Romeo Frediani – Football, Family and Loyalty

Romeo Frediani - photo Nikki Long

Before I sent Romeo Frediani my questions, I asked him whether he would be willing to be interviewed.

His reply made me smile.

"Not sure what story I would have but sure."

I've learnt over the years that the people who quietly get on with life are often the ones with the most remarkable stories to tell.

They don't see themselves as extraordinary.

They simply do what they love, help where they can and get on with the next job.

Romeo Frediani is one of those people.

As I worked my way through his answers, it quickly became obvious this wasn't simply the story of a former Hobart Juventus striker, coach or one of the driving forces behind Futsal Tasmania.

It was the story of an Italian family who made Tasmania home.

A little boy who always seemed to have a football at his feet.

A lifetime of unwavering loyalty to one football club.

A devastating injury that could easily have ended his football journey.

And a man who found another way to give back to the game he loves.

By the time I reached the end of Romeo's story, I realised something.

The people who think they don't have much of a story are often the very people whose stories deserve to be told.

I think you'll enjoy meeting Romeo Frediani.

From Carrara to Tasmania

Like so many football stories in Tasmania, Romeo Frediani's story begins somewhere else.

Long before he was born.

Long before he kicked a football.

Long before he ever dreamed of wearing the famous black and white shirt of Hobart Juventus.

It begins in Carrara, a city in northern Tuscany famous throughout the world for its magnificent white marble.

It was there that the Frediani family story began before Romeo's father made the journey to Tasmania in 1966, following his sister who had already settled here.

A few years later he met a young Tasmanian woman who would not only become his wife, but embrace the traditions and values of an Italian family.

Growing up, Romeo says he never really appreciated just how fortunate he was.

"My mother was Tasmanian, but she embraced so much of the Italian way of life through my father's heritage," he said.

"She was, and still is, an incredible cook."

His father worked long hours.

His mother kept the family together.

Together they built a home where family always came first.

"There was always plenty of food, family and friends around," Romeo recalled.

"Our home was always full of people."

And somewhere amongst all that food, laughter and conversation, football quietly became part of everyday life.

Not because anyone insisted on it.

Because it simply belonged there.

The Italian Club was also a huge part of Romeo's childhood, bringing together family, friends and a community that shared the same love of football and their Italian heritage.

Minestrone and Muddy Boots

As Romeo reflected on his childhood, I expected to hear stories about memorable goals or famous victories.

Instead, he talked about soup.

Regional tournaments.

Cold mornings.

Mud.

A frantic race home between games.

Waiting on the table would be a huge bowl of his mother's homemade minestrone.

While Romeo sat down to eat, his mother would already be washing muddy football clothes, cleaning his boots and drying everything so he was ready for the next game.

Then it was straight back into the car and off to another football ground.

Looking back now, Romeo sees those memories very differently.

"They're the kind of sacrifices and acts of love that stay with you forever."

Every football family has their own version of those moments.

Long drives.

Early mornings.

Cold sidelines.

Parents quietly doing everything they can so their children have the chance to play the game they love.

For Romeo, that was simply normal life.

A Ball at His Feet

Football wasn't introduced to Romeo.

It had simply always been there.

Television coverage of European football was limited in those days, but within Tasmania's Italian community the game was never far from conversation.

The great Italian clubs.

The leagues back home.

The players everyone admired.

Romeo believes football found him long before he understood what it really meant.

"I'm sure my connection to football started before I could even walk."

One of his earliest memories is of his father giving him a full-sized Size 5 football.

Not a little junior ball.

A proper football.

"My dad gave me a size five football when I was very young.

"I always had a ball at my feet.

"Wherever I went, the ball came with me.

"I'd get in the car and the ball would come along too."

Then he laughed as he remembered his first opponents.

"My best training partners were my dogs.

"My challenge was to keep the ball away from them for as long as possible."

It's such a simple image.

A little boy.

A football.

Two determined dogs.

Long before organised coaching, that's where Romeo Frediani's football education really began.

A Father's Quiet Influence

When I asked Romeo who had influenced him most, there wasn't even a moment's hesitation.

"My biggest influence was my father.”

"Not only in football, but in life."

He never pushed.

Never demanded.

Never forced.

"He was always there."

Every junior game.

Almost every Zebras match.

Every step of Romeo's football journey.

Romeo said his father rarely missed a game, whether he was playing or later coaching, until his health simply no longer allowed him to stand on the sidelines.

Sometimes the people who shape our lives the most aren't the loudest voices.

They're simply the ones who keep turning up.

Romeo also speaks with enormous respect about the coaches who influenced him throughout his career.

Ozzie Fitzgerald was one of the first to leave a lasting impression.

Then came Ken Morton.

"My dad took me to every clinic Ken ran when I was a young kid," Romeo recalled.

"Being coached by him left a lasting impression on me."

Football has a funny way of bringing people back into your life.

Years later, Romeo would play against Ken before eventually coaching against him as well.

His first senior coach, Peter Irving, also played an important role in his development.

Romeo still remembers the conversation.

As a 15-year-old breaking into senior football, Peter Irving challenged him to score 12 goals for the season.

"If you achieve that," he told him, "you've done your job.

Romeo finished the season with 13.

Sometimes all a young footballer needs is someone who believes they can.

The Black and White Dream

Every footballer remembers the club they first fell in love with.

For Romeo Frediani, there was never another choice.

From the time he was a little boy kicking a football around the backyard, he dreamed of one day wearing the famous black and white shirt of Hobart Juventus.

"My earliest memories of Tasmanian football are of going to games at D'Arcy Street in South Hobart," Romeo said.

"I probably spent more time kicking the ball against the fence than actually watching to start with, but it was always packed and always had a great atmosphere."

Those memories didn't stop at D'Arcy Street.

As he grew older there were countless nights spent at KGV.

Cold Tasmanian evenings.

Wrapped up against the winter weather.

Watching senior football and imagining what it might feel like to one day be part of it all.

Like so many young footballers, Romeo wasn't simply watching the game.

He was dreaming about his own place in it.

Waiting for the Black and White

Patience wasn't one of Romeo's strengths.

"I think I played in an under eights team when I was only five because I just couldn't wait to play," he laughed.

"I'd run out of the house and straight down to the ground and turn up for any team that would let me play."

Football was different then.

Most young players began through school football before moving into club football when they reached the under-13 age group.

For Romeo, that seemed like a lifetime away.

"I couldn't wait to play in the black and white.

"It was always my dream."

His family travelled back to Italy whenever they could and each trip usually ended the same way.

Another Juventus shirt found its way into his suitcase.

He wore them everywhere.

Long before he officially became a Juventus player, he already felt connected to the club.

So when he finally pulled on the black and white shirt as an eleven-year-old, it wasn't just another game.

It was the moment a childhood dream became reality.

"I just couldn't wait to put that shirt on."

The Only Club

These days it's common for players to represent several clubs during their career.

Romeo's football journey was very different.

"It was the only club I ever played for.

"And the only club I've ever coached."

As we spoke, one word kept appearing.

Loyalty.

"I've always believed strongly in loyalty," Romeo said.

"I felt that going anywhere else would have been disloyal."

He quickly adds that loyalty has to work both ways.

"The club was very good to me over the years, so I stayed committed throughout."

There was never any great plan to play somewhere else.

No ambition to wear another club's colours.

Juventus wasn't simