking a pretty reasonable question:

At what point does participation sport stop being something politicians praise in speeches and start becoming something they genuinely invest in?

Australian Football Keeps Growing. So Why Is It Still Broke?

The Money Never Arrived

If Australian football still cannot achieve financial stability after the Matildas phenomenon, then the game may have a deeper structural problem than many people want to admit.

Football Australia is reportedly set to cut more than 20% of its workforce after another major financial loss.

Twenty percent.

One in every five employees losing their jobs.

Not after a collapse in participation.
Not after football disappeared from the national conversation.
Not after the game became irrelevant.

After the biggest cultural moment Australian football has experienced in generations.

That is the contradiction sitting at the centre of this story.

The Matildas transformed football’s visibility in Australia.
Participation continues to grow.
Governments want to invest.
Football is more visible than it has been in decades.

And yet Football Australia is once again talking about:

• restructuring,

• “rightsizing”,

• “operating within our financial means”,

• and another “reset”.

At some point the game has to stop treating these moments as temporary setbacks and ask a much harder question:

Why does Australian football keep finding itself here?

This Does Not Sound Temporary

The language coming from Football Australia this week has been remarkably revealing.

New CEO Martin Kugeler has openly spoken about:

• “multiple gaps in the organisation’s structure”

• “misalignment with its overall strategy”

• and losses that are “not sustainable or acceptable”.

Craig Foster has simultaneously called for:

• governance reform,

• greater alignment,

• and “one voice, one path, one ambition and one strategy”.

None of this sounds like ordinary cost cutting.

It sounds like a sport beginning to question its own architecture.

Australian football increasingly feels like a game that built the structures of a much bigger sport before securing the financial foundations to sustain them.

The Full Picture Has Not Even Been Released Yet

Perhaps the most striking part of all this is that the exact scale of Football Australia’s financial losses is still not fully public.

The full figures are expected to be released at Football Australia’s AGM on May 28.

Yet before those numbers have even formally landed, the organisation has already announced:

• major redundancies,

• a significant restructure,

• and a reduction of more than 20% of its workforce.

One in every five staff.

Football Australia itself admits this restructure is designed to create “an overall smaller organisation”.

The speed of the response is also revealing.

Kugeler has been in the role for barely 100 days.

Growth Everywhere. Stability Nowhere.

Australian football constantly talks about:

• growth,

• pathways,

• expansion,

• participation,

• engagement,

• and strategy.

And yet the governing body itself is now cutting one in every five staff.

At some point the game has to confront the possibility that it spent years expanding structures faster than it built sustainable revenue.

Football Australia now operates above:

Nine CEOs.
Nine CFOs.
Nine offices.
Nine executive teams.

Underneath a national governing body already headquartered in Sydney.

The Sydney Problem Nobody Really Talks About

Much of football’s executive, commercial and media power already sits in Sydney.

Football Australia is based there.
National decision-making sits there.
Commercial influence sits there.
Most football media sits there.

And increasingly, many senior football roles are Sydney-centric as well.

So Australian football now carries the cost of a heavily federated national model while much of the real influence is already centralised anyway.

Australian football appears to be carrying both:

• the cost of decentralisation,

• and the reality of centralised influence.

That is an expensive combination.

Tasmanians Already Understand This Debate

Tasmanians instinctively understand this argument.

We have 29 councils serving barely half a million people and spend years arguing about duplication, inefficiency and administrative sprawl.

Football may now be confronting similar realities.

Craig Foster is right when he says the game struggles to act with one voice.

Structurally, Australian football was built to distribute power, not consolidate it.

The Commercial Problem

Perhaps the most revealing part of Football Australia’s comments this week had nothing to do with redundancies.

It was the admission that the game still is not properly commercialising its audience.

Martin Kugeler openly acknowledged:

“I don't think we are capitalising commercially on the success and the audience.”

That is an astonishing admission after:

• the Matildas phenomenon,

• sold out stadiums,

• record television audiences,

• and unprecedented mainstream visibility.

Football Australia is effectively admitting it could not convert the biggest moment in Australian football history into long-term financial stability.

And the examples are increasingly difficult to ignore.

The Australia Cup’s naming rights deal with Hahn reportedly ends next year.
The Australian Championship has no naming rights sponsor.
The Emerging Championships have no naming rights sponsor.
Even the National Premier Leagues remain without a naming rights partner.

Australian football appears culturally stronger than ever while still struggling to fully monetise its own competitions and audience.

That may ultimately be the central contradiction of the modern Australian game.

What Would Reform Actually Look Like?

Small states like Tasmania absolutely need representation within Australian football.

But the modern world is very different from the one these federated structures were built for.

Technology has changed everything:

• registrations,

• compliance,

• coach education,

• pathway systems,

• strategic planning,

• data systems.

Much of it can now be centralised far more efficiently than it once could.

Perhaps the future is not removing Member Federations entirely, but reducing duplication through:

• stronger national systems,

• shared services,

• and leaner regional structures.

Because right now Australian football increasingly feels like a sport trying to fund multiple overlapping systems while still relying heavily on FIFA tournament cycles to stabilise itself financially.

The FIFA Dependency Problem

Perhaps the most confronting detail in all of this is how dependent the game still appears to be on World Cup money.

The Women’s World Cup created a temporary financial and cultural surge.
The Socceroos qualifying for the Men’s World Cup again becomes financially critical.
A Round of 16 appearance could reportedly mean millions more flowing into Football Australia.

Think about that for a second.

The governing body of the country’s biggest participation sport still appears heavily dependent on periodic FIFA injections to stabilise itself financially.

That is extraordinary.

Especially after Football Australia itself openly admitted it failed to fully capitalise on the Matildas phenomenon.

And that may be the most confronting question in Australian football right now.

If Australian football could not fully convert:

• a home Women’s World Cup,

• sold out stadiums,

• national goodwill,

• mainstream relevance,

• and the Matildas cultural explosion

into long-term financial stability, then when exactly does sustainability arrive?

The Bigger Question

Football Australia’s staff cuts may prove necessary.

But the deeper issue is becoming harder to avoid.

Australian football may finally be confronting the gap between its ambitions and its structure.

Australian football spent years building the structures of a richer sport.

The problem is the money never fully arrived.

If football is financially stronger, why doesn’t football feel better?

After looking at where Football Tasmania money comes from in Part One, and where it is spent in Part Two, I keep coming back to one thought.

If Football Tasmania has genuinely turned its finances around, has the football experience improved too?

Do clubs feel more supported?
Do volunteers feel less stretched?
Do associations feel heard?
Does football actually feel better week to week?

Because that is ultimately how football people judge football.

Not through balance sheets.

Through lived experience.

And perhaps the biggest issue sitting underneath all of this is that many football people are not even sure how they are supposed to communicate those feelings constructively anymore.

What should football actually feel like?

Ordinary football people do not experience football through spreadsheets.

They experience it through:

• livestreams

• referees

• communication

• facilities

• competitions

• volunteers

• pathways

• relationships

So when finances appear stronger, expectations naturally rise too.

Football people start asking:

• should the matchday experience improve?

• should communication improve?

• should clubs and associations feel more supported?

• should football feel more connected?

Because many people still quietly ask:

“We seem to be spending more money every year, but does football actually feel better?”

That is not a hostile question.

It is a fair one.

The invisible engine room of football

One thing these financial discussions can easily overlook is the role of associations and grassroots football volunteers.

Because associations are often the true operational engine room of participation football.

The people:

• grading teams

• organising fixtures

• supporting clubs

• dealing with wet weather

• helping referees

• solving problems nobody else sees

A huge amount of football in Tasmania still runs on volunteer labour.

And often exhausting volunteer labour.

Associations are increasingly expected to operate like professional organisations while still relying heavily on goodwill and unpaid people simply caring enough to keep things going.

That contradiction sits right at the heart of grassroots football.

Because despite larger budgets, stronger systems and increasing professionalism, many volunteers still feel more stretched than ever.

Are we building football for administrators or footballers?

Sometimes football feels increasingly designed around:

• systems

• structures

• pathways

• compliance

• administration

While ordinary football people are often just asking for:

• more football

• better football

• enjoyable football

• visible football

• connected football

Tasmania sometimes feels caught between trying to imitate much larger football states while still fundamentally operating as a community football ecosystem.

Have we overcomplicated youth development?

Before anyone says it, yes, I obviously have a financial interest in youth development through Morton’s Soccer School.

I think it is important to say that openly.

But I also think this conversation is still worth having.

Development programs are now:

• talent pathways

• technical systems

• identification structures

• and significant revenue streams

At the same time, many clubs are heavily investing in their own academies and technical development programs.

That creates a genuine structural question around where the balance sits between supporting clubs and operating alongside them.

And beyond that sits another uncomfortable question.

Have we sometimes confused football development with football complexity?

Because for all the discussion around pathways and high performance structures, many Tasmanian players still simply play less football than their mainland counterparts.

At the end of the day, players improve by:

• playing

• touching the ball

• making decisions

• competing

• and loving the game

Not just talking about development.

Who feels heard?

The financial statements show a larger and more sophisticated football organisation than many people probably imagine.

But many grassroots football people still feel disconnected from governance structures.

That is why conversations keep resurfacing around:

• centralisation

• communication

• visibility

• leadership connection

• and whether ordinary football people still feel genuinely heard

The ongoing discussion around FIFO leadership probably sits inside that broader issue too.

Not really as a financial question.

More a connection question.

Community sport is deeply relationship-driven.

Tasmanian football probably even more so.

People want leaders who understand local football culture, who are visible, accessible and present in the ordinary day-to-day life of the game.

And honestly, wouldn’t it be nice sometimes if football people were simply asked what they thought?

What should grassroots football actually get back?

Behind every line in the accounts are football people.

Parents paying registrations.
Volunteers running canteens.
Associations organising competitions.
Clubs fundraising constantly.
Players travelling every weekend.
Coaches giving up evenings.

Grassroots football is not a side issue in Tasmania.

It is the foundation the entire game sits on.

So if Football Tasmania is now financially stronger, the big question for football people is fairly simple:

When does that strength start feeling visible in the lived experience of the game?

And how do ordinary football people meaningfully tell Football Tasmania what they believe still needs improving?

Where does Football Tasmania spend the money?

Expenditure 101

After looking at where Football Tasmania money actually comes from, the next obvious question is:

Where does it all go?

And this is probably the part ordinary football people connect with most.

Because spending shapes experience.

It shapes:

• competitions

• referees

• livestreams

• communication

• development programs

• facilities

• support services

• the overall presentation of the game

The newly released 2025 financial statements show Football Tasmania spent just over $3.5 million during the year.

That is a substantial operation for a relatively small football state.

And financially stronger organisations naturally create higher expectations from members.

The biggest expense by far

The single largest expense was employee expenses at just over $1.19 million.

That represented roughly one-third of Football Tasmania’s total expenditure for the year.

That number will probably surprise some football people.

But modern football administration is labour intensive.

Competitions.
Registrations.
Referees.
Development programs.
Coach education.
Facilities.
Community football.
Communication.
Governance.

None of that runs itself.

Whether people always agree with how football is administered is another discussion entirely, but the accounts clearly show modern football organisations require significant staffing to operate.

And again, it is worth remembering where this money ultimately comes from.

Registrations.
Clubs.
Sponsors.
Government participation funding.
Parents paying for football.

That is why football people naturally care how the money is spent and what outcomes they actually see.

Running competitions costs money

Competition general expenses were almost $390,000.

Competition promotion added another $176,000.

These are the types of costs attached to actually running statewide football competitions.

Administration.
Scheduling.
Promotion.
Operations.
Presentation.
General competition management.

Football people often only see the 90 minutes on a Saturday.

But a lot happens behind the scenes to make competitions function.

Referees are a major cost too

Referee expenses totalled more than $262,000.

That is significant, but probably not surprising when you think about the scale of football played across Tasmania every weekend.

Junior football.
Youth football.
Senior football.
Social football.
Cups.
Futsal.

Referees touch every level of the game.

Players notice referees.
Coaches notice referees.
Parents notice referees.
Clubs certainly notice referee shortages.

The accounts show referee costs are a substantial part of running football statewide.

Marketing, media and communication

One of the more interesting figures was marketing and communication expenses.

That area increased from around $97,000 in 2024 to almost $172,000 in 2025.

Football people will naturally connect that area to things like:

• livestreams

• social media

• graphics

• communication with clubs

• promotion of competitions

• digital presentation of the game

And this is where finances become visible to ordinary supporters.

Most football people are not analysing accounting categories.

They are simply asking:

• Can I watch the game?

• Does the competition feel professional?

• Is communication improving?

• Does football feel connected and visible?

Those are experience questions rather than accounting questions.

Development programs are expensive too

Player development programs generated significant income, but they also carried major costs.

The accounts show player development expenses of almost $374,000.

That reflects the reality that development programs require:

• coaches

• facilities

• staffing

• administration

• organisation

• equipment

Modern football development is a major operational area financially.

It is also an area where modern football has become more complicated.

Federations now run increasingly large development and pathway programs, while many clubs are also heavily investing in their own technical development systems.

That can sometimes create difficult conversations around where the balance sits between supporting clubs and operating alongside them.

Some costs are simply unavoidable

Insurance alone cost more than $204,000.

Travel and meeting expenses were around $56,000.

Depreciation and amortisation, basically the accounting recognition of assets losing value over time, added another $73,000.

These are not glamorous football expenses.

But they are part of running a statewide sporting organisation.

Many of these expenses are not optional luxuries.

They are the actual costs attached to running modern football statewide.

What football people probably notice most

Ordinary football people usually do not care about accounting language.

They care about outcomes.

They notice:

• the quality of competitions

• referee availability

• communication

• facilities

• visibility of the game

• support for clubs

• development opportunities

• media presentation

That is why spending matters.

Because spending decisions eventually shape the football experience people actually live every weekend.

The bigger takeaway

The biggest takeaway from the expenditure side of the accounts is probably this:

Modern football administration is expensive.

Much more expensive than many grassroots football people probably realise.

The financial statements show Football Tasmania operating as a fairly substantial organisation with major staffing, competition, referee, development and communication costs attached to running the game across the state.

And now that the overall financial position appears stronger than it did a year ago, people will naturally start asking bigger questions.

Not necessarily angry questions.

Just football questions.

What should the priorities be?
Where should investment go?
What parts of the football experience need improving most?
What should “professional” actually look like in Tasmania?

Those are probably the conversations that come next.

Where does Football Tasmania’s money actually come from?

In 2025 Football Tasmania’s income from Futsal was $312,000.00

Income 101

First I looked at where the money actually comes from.

Then in Part Two I will look at where it is spent.

And finally, in Part Three, I want to explore the much bigger football questions sitting underneath all of it.

Most football people probably never read Football Tasmania financial statements.

Fair enough.

Most people are too busy coaching teams, washing strips, marking grounds, organising volunteers, paying registrations, running canteens and getting kids to games.

But the money matters.

Because this is not some abstract pot of money sitting in an office somewhere.

This is football money.

Some of it comes directly from registrations and clubs.
Some comes through programs, sponsors and government investment.

But in one way or another, it exists because football exists.

The newly released 2025 audited financial statements show just how large the operation has now become.

In 2025, Football Tasmania brought in just over $3.7 million in total income.

The organisation also recorded a surplus of $201,590 for the year, compared with $27,045 the year before.

In simple terms, the finances appear healthier than they were 12 months ago.

The accounts also show more than $1.15 million sitting in cash reserves and term deposits at the end of 2025.

That does not mean Football Tasmania is suddenly “rich”.

Every organisation needs reserves.

Cash reserves are basically financial safety nets. They help organisations manage unexpected costs, survive difficult periods and invest in future projects without immediately falling into financial trouble.

In simple terms, healthy reserves usually mean an organisation is more stable and less vulnerable.

Who actually hears this stuff?

Interestingly, while reading through the AGM papers, I noticed the actual President’s Report itself was not included in the documents sent to members, with members instead advised that the President would provide an overview verbally at the meeting.

That is probably fairly normal governance procedure.

But it also highlights something slightly strange about football governance generally.

Very few ordinary football people will ever actually hear that overview.

A handful of voting members.
Some proxies.
A few people online.

Meanwhile thousands of football people across Tasmania continue paying registrations, volunteering at clubs, attending development programs and helping fund the broader football system without ever really discussing how the overall financial picture works.

So where does the money actually come from?

The biggest income source

The biggest income source was listed as:

“Grants, sponsorships and commissions”

That brought in just over $1.3 million.

The accounts do not explain exactly how much of that came from government funding, sponsorship, Football Australia or other sources, but it is clearly the biggest piece of the pie.

The next biggest area was competition registration fees at almost $569,000.

This is the area most football families would recognise because it connects directly to players registering to play football.

Player development programs generated another $513,000.

In simple terms, these are the technical football programs run by Football Tasmania itself. Things like development squads, academy-style programs, clinics and advanced coaching programs.

Competition fees added another $441,000.

These are generally the fees clubs and teams pay to enter leagues and competitions.

Futsal generated more than $312,000.

For those outside football, futsal is the indoor version of football played on smaller courts with smaller teams. The accounts show it is actually a significant part of Football Tasmania’s overall operation.

Coach education also generated more than $41,000 in income during 2025, reflecting how football administration now stretches well beyond simply organising weekend competitions.

What does this actually tell us?

A few things.

First, Football Tasmania is no longer simply a small organisation collecting rego fees and organising fixtures.

The operation is much bigger than that.

The organisation itself describes its role as administering football through competitions and development programs across Tasmania.

Second, football itself has become a significant economic ecosystem in Tasmania.

Money is flowing through:

• registrations

• development programs

• competitions

• coaching courses

• grants

• sponsorships

• futsal

And behind all of that are ordinary football people.

Parents.
Volunteers.
Players.
Coaches.
Clubs.

That is important to remember because football governance discussions can sometimes start feeling disconnected from the people actually funding and participating in the game.

When finances become real

And this is where finances become real for ordinary football people.

Most supporters are not sitting around analysing balance sheets or discussing retained earnings.

They are judging football through lived experience.

Can they watch the livestream?
Are the grounds improving?
Are referees supported?
Does communication feel professional?
Are clubs feeling connected to the wider game?

So when people see Football Tasmania now holding more than $1.15 million in reserves and cash investments, they naturally begin wondering what a financially stronger federation might be able to improve over time.

That is not criticism.

It is probably just the normal conversation that happens once an organisation appears more financially stable.

The biggest takeaway

For me, the biggest takeaway from the accounts was not outrage or scandal.

It was that Football Tasmania appears financially stronger than it did a year ago.

The directors themselves describe the organisation as focused on administering competitions, developing facilities and infrastructure and increasing participation through technical and development programs.

And once an organisation becomes financially stronger, the conversation naturally changes.

People begin asking different questions.

Not just:
“Can football survive?”

But:
“What should improve now?”

What should be invested in?
What should members expect?
What should the football experience across Tasmania actually look like?

That is probably the more interesting conversation moving forward.

The Games Nobody Could Watch

There was a cracking cup semi final at Valley Road yesterday.

Lakoseljac Cup football.
Devonport Strikers v Glenorchy Knights.
Extra time.
Red cards.
Momentum swings.
A 4–2 finish.

By all reports Valley Road was buzzing. One of those chaotic cup afternoons where momentum seemed to swing every ten minutes.

Exactly the kind of match Tasmanian football should be showing off.

Except hardly anybody could properly watch it.

Before that there was a terrific Women’s Statewide Cup semi final as well.

Devonport eventually won 2–1 but Knights pushed the undefeated Strikers all the way. By all reports it was a proper cup game. Competitive. Tense. Emotional.

Unfortunately, most people could not properly watch that either.

Instead, supporters followed the matches through scattered Facebook comments and typed score updates like it was 2007.

“1–0 Strikers.”
“1–1.”
“Knights down to 10 men.”
“Going to extra time.”

Meanwhile the official livestream had collapsed again.

At first the comments were almost funny. Phantom graphics. AI cameras apparently tracking ghosts somewhere near midfield. But underneath the humour was genuine frustration.

Because this stuff matters now.

People want to watch Tasmanian football. Parents. Grandparents. Injured players. Sponsors. Former players interstate. Kids watching their clubs.

And what they got instead was:

“Stream not working.”

Again.

I nearly didn’t write about this

Because let’s be honest, whoever was responsible for those streams at Football Tasmania yesterday was probably already having the worst day imaginable.

You can almost picture it.

“Oh God. Here we go.”

Phones buzzing. Messages arriving. Facebook comments building. Supporters complaining.

And to be fair, they would have been genuinely disappointed too. Probably mortified.

But perhaps not quite as disappointed as the parent trying to watch their child from interstate. Or the grandparent at home. Or the supporter desperately trying to follow one of the best cup ties of the year through comment sections.

That is why I ended up writing about it anyway.

Because this was not just a minor technical glitch on a quiet league afternoon. This was one of the showcase days of Tasmanian football and nobody could properly see it.

The promise of “modernisation”

Football Tasmania or Football Australia or both sold these AI camera systems as progress.

Less labour.
Less reliance on volunteers.
Automated production.
More games streamed.
Lower costs.

On paper it probably looked fantastic in a boardroom or budget spreadsheet.

One camera mounted high above the ground.
Artificial intelligence tracks the ball.
No need to pay camera operators.
No need to train volunteers.
No need for production crews.

Efficient.

But football is not an accounting exercise.

Yesterday exposed the danger of becoming obsessed with systems while forgetting the actual experience of the people consuming the game.

Because nobody watching cares whether the camera is AI-powered if it misses goals, loses the ball, freezes, points at the wrong thing or simply stops working altogether.

Technology sounds impressive right up until the moment it fails.

And when it fails during one of the biggest cup matches of the year, people notice.

Saving money vs presenting the game properly

This is the uncomfortable question sitting underneath all of this:

Was this really about improving coverage, or was it about reducing costs?

Because sometimes football administration falls in love with the idea of looking professional cheaply.

AI cameras sound modern.
They sound innovative.
They sound future-focused.

But sometimes a bloke standing on scaffolding with a proper camera and an understanding of football is simply better than an AI system trying to guess where the game is.

Especially in Tasmania.

Especially at grounds with difficult sight lines.
Especially in weather.
Especially in cup football where atmosphere and emotion matter.

Football is chaotic by nature. AI struggles with chaos.

Humans understand instinctively where tension is building.
Humans anticipate.
Humans follow emotion.

That matters in sport.

And this is where the conversation becomes more complicated.

Football Tasmania’s latest financial report actually shows a far healthier financial position than previous years. Stronger cash reserves. A significant operating surplus. More money sitting in term deposits. I will write more about the financials this week.

And to be clear, those improved finances do not belong to “Football Tasmania” in some abstract sense.

That money ultimately comes from clubs, registrations, volunteers, parents and the football community itself.

So it is perfectly reasonable for people involved in the game to ask whether Tasmanian football can now afford more reliable and professional livestream coverage for its showcase matches.

Because livestreaming is no longer some luxury extra.

For many supporters it has become part of how they experience the game.

The irony

The irony is brutal.

Tasmanian football finally has audiences that genuinely want to engage with local football online and we are making it harder for them to do so.

Ten years ago hardly anybody expected livestreams.
Now they do.

That is actually a good thing.

It means people care.

Yesterday’s comment sections were full of people desperate for updates because the game sounded incredible.

“OMG what a game. Shame we can’t watch it.”

That line says everything.

The appetite exists.

The interest exists.

The audience exists.

What people actually wanted

The funny thing is I do not think supporters were demanding Hollywood-level production yesterday.

Nobody was asking for twenty camera angles.
Nobody was asking for drones.
Nobody was demanding a Netflix documentary.

People simply wanted to watch the match.

That’s it.

A stable picture.
A score.
A camera following the game properly.

Community football is still community football. People are generally understanding when volunteers are involved and things occasionally go wrong.

But repeated technical failures eventually stop feeling unlucky and start feeling structural.

That is when frustration builds.

Football still runs on people

Oddly enough, the hero of the day ended up being the people manually updating scores online.

Supporters passing information around.
Comment sections keeping people connected.
Football people helping other football people.

There was actually something strangely charming about it.

Old-school football community stuff.

But it also highlighted something important.

Tasmanian football still runs on people more than technology.

Always has.

Volunteers.
Parents.
Supporters.
Admins.
People who care enough to keep things moving when systems fail.

Yesterday proved that again.

The cameras stopped.

The football community didn’t.

A Cascade at Mac Point

OMG, The Money. Again.

Next week’s Tasmanian State Budget will tell us a lot.

Not just about money.

About priorities.
About influence.
About whose sporting dreams matter.

Because right now Tasmania feels like a state where governments can suddenly find half a billion dollars down the back of the couch for ferries, billions for AFL infrastructure and endless money for “precincts”, “activation” and “state shaping projects”.

But grassroots sport?

Grassroots sport gets told to be patient.

And before anyone says “government money”, let’s be honest about what this actually is.

It is our money.

The taxes paid by football families.
By volunteers.
By small business owners.
By parents buying boots, paying registrations and driving kids across the state all winter.

Ordinary Tasmanians fund these projects too.

Football people fund them too.

That is what makes the contrast so jarring.

Because one world talks in billions.

The other still argues over storage sheds and drainage.

The Real Sporting Economy

Tasmanian football already exists at scale.

Thousands of kids.
Hundreds of teams.
Volunteers everywhere.
Cars lined along muddy roads every weekend.
Parents standing in the cold holding takeaway coffees while trying to remember where they left the folding chair.

It is not hypothetical.
It does not need to be invented through glossy artist impressions.

It is already here.

And yet football still somehow feels like the sport standing outside politely waiting to be invited into the room.

Prestige Versus Participation

This is not even really about AFL anymore.

Plenty of football people watch AFL too.

This is about what governments get excited by.

And governments get excited by prestige.

Big announcements.
Big infrastructure.
Big headlines.
Big “legacy projects”.

Things politicians can stand in front of wearing high-vis vests while talking about vision and transformation.

Community sport does not photograph as well.

No one cuts a ribbon beside a repaired drainage system.

No Treasurer beams with pride while announcing three extra training pitches for under-11s.

There are no glossy launch videos for volunteers dragging portable goals through mud before sunrise.

And yet that is where the actual sporting life of Tasmania happens.

The Money Will Not Stop

This is the other thing many Tasmanians probably understand instinctively.

The AFL spending will not stop at the headline number.

It never does.

Because once governments politically attach themselves to projects this large, the project becomes its own ecosystem.

There will always be another reason the spending must continue.

Transport upgrades.
Activation funding.
Events.
Staffing.
Maintenance.
Tourism campaigns.
Security.
Precinct development.
Future upgrades.
Operational support.

The original announcement is only the beginning.

And politically, no government wants a prestige project attached to its legacy to struggle or fail.

So the gravitational pull continues.

Money.
Attention.
Media coverage.
Political energy.

All flowing toward the same project while community sport keeps hearing the same line:
there is no money.

The Vicarious Dream

Sometimes it feels like the people making these decisions are far more interested in feeling important beside giant sporting projects than they are in the ordinary sporting lives of Tasmanians.

Because let’s be honest.

A corporate box at Macquarie Point Stadium is more exciting politically than standing beside Ground 14 at 8am while a volunteer tries to find line marking paint.

One world comes with catered functions, speeches and back slapping.

The other comes with wet socks and fundraising chocolates.

And somehow the second world is the one constantly being told there is no money.

What Could Half A Billion Dollars Do?

This is the uncomfortable part.

Because once governments start casually discussing another $506 million bailout, ordinary people naturally begin imagining alternatives.

What would half a billion dollars do for football in Tasmania?

Not elite football.

Football.

The actual game played by thousands of Tasmanians every weekend.

You could probably transform the entire landscape of the sport in this state several times over.

Instead clubs continue selling raffle tickets and applying for grants like Oliver Twist politely asking for another spoonful.

The Mood Is Changing

The TT-Line disaster changes the emotional backdrop to this budget.

People are getting tired.

Tired of cost overruns.
Tired of prestige politics.
Tired of being told there is no money right up until the moment government decides there is.

Because apparently Tasmania can afford almost anything eventually.

Just not the things ordinary people actually use every week.

What The Budget Will Really Reveal

Next week’s budget may contain football funding.
It may not.

But the real story will be bigger than individual line items.

The budget will reveal what kind of sport Tasmania believes matters.

Not in speeches.

In dollars.

No Ref, No Game

Well didn’t this hit a nerve?

Since publishing my piece on referee abuse yesterday, my inbox has quietly filled with messages.

Not from loud people.

Not from attention seekers.

From referees.

Parents.

Former referees.

Mentors.

Football people.

Many asking not to be named.

That alone tells a story.

People are not just commenting publicly. They are privately confiding. Sharing stories they have clearly carried for years. Asking me not to identify them because they fear backlash, judgement or consequences.

And honestly, that saddens me.

Because community football should not require anonymous whispers for people to feel safe telling the truth about their experiences.

“He fronted up the next day”

One message from a mother has stayed with me.

Her son was a talented young referee who loved football and had been identified as having real potential.

Then came the abuse.

At one junior match, a club official directed abusive language at him from the sideline. The young referee still had the courage to issue a red card while the abuse continued in front of players, spectators and his mother.

At another match, tensions escalated badly after a decision during the game.

The abuse continued afterwards.

People stayed with him because emotions remained heated and he was deeply upset by the experience.

And then came the line that really hit me.

“He fronted up the next day and didn’t feel he could share the experience.”

That is not resilience.

That is culture.

That is a young person learning to absorb abuse quietly because somewhere along the line football taught referees that this is simply part of the role.

The mother later wrote something else that stopped me:

“He needed the money but not the abuse.”

Eventually she could not make him go back.

And football lost another young referee.

“My main job is to keep them safe”

Another message came from a referee mentor.

“When I was a referee, it felt hugely rewarding to give something back to football,” they wrote.

“But now as a referee mentor, although it feels great to encourage young referees and guide their development, it’s a shame that I feel that my main job is just to keep them safe.”

Safe.

Not improve their positioning.

Not help with foul recognition.

Not confidence building.

Safe.

Think about what that says about where we are.

The normalisation of abuse

One of the strongest themes running through all these messages is how normalised referee abuse has become.

People know it is happening.

Clubs know it is happening.

Referees know which teams, grounds and fixtures they are likely to cop it at.

Parents know which games their children will dread officiating.

One parent wrote that when appointments came out, there were games their child was excited to referee and others they immediately dreaded.

That is heartbreaking.

Another former referee spoke about being repeatedly called a cheat by a club official during a senior match.

After the game the same people came over to shake hands.

The referee refused.

“If you can't be a civil human being during the game, don't pretend to be after it.”

And perhaps that is the uncomfortable truth sitting underneath all this.

Most people actually know the behaviour is wrong.

Otherwise they would not apologise afterwards.

Otherwise they would not privately message their support while publicly staying silent.

And I should say this too.

I am by no means perfect here.

Over the years I have probably bought into some of the language and rhetoric myself.

“Oh no, we’ve got him today.”

“He doesn’t do us any favours.”

That sort of thing.

Not screaming abuse from sidelines. But still contributing to a culture where referees become caricatures rather than people.

Maybe age changes you a little too.

Because as I have grown older, I find myself thinking more often about the fact that every referee is somebody’s son or daughter.

Somebody’s kid.

And would I want my own child treated the way some referees are treated in football?

No bloody way.

“No ref, no game”

Another parent wrote to me saying they suggested a campaign similar to those used interstate.

“No ref, no game.”

Simple.

True.

Because eventually people stop putting their hand up.

And the stories keep coming.

A referee room allegedly entered and communications equipment damaged.

Women leaving games in tears.

Young referees second guessing themselves after constant criticism.

Parents staying at grounds simply to emotionally support their refereeing child.

Former referees saying the support systems, communication and visibility around officiating have deteriorated badly.

Mentors trying to hold things together.

And threaded through all of it is the same quiet exhaustion.

Not outrage anymore.

Resignation.

“We know who the problem clubs are”

One line particularly struck me.

A parent recalled raising concerns about abuse and being told:
“We know who the problem clubs are.”

If that is true, then football does not have an awareness problem.

It has a courage problem.

And before everybody becomes defensive, this is not about pretending referees are perfect.

They are not.

Referees make mistakes.

Players make mistakes.

Coaches make mistakes.

Administrators make mistakes.

Football is emotional and imperfect.

But abuse should never become the accepted consequence of imperfection.

What are we teaching our children?

Several people contacted me about junior football specifically.

Parents abusing teenage referees.

Coaches modelling loss of emotional control.

Children hearing adults scream over throw-ins and free kicks.

And this matters because kids learn behaviour from us.

They absorb what football rewards.

If adults publicly humiliate referees every weekend, children begin seeing that behaviour as normal football culture.

And once behaviour becomes culture, it spreads.

One referee used the word “infects”.

That feels accurate.

More than just referees

What I am finding most interesting is that many people contacting me are not asking for sympathy.

They are asking to be heard.

There is a difference.

Again and again the messages carry the same emotional thread:

• nobody listens

• nothing changes

• people quietly leave

• everyone knows

• few speak publicly

That should concern all of us.

Because football communities should have healthier ways to talk about difficult issues than anonymous blogs and private inboxes.

Yet right now many people clearly feel safer whispering these stories than openly attaching their names to them.

That tells its own story.

The saddest part

The saddest part in all of this is that most of the people writing to me still love football.

They are not enemies of the game.

They are football people.

People who gave years to refereeing, mentoring, coaching, supporting and volunteering.

People who wanted to contribute.

People who still care deeply.

And perhaps that is why these messages feel so heavy.

Because underneath the frustration is grief.

Grief for what the culture has become.

And somewhere in Tasmania tonight, another referee is looking at this weekend’s appointments wondering whether it is worth turning up again.

“You’re Fucking Hopeless”: The Quiet Crisis of Referee Abuse

Shame on us

I interviewed a referee this week.

Anonymous by request.

Quite a few referees contacted me after my recent interview with Brenton Kopra to thank me for telling part of their story through Brenton’s experience.

What I discovered this time was not anger.

It was disappointment.

Exhaustion.

Shame.

Shame on us.

Because somewhere along the way football has normalised behaviour that should never have become normal.

There is a referee somewhere in Tasmania tonight wondering whether it is worth doing another game this weekend.

Not because of the weather.

Not because of the running.

Not because of the laws of the game.

Because of us.

This referee asked to remain anonymous. Not because they are weak. Not because they are dramatic. But because speaking publicly about referee abuse can itself bring another wave of judgement, whispers and criticism.

The person with the whistle

They started refereeing because they loved football and wanted to stay connected to the game. They were also tired of seeing high-level football being played with one or two officials while “clubbies” filled the gaps.

This is not somebody who hates football.

Quite the opposite.

This is somebody who loves the game enough to keep turning up despite everything that comes with the whistle.

What they found instead was a culture they say has changed significantly for the worse.

“No, I had no idea referees copped the amount of abuse that they do,” they said.

“I used to play the game, and it was always really frowned upon to disrespect the referee. I do remember it happening, don’t get me wrong, it’s always been there, but nothing like the level it is now.”

That part struck me.

Not that abuse exists. Most of us already know that.

It was the suggestion that football has slowly become comfortable with it.

Almost casual about it.

As though screaming abuse at referees is now woven into the fabric of the matchday experience.

Somewhere along the way football started confusing passion with permission.

“You’re shit mate”

And the abuse itself is relentless in its sameness.

“You’re shit mate.”

“You’re fucking hopeless.”

“Are you ever going to get a fucking decision right?”

One comment still lingers with this referee:

“He’s so fucking useless but FT doesn’t give a shit, just pat him on the back, give him a heap of cash for doing a shit job and seeya next week.”

Another accusation that stayed with them was being accused of cheating and bias.

Imagine hearing that week after week.

Imagine volunteering your weekend to a sport you love only to become the public target for adult frustration.

Imagine your son hearing it.

Your daughter.

Your partner.

Your father.

And then ask yourself why people stop refereeing.

Alone in the middle

One whistle.

Twenty-two players.

Two benches.

Hundreds of opinions.

And often one referee standing in the middle alone under cold winter skies.

That loneliness sits underneath this whole conversation.

Players have teammates.

Coaches have staff and benches beside them.

Parents have their sideline tribe.

The referee has nobody.

And if I am honest, football sidelines can change people. I have seen good people say things during matches that they would never say anywhere else.

Football people often like to think referee abuse is something that happens at “other clubs”.

I am not sure that is true.

The adults in the room

Perhaps the most confronting part of this interview was not the swearing.

Football has always had emotion.

It was who this referee says is often delivering the abuse.

“Coaches are easily the worst. At all levels, from U8s to NPL, coaches are easily the worst.”

The very people entrusted with teaching children about discipline, resilience and respect are too often modelling emotional loss of control instead.

“They are supposed to be the ones setting the example, but most of them are a disgrace.”

“I have witnessed grown men abusing 12-year-old referees, it is completely unacceptable.”

Twelve.

Children with whistles.

And what are young players learning when adults scream at officials over throw-ins and free kicks in junior football?

What chance does a 12-year-old referee have when the adult leader loses control first?

The referee also made another observation that lingered with me.

“People just forget their manners in general. All normal human etiquette goes out the window on the sideline of a football match apparently.”

Most of us would be horrified if somebody spoke to our child’s teacher, or a supermarket worker, the way some referees are spoken to on a Saturday morning.

The emotional burden

The referee told me they have left grounds angry and upset after games.

One recent incident involved abuse from what they described as one of the highest-regarded coaches in the state after a decision during a game.

The referee later went home and reviewed the footage.

They were right.

The coach was wrong.

But by then the damage was already done.

“It’s pretty ordinary that our highest level of coach can still think that it’s ok to abuse referees,” they said.

“The example this sets flows on to all the players and spectators, it infects everyone.”

Young players see it.

Parents absorb it.

Other coaches normalise it.

And eventually abuse becomes culture.

The referee said they discuss abuse “all the time” among themselves.

This is not occasional.

It is routine enough to become regular conversation.

Exhaustion sits underneath that too.

Physical safety

The referee said they had not personally felt physically unsafe at a game.

“But I know others have.”

The referee also pointed out another difficult reality.

“When I’m refereeing and they are on the team sheet it’s easy, give them a sanction,” they said.

“It’s a bit harder when it’s a parent and as a referee we don’t really have the power to stop it.”

The referee shortage is not a mystery

Football people often talk about referee shortages as though they appeared out of nowhere.

They did not.

This referee said they think about quitting “all the time.”

“The proof is in the numbers,” they said.

“Young referees are not staying, and who can blame them. No one deserves a serve.”

Then came the line that stayed with me most.

I asked whether they would encourage their own child to referee.

“I probably wouldn’t let my child referee.”

That is not anger.

That is resignation.

A person who loves football enough to referee it does not believe the environment is healthy enough for their own child to do the same.

The impossible job

The referee also pointed out something worth remembering.

Every player, coach, substitute, parent and spectator watches football through emotion and bias. Referees are expected to do the opposite.

“We must be completely impartial and just look at the facts with no emotion,” they said.

“No one else has the ability to do that and we must do it 100s of times each and every game, in a split second with no slow-mo replay.”

No replay.

No freeze frame.

Just instinct, positioning, concentration and courage.

And they must do it while being yelled at from every direction.

“Sorry about before”

Perhaps the most revealing part of all is the contradiction.

“At most games, everyone is kind, courteous, friendly and professional towards the referees before the first whistle is blown,” they said.

“As soon as the game starts and someone starts losing, the abuse starts.”

Then comes the ritual apology afterwards.

“Sorry about before, I get a bit passionate.”

As though ninety minutes of abuse can simply be wiped away with a handshake after full time.

Most people actually know the behaviour is wrong.

Otherwise they would not apologise for it afterwards.

“In a lot of ways, we are our own worst enemies”

The referee was also honest about the fact football’s officiating problems cannot simply be blamed on everyone else.

“In a lot of ways, we are our own worst enemies,” they said.

“Some referees ignore abuse, which just makes it worse for the next person.”

Because this was not an interview looking for sympathy without accountability.

The referee spoke about the need for more senior mentors, educators and experienced officials to help younger referees navigate the game and the pressure that comes with it.

They spoke about the need for more assessors, more fourth officials and stronger sanctions for clubs that allow abuse to continue unchecked.

And then there is the financial reality.

“Did you know we have to buy all our own kit?” they asked.

“Which is about $1000. Many referees wouldn’t make that much in a year.”

“Pay us more,” they repeated.

Not like a demand.

More like exhaustion.

“The amount of money we earn barely pays for the fuel to get to the game these days.”

The cost

The greatest cost is not financial.

It is emotional.

It is the accumulation of being called useless week after week by people who would never tolerate that behaviour in their own workplace or directed at their own family.

Football in Tasmania cannot keep talking about growth, pathways and standards while treating referees as disposable.

And somewhere in Tasmania tonight, another referee is deciding whether to come back next weekend.

A Love Letter to My Club

Twenty years is a long time.

Long enough for something to move beyond hobby or volunteer role and become woven into your identity.

Long enough for colours to seep into your bones.

Long enough that red and blue no longer feels like a football kit, but a life.

And now, after stepping away, I find myself sitting with an emotion I did not entirely expect.

Grief.

Real grief.

Not dramatic grief.
Not loud grief.

A quieter kind.

The kind that arrives in ordinary moments.

Driving past the ground.
Hearing a result second-hand.
Reaching for your phone before remembering the problems are no longer yours to solve.

Because while football clubs are organisations on paper, that is not what they become to the people who give themselves fully to them.

They become memory.
Routine.
Family.
Responsibility.
Pressure.
Purpose.
Belonging.

For twenty years my life revolved around a football club.

Not casually.

Completely.

The worrying.
The caring.
The lobbying for something better.
The meetings.
The negotiations.
The endless messages.
The politics.
The rules.
The controversy.
The despair.
The elation.

The exhausting emotional weight of knowing people depended on you.

There is a heaviness to long-term leadership in grassroots sport that is difficult to explain to outsiders. You carry problems home with you. You replay conversations late at night. You absorb conflict. You feel responsible for things far beyond your control.

And over time the lines blur.

The club stops being something you do and starts becoming part of who you are.

There were times she consumed me completely.

Times football sat at the dinner table with us.
Times the phone never stopped.
Times I was physically present with my family but mentally somewhere else solving football problems.

Times I was tired in a way that sleep never really fixed.

But love and exhaustion often sit side by side in community sport.

That is the truth nobody really says out loud.

You cannot care deeply for twenty years without giving away pieces of yourself in the process.

And yet somehow you keep going because you love the game.

Or perhaps more accurately, because you love the people inside the game.

Thousands of people.

That is what strikes me most as I look back now.

Thousands of people well met.

Children who became adults before my eyes.
Parents who became lifelong friends.
Volunteers who quietly gave everything.
Coaches obsessed with helping players improve.
The football tragics.
The sideline debaters.
The canteen workers.
The dreamers.

People just like me who care deeply about football.

That is what the club really gave me.

Not titles.

Not positions.

People.

Wonderful people.

And in many ways she gave me my life.

She gave me a husband.

She gave me a new professional direction through football.

She gave me purpose during years when I desperately needed it.

She gave me experiences I never could have imagined as a younger woman standing on the outside of the game.

She gave me heartbreak too.

And stress.
And pressure.
And moments where the responsibility felt impossibly heavy.

But even now, after all the complexity that comes with long involvement, I cannot look back with bitterness.

Only contemplation.

And sadness.

Because what an extraordinary privilege it is to spend twenty years caring deeply about something.

To belong somewhere fully.

To stand beside pitches in winter under lights and hear footballs striking fences in the dark.
To smell wet grass, coffee and rain soaked jackets.
To walk through a ground and instinctively scan for problems before you even realise you are doing it.

Those rhythms become part of your nervous system.

That is why leaving feels so strange.

The world has not ended.

The games still happen.
The lights still come on.
People move forward.

But quietly, privately, something inside me has shifted.

I miss her more than I thought I would.

Not because she was perfect.

But because she was home for a very long time.

And I do not yet entirely know who I am without her.

Perhaps that understanding only comes later.

Right now there is mostly just silence where noise used to be.

And an ache I am still learning how to carry.

Have We Priced Ordinary Families Out of Youth Football?

Charlie White asked a question on my recent blog about youth football that made me think.

Charlie is well known in Tasmanian football circles as both a school principal and former referee, and his question was a good one.

Has football in Tasmania and Australia quietly become a middle class sport?

It is an uncomfortable question because many of us instinctively want to defend the game.

But the more I sat with it, the harder it became to dismiss.

Because families are paying more money than ever into youth football while, in some cases, feeling like they are getting less actual football in return.

Less games.

Less cup football.

Shorter seasons.

More byes.

At the same time, the expectations around youth football continue to rise.

More coaching.

More structure.

More professionalism.

More cost.

And somewhere in the middle of all that sits a difficult question.

Who can actually afford modern youth football anymore?

Football is not cheap anymore

For many families, football now involves far more than a registration fee.

There are uniforms, boots, travel, extra training, representative programs, academy football, tournaments, interstate trips and the increasing feeling that if your child is “serious”, they probably need to be doing more than one session a week with a volunteer coach.

Not every family can absorb that.

Not every family has the money, time, transport or flexibility to keep up with the growing demands of youth sport.

So yes, we should say this plainly.

Football is becoming harder for some ordinary families to afford.

And when any sport becomes harder to afford, it changes who remains in the system.

But the cost did not appear from nowhere

This is where the conversation gets more complicated.

Because the easy answer is to accuse clubs or coaches of profiteering.

The reality is far less dramatic and far more structural.

Youth football has professionalised.

Families now expect qualified coaches, structured sessions, technical development, pathways, communication systems, safeguarding standards, specialised training, better facilities and year-round opportunities.

Most of those expectations are reasonable.

Many are good.

But all of them cost money.

At Morton’s Soccer School, we charge fees for coaching and training programs.

We do not hide from that.

Our coaches are employees. We have around 50 people involved across our programs. They are not volunteers giving up an hour after work once a week. People are paying for a football service.

Families can decide whether that service is worthwhile for their child. They can question the quality. They can opt out if they are unhappy.

That is the reality of modern sport.

And we are not unique.

Clubs and development providers across Australia now offer additional skills and development programs.

Paid development has become a normal part of the football landscape.

That is not automatically a bad thing.

Good coaching takes time, experience, planning and organisation.

People deserve to be paid for professional work.

Ask almost any club executive in Australia how difficult it now is to find volunteers and you quickly begin to understand why football is professionalising.

Modern clubs are no longer just organising teams and putting jumpers out for goals.

They are managing compliance, safeguarding, registrations, communication systems, facilities, coach education, social media, sponsorship, technology and increasingly complicated football programs.

The old volunteer model is under enormous strain.

And when volunteers become harder to find, clubs inevitably rely more heavily on paid roles and professional services.

Football increasingly operates like a service families choose to invest in

This may also be part of the uncomfortable reality.

Increasingly, football operates more like a skill-based activity families voluntarily invest in.

Music lessons.

Dance.

Piano lessons.

Families make decisions about what opportunities they value and what they can afford.

That may not sit comfortably with people who still see football purely as the traditional working-class “people’s game”, but economically that is increasingly where parts of youth football have landed.

Parents are paying more, but are players getting more football?

This is where the debate becomes uncomfortable.

Because many families are investing more money, more time and more emotional energy into youth football than ever before.

Yet in some areas, particularly in Tasmania, players are arguably experiencing fewer meaningful competitive matches than previous generations.

Older coaches, referees and administrators often talk about youth cup competitions, finals days and knockout football that once existed throughout the youth structure.

Those experiences mattered.

Cup football creates something league football often cannot.

Jeopardy.

Atmosphere.

Crowds.

Memories.

And importantly, more meaningful football.

If families are paying more into the system, it is fair for them to ask what the actual football experience now looks like compared to 10 or 15 years ago.

Because development is not only about training volume.

Players also develop through meaningful matches, pressure moments and emotionally significant football experiences.

That is where Charlie’s original question becomes more than just a conversation about fees.

It becomes a conversation about value.

Clubs are carrying enormous pressure

It is also important not to pretend clubs are swimming in money.

Most football clubs are under huge financial and volunteer pressure.

Ground hire costs money.

Lights cost money.

Referees cost money.

Equipment costs money.

Administration costs money.

Insurance costs money.

Technology costs money.

Coach education costs money.

If clubs want to participate at higher levels like NPL, the expectations grow again.

Benchmarks cost money.

Licensing costs money.

Compliance costs money.

Facilities standards cost money.

Every additional requirement lands somewhere.

Usually it lands on clubs.

Then it lands on families.

Grassroots football supports a massive ecosystem

This is another part of the discussion many people do not fully see.

Most parents probably assume their registration fee mainly pays for their child’s football.

But football is a huge national ecosystem.

Football Australia oversees more than 20 national teams and representative programs across men’s, women’s, youth, futsal and para football.

Most parents probably do not fully realise how large the football ecosystem actually is.

Participation money helps support local associations, state federations, Football Australia, referee systems, safeguarding, coach education, talent identification, national championships and pathway structures.

All of that costs money.

In some sports, significant broadcast and commercial revenue subsidises participation.

In football, families themselves increasingly carry that burden.

To clubs.

To volunteers.

To families.

This is not an argument against national teams.

Australians should celebrate the Socceroos and Matildas.

But it does help explain why grassroots football often feels financially stretched despite the game’s huge participation numbers.

The Tasmanian frustration

In Tasmania, there is another layer to this discussion.

Families are often paying more while still feeling like players are not getting enough football.

That was the original point Charlie was making in relation to Under 13s.

If youth players are training multiple nights a week, participating in development programs and being asked to take football seriously, then the competition structure has to match that investment.

Short seasons, byes and limited meaningful games make the cost harder to justify.

Families can accept paying for football if they believe there is genuine opportunity and value attached to it.

But when costs rise while game volume remains comparatively low, frustration is understandable.

So, is football becoming middle class?

I do not think football has become exclusively middle class.

Not yet.

There are still ordinary working families all throughout the game.

There are still volunteers doing extraordinary work to keep football accessible.

There are still clubs trying very hard to hold the line on cost.

But I do think football is drifting towards a system where middle class families are better positioned to survive the demands of modern youth football.

They are more likely to afford extra coaching.

More likely to manage travel.

More likely to absorb rising costs.

More likely to have the flexibility to commit to increasingly intensive football schedules.

That does not mean their children do not deserve those opportunities.

Of course they do.

But we should still ask what happens to talented kids whose families cannot keep pace financially.

Sometimes they do not leave dramatically.

Sometimes they just quietly drift away.

There is no simple villain here

I do not think the answer is to attack paid coaching.

I do not think the answer is to pretend everything should be free.

And I do not think the answer is to blame clubs trying to survive in increasingly demanding environments.

But I also do not think parents are wrong to question the cost of football.

They should question it.

Because affordability is not a side issue.

It goes to the identity of the game itself.

Football is becoming more professional.

More structured.

More expensive.

And Charlie’s question sits underneath all of it.

If ordinary families slowly stop being able to afford the game, what happens to football then?

Tasmania Is Building Low-Volume Footballers

Yes, I know I have been banging on about this since I started blogging.

But football is, fundamentally, supposed to involve actually playing football matches.

And if reading about that bores you, there are probably plenty of other things on the internet to click on.

Firstly, thank you to Michael for sending through a pile of research and thoughts this week. Some of it was confronting reading, not because it was inaccurate, but because it confirmed something many football people in Tasmania already quietly know.

We simply do not play enough football.

Michael sent me screenshots from Dribl comparing youth competitions around the country.

A Victorian U13 player in VPL1 plays thirty rounds.

Football NSW U13s also play thirty rounds.

Football SA U13s play twenty-two rounds.

Tasmanian YPL U13s play eighteen rounds. With byes.

Some Tasmanian teams will end up playing roughly half the football of Victoria’s top youth competition once byes are factored in.

Half.

And perhaps the strangest part of all?

A four-year-old playing U5 football in Tasmania can receive around 15 rounds of football in a season.

Tasmanian NPL clubs play 18 league matches.

Tasmanian U13 YPL players also play 18 rounds, often fewer once byes are factored in.

Think about that for a moment.

Our introductory participation football, our senior elite competition and our youth pathway football all operate within remarkably similar match volumes.

That does not necessarily reflect a football culture built around maximum development and opportunity.

It reflects a football system constrained by limited infrastructure, limited access and limited space.

Michael has a 13-year-old son who loves football. Lives for it. Watches it constantly. Wants to train. Wants to improve. Wants to play.

And Michael’s reaction looking at the Victorian competition structure was not excitement.

It was envy.

And disappointment.

Because his son simply does not get enough football here in Tasmania.

Not enough games.
Not enough repetitions.
Not enough meaningful competition.

And the hardest part?

He wants to play more.
He can’t.

Ken has said it for years.

“We don’t play enough football.”

Not enough meaningful football.
Not enough competitive football.
Not enough football under lights.
Not enough football on quality surfaces.
Not enough football, full stop.

I think he is right.

We Are Building Low-Volume Footballers

Tasmanian football talks endlessly about pathways and high performance. We compare ourselves to Victoria and NSW as though the environments are remotely similar.

But I think we are fooling ourselves.

By the middle of winter some mainland kids have already played almost an entire Tasmanian season.

Then they keep going.

League football.
Cup football.
Representative football.
Academy football.
Tournaments.

Meanwhile in Tasmania we stop for school holidays, lose weekends to weather, juggle multi-use grounds and finish just as the season feels like it is building momentum.

And before anyone says “well Tasmania is smaller”, I am not entirely buying that explanation anymore.

Michael grew up in Wagga Wagga, a regional city with a relatively modest population compared to major Australian cities. Yet he remembers constantly seeing athletes emerge into elite pathways across multiple sports.

The issue is not simply population.

The issue is environment.

Right now we are accidentally building low-volume footballers.

Not untalented footballers.
Not lazy footballers.
Not badly coached footballers.

Low-volume footballers.

Kids who simply do not experience enough:

• games

• intensity

• pressure

• repetition

• competitive environments

• strong opposition

• year-round football immersion

Eventually that matters.

You cannot build high-volume footballers inside a low-volume football system.

And honestly, none of this is particularly controversial inside football circles.

Most coaches and parents already know it.

We simply do not talk about it publicly very often.

Why The Cups Matter So Much

And perhaps this is why Tasmanian football families value tournaments so highly.

For many young players from U9 through to U16, tournaments like:

• the Devonport Cup

• the Launceston Cup

• the Hobart Cup

are not just enjoyable weekends away.

They are opportunities to actually play more football.

A player attending all three tournaments might add another twelve matches across the year.

That is significant in a state where many youth players otherwise have relatively limited match volume.

Of course those games are condensed into intense weekends rather than spread consistently across a season, so they are not exactly the same developmental environment as a longer league structure.

But they matter enormously nonetheless.

Because Tasmanian football people are already trying to solve the problem themselves.

Parents travel.
Volunteers organise.
Clubs fundraise.
Kids spend entire weekends immersed in football.

The appetite for more football clearly exists.

The infrastructure and calendar simply struggle to provide enough of it consistently.

And even then, the exposure to genuinely different opposition can still be limited.

Michael pointed out that because northern and southern competitions do not always align neatly, tournaments can still involve teams repeatedly facing many of the same opponents they already encounter during the normal season.

So even our attempts to expand football opportunities can sometimes remain trapped inside the same small ecosystem.

Dominating Small Pools Helps Nobody

Another point Michael raised really struck me.

Some teams in Tasmanian youth football remain undefeated deep into the season.

That might sound impressive on paper.

But from a development perspective it should probably concern us more than excite us.

Because dominant teams in small ecosystems eventually run out of meaningful resistance.

Strong players need:

• harder games

• faster football

• adversity

• deeper competitions

• unfamiliar opponents

Otherwise development plateaus.

Even our tournaments can become repetitive.

That gap matters too.

Part of the reason Tasmania plays less football is because the entire system itself is stretched.

Volunteers are stretched.
Councils are stretched.
Facilities are stretched.

So the calendar contracts to fit the infrastructure rather than the needs of the players.

For a state that supposedly values outdoor lifestyle and community sport, Tasmania often makes organised football remarkably difficult to access consistently.

When kids love football but only play fifteen meaningful league games across six months, eventually other activities start competing for their attention.

That should concern all of us.

And Then We Expect Them To Compete Nationally

This is the part I keep coming back to.

We send Tasmanian teams and players away to National Championships and interstate tournaments and ask them to compete against players who have simply experienced far more football than they have.

More matches.
More intensity.
More pressure.
More depth.
More tournaments.
More unfamiliar opposition.
More high-speed decision making.

By the time some mainland players reach 15 or 16, they may have accumulated hundreds more meaningful football matches than Tasmanian players.

Hundreds.

And yet when Tasmania struggles at national level, we often talk about mentality, pathways, coaching or talent identification.

Perhaps the simpler answer is this:
our players often arrive underexposed.

Not because they lack commitment.

Not because they lack potential.

But because the football environment around them has not been able to give them enough football often enough for long enough.

That is not a criticism of the kids.

If anything, it is a compliment.

Because when Tasmanian players do shine nationally, they are often doing so despite the limitations of the environment around them, not because the system is overflowing with opportunity.

Perhaps the answer is not more pathway documents and more development language.

Perhaps the answer is simply more football.

More games.
More surfaces.
More lights.
More tournaments.
More access.
More pressure.
More repetitions.

Because right now too many Tasmanian kids who love football are being told, indirectly but very clearly, that the system simply cannot give them enough of the game they love.

“Who Are You?” Women, Authority and Junior Football

The Adults Who Shift the Tone of Kids’ Football

A Simple Request

Yesterday morning at junior football I asked a parent to step back from behind the goals.

That was it.

An ordinary Saturday morning. An ordinary U12 game at Lower Queenborough.

Kids playing football.

I was at Lower Queenborough because several South Hobart junior teams were playing there and I was watching and photographing games across the morning.

The parent was standing immediately beside the goal, heavily involved in what was happening on the field and at times almost leaning on the goal frame itself. So I walked over politely and asked if he could step back.

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, he challenged me immediately.

“Who are you?”

I answered honestly.

“I’m the President of CRJFA.”

Then came the response.

“Well if you’re the president you should know the distance rule.”

Over and over.

“What’s the distance?”

“What’s the rule?”

“If you’re the president you should know.”

Then came the tone. The body language. The physical presence. I’m 5 foot 9 and this was a very tall man standing over me in public at a children’s football match.

And for a moment, I felt myself second-guessing the interaction.

Because he was right about one thing.

I did not know the exact distance.

Afterwards I Looked Up The Rule

Driving home afterwards I realised something important.

The distance was never the point.

Later I looked up the actual guideline. It says spectators should not position themselves behind the goal or too close to the field of play and that adults should help create a safe, enjoyable and positive environment for children.

There is no precise distance written into the rule.

Which fascinated me afterwards because during the interaction I found myself immediately doubting myself.

“What’s the distance?”

“You should know the rule.”

Over and over.

And for a moment it worked.

I walked away thinking perhaps I had handled the situation badly because I could not instantly produce a technical answer.

But reading the guideline later, I realised my original request had simply reflected the spirit of what junior football is trying to achieve:
space for children to play without adults hovering over them.

Looking back now, I do not think he was genuinely seeking clarification. The technicality had become a way to challenge the legitimacy of the request itself.

“If you don’t know the exact rule then why should I listen to you?”

But grassroots football is not held together by volunteers carrying every rulebook measurement in their heads.

It survives because people are willing to step in politely when needed and because most adults understand the difference between a technicality and basic respect.

Female Football Week

This week is Female Football Week and I found myself thinking afterwards that perhaps this is also part of that conversation.

Not the glossy social media version of women in football.

Not the polished slogans.

The real version.

The lived version.

The version where a woman in football leadership asks an adult man to step back from behind a goal at children’s football and suddenly finds herself publicly challenged, repeatedly questioned and instinctively trying to stay calm while being physically towered over.

At one point I asked his name and he immediately replied:

“What’s your name?”

So I told him.

Then came the response:

“Oh, you’re Ken Morton’s wife.”

And I found that interesting afterwards.

Because in that moment I was no longer Victoria Morton. Not President of CRJFA. Not simply myself.

I became relationally identifiable through a man.

Again, I do not think this was some consciously terrible act. Football culture is layered and complicated.

But moments like that do quietly reveal how women in football leadership are still often socially understood.

I do not think men are bad and women are good. Football is far more complicated than that.

But I do think women in football leadership become very skilled at absorbing behaviour calmly.

We almost have to.

There are moments where you realise authority is not always received equally. Some people still react differently when leadership comes from a woman, particularly in environments where physical presence, confidence and public confrontation can become forms of power in themselves.

I also wondered afterwards whether the interaction would have unfolded differently if I had been a man.

I suspect many women in football already know the answer to that question.

The Jacket

I also found myself wondering afterwards whether the jacket mattered.

At CRJFA we have debated for years whether executives and volunteers should wear branded jackets. Visibility. Identification. A sense that we are part of CRJFA rather than just random adults standing around grounds.

Yesterday I happened to be wearing my South Hobart jacket because I had come from football and was watching junior games.

Then came the line:

“Oh, you’re from South Hobart.”

And suddenly the interaction shifted from a polite request about children’s football into something tribal.

Not CRJFA.

Not children.

Not sideline behaviour.

Club identity.

Maybe a CRJFA jacket would have changed the dynamic.

Maybe it would not have.

Grassroots football can be funny like that. We constantly talk about “community” while often reading each other first through club colours.

“We Won Anyway”

What fascinated me afterwards was how quickly the atmosphere changed.

One polite request and suddenly everything became tense, territorial and adversarial.

Then came the throwaway line as he walked off:

“Oh well, we won anyway.”

And there it was.

An adult framing a U12 football match through the lens of winning.

Not children.

Not behaviour.

Not atmosphere.

Winning.

That line stayed with me far more than the confrontation itself.

Because junior football reveals adults in ways we probably do not like to admit.

Children can be happily playing football and then suddenly an adult injects ego into the environment. Or tribalism. Or aggression. Or sarcasm. Or the need to dominate space.

And the emotional temperature changes instantly.

Adults shift the tone of kids’ football far more than children do.

What Happens When Adults Arrive

Sometimes I honestly think if adults simply dropped children at football and disappeared for an hour, the kids would probably sort most of it out themselves.

They would argue occasionally.

Then probably get over it five minutes later.

Kick the ball around.

Laugh.

Forget the score.

Meanwhile adults stand behind goals yelling instructions, coaching over the top of coaches, arguing with referees, carrying club politics onto sidelines and turning junior sport into something heavier than it was ever meant to be.

The irony is I’m an adult in football too.

I care deeply. I advocate. I write blogs about football governance and culture. I get emotional about the game. So I’m not pretending I stand outside any of this.

But mornings like this do make me wonder when adults stopped simply letting children play.

Volunteers Holding Grassroots Football Together

At CRJFA I am a volunteer too.

Not a security guard.

Not a paid official.

Just another person trying to help grassroots football function properly for children.

That is the irony of volunteer sport.

People are expected to step in, help, lead and manage situations. But the moment they exercise even mild authority they can suddenly become targets for resentment.

Again, the exact distance behind the goals was never really the point.

The point was that a simple request at a children’s football match escalated into a public challenge because an adult man decided it should.

That matters.

The Tone Children Grow Up In

Children absorb all of this.

They watch how adults speak to referees. To volunteers. To coaches. To opposition supporters. To women in leadership. To each other.

And then we wonder where sideline culture comes from.

Most kids actually regulate themselves pretty well.

Sometimes it is the adults who struggle most.

Feminism 101 and the Uneasy Politics of Female Football Week

I’m a feminist.

That word alone now seems to make people either tense up or nod approvingly before the conversation has even started.

Which is probably part of the problem.

Because feminism has become one of those words everyone reacts to, but fewer people stop to define properly.

So let’s start there.

Feminism 101

At its simplest, feminism is the belief that women should have the same rights, opportunities, freedoms and respect as men.

That’s it.

Not female superiority.
Not anti-men.
Not the belief that women are always right.
Not the belief that men and women are identical.

Just equality.

Historically, feminism mattered because women were excluded from huge parts of public life:

• voting

• leadership

• property ownership

• education

• financial independence

• politics

• sport

Women had to fight to even enter many of the rooms where decisions were made.

Football was one of those rooms.

The English FA actually banned women’s football from affiliated grounds for fifty years, from 1921 until 1971, claiming the game was “quite unsuitable for females.”

Think about that for a moment.

An entire generation of women effectively locked out of the sport, not because they couldn’t play, but because men in authority decided they shouldn’t.

And honestly, some days football still carries traces of that history.

Which brings me to Female Football Week

Every year I feel slightly uneasy about it.

Not angry.
Not anti-women’s football.
Not dismissive of the importance of visibility.

Uneasy.

Because I’m not convinced football always understands the difference between celebrating women and structurally supporting them.

The year it started to feel like a chore

I should probably admit something uncomfortable here.

When I was President of South Hobart FC, Female Football Week often felt less like a celebration and more like an obligation.

Not because we didn’t care about girls and women in football. Quite the opposite.

We cared deeply.

But every year the conversation became:
“What are we doing for Female Football Week?”

Not:
“What are we doing for women’s football all year?”

There’s a difference.

And underneath it all sat a quiet panic:
If we don’t do something, people will think we don’t care.

So we organised things.
Photos.
Posts.
Events.
Visibility pieces.

And some of them were genuinely worthwhile.

But if I’m brutally honest, there were years where it felt performative. Not maliciously performative. Just… expected.

Another awareness week to execute properly.

Football loves the optics

Football absolutely loves the optics of Female Football Week.

Suddenly every club social media page fills with:

• smiling girls teams

• player profile graphics

• “meet our female footballers”

• carefully worded statements about inclusion

• obligatory posts reminding everyone the club “supports women’s football”

Look at us.
We care.
We have women’s teams.

And again, some of that visibility genuinely matters. Young girls seeing themselves represented matters enormously.

But sometimes it all feels slightly rehearsed.

Because the same clubs posting glossy graphics can still be:

• giving women worse training times

• struggling to retain female coaches

• underrepresenting women in decision-making

• treating women’s football as secondary when resources tighten

That’s the uncomfortable gap.

Football is becoming very good at looking supportive of women.

It is less consistently good at structurally supporting them.

And after enough years in administration, you start noticing how much energy goes into appearing progressive compared to quietly building systems that actually are.

Meanwhile the real work keeps happening

Meanwhile the real work continues quietly every week — retaining teenage girls, balancing field space, managing changerooms, finding coaches, trying to grow women’s programs sustainably.

That work never fits neatly into a campaign graphic.

The easiest thing in the world is posting:
“Happy Female Football Week!”

The harder thing is asking:
Why are the girls still training later?
Why are women still underrepresented in decision-making?
Why do women’s teams still often feel secondary when resources get tight?

That’s not a branding conversation anymore.

That’s a power conversation.

Here’s the irony nobody says out loud

Women’s football often has a healthier culture than the men’s game.

Not always. But often.

More communal.
More welcoming.
Less ego-driven.
Less obsessed with status.
More connected to participation and relationships.

Because women’s football had to build community before it had power.

Men’s football sometimes assumes importance automatically.

Women’s football often had to earn belonging first.

That changes the culture.

But do we still need Female Football Week?

Probably yes.

And also maybe no.

That’s the honest answer.

Because inequality absolutely still exists:

• media coverage

• sponsorship

• facilities

• investment

• respect

• leadership visibility

All still unequal.

But girls are not some niche participation group anymore.

They are everywhere.

The Matildas changed the landscape permanently.
Girls football is exploding.
Women coach, referee, volunteer, manage and lead across every level of the game.

So sometimes the language around Female Football Week feels oddly outdated.

As though girls are still being invited into football instead of acknowledging they are already central to it.

Maybe feminism in football now looks different

Maybe modern feminism in football is less about “letting girls play.”

That battle was largely won.

Maybe now it’s about power.

Who gets heard.
Who gets resources.
Who gets prime facilities.
Who makes decisions.
Who is visible.
Who is taken seriously without having to prove themselves twice.

Because football is still very comfortable celebrating women.

It is slightly less comfortable sharing power with them.

Where I land

I don’t hate Female Football Week.

But I am wary of football mistaking awareness for progress.

The real goal should be a game where women and girls are so embedded, respected and normalised that a themed week eventually feels unnecessary.

Not because women disappeared.

But because equality stopped being treated like a special event.

That would actually mean something.

A Shrug And A Sigh. “Why bother?” — AGM Part 3

After looking at how the AGM works, who gets a vote, how proxies operate and how tightly structured the process is, I kept coming back to the same thought.

For many ordinary football people, governance feels very far away from the game itself.

Not necessarily because anybody is doing anything wrong.

But because the structure of governance and the lived experience of football are often very different things.

The formal world

Governance is formal by nature.

Constitutions.
Agendas.
Motions.
Proxies.
Deadlines.

The current Football Tasmania constitution dates back to 2009 and, like many sporting constitutions from that era, is heavily process-driven.

And to be fair, that process matters.

Sporting organisations need rules.
They need structure.
They need accountability.

None of that is unreasonable.

But football itself feels very different

Football in Tasmania is lived at ground level.

It is:
someone marking fields before sunrise
parents circling overflowing gravel car parks at 5pm
teenage referees standing in sideways rain
someone washing muddy kits late at night because the weather turned halfway through the second half

That is how most people experience football.

Not through constitutions or AGM agendas.

The distance between those two worlds

The AGM process itself is tightly structured.

Nominations for President formally close 48 hours before the meeting.

Members are formally advised of candidates 24 hours before the AGM.

The agenda itself contains no item for general business.

Attendance is restricted to Members and authorised representatives.

Again, none of this is inherently wrong.

But when combined together, it can make governance feel distant from the broader football community.

The missing voices

One of the more interesting discoveries sitting underneath all of this is the role of standing committees.

The constitution appears to envisage multiple standing committees as part of the representative structure of the game.

Yet currently, only the Referee Standing Committee appears active within the AGM membership structure.

Which raises another interesting question.

If standing committees are intended to provide additional representative voices into governance, what happens when those structures are absent or inactive?

Because that potentially changes not just participation, but representation itself.

Representation versus connection

Across this series, I’ve deliberately avoided arguing that the structure itself is invalid.

It clearly exists for a reason.

But structure alone does not automatically create connection.

And perhaps that is part of the challenge.

Because sitting in last year’s AGM, I remember less about the formal motions and more about the feeling around it all.

It was a training night.

I had my laptop open in the clubhouse with earbuds in, trying to follow the meeting while parents came and went around me.

Multitasking.

Half in governance mode.
Half in football mode.

Which, in many ways, is football in Tasmania.

A handful of questions around the financials.
Some answers taken on notice.

Then it was over.

Ten minutes or so and people drifted away.

No real sense of debate.
No sense of momentum.
No feeling that anybody expected much to change.

More a quiet acceptance.

A shrug and a sigh.

People attending more out of obligation than belief.

That feeling interests me more than constitutions do.

Because if football people begin to feel disconnected from governance, eventually they stop engaging with it altogether.

And once that happens, decision-making naturally becomes concentrated into smaller and smaller circles.

“What’s the point?”

I talk to a lot of football people.

Club people.
Committee members.
Coaches standing in the cold on Tuesday nights.

And the phrase I hear most often is surprisingly simple.

“What’s the point?”

Not anger necessarily.

More resignation.

A feeling that even if people knew exactly who to talk to, or raised concerns directly, nothing much would change anyway.

So people grumble on sidelines, in clubrooms and Messenger chats instead.

And when consultation does happen, it can sometimes feel distant from the day-to-day reality of the game itself.

Because Tasmanian football is not abstract.

It is practical.
Local.
Personal.

And people want to feel heard within it.

And perhaps that is the challenge

Not whether governance exists.

Not whether constitutions matter.

But how the structures of governance remain connected to the actual culture and experience of the game they represent.

Over time, disengagement becomes normalised.

Over time, the same voices simply keep turning up.

Football matters because people matter

At its best, football governance should not just manage the game.

It should hear it.

Not just through formal meetings and constitutions.

But through the texture of football life itself.

Players waiting outside changerooms for another team to come out so they can get changed.
The exhausted parent driving home after double-header duty.
The coach trying to keep a youth team together through exams, work and winter.

That is football too.

And ultimately, that is who governance is meant to serve.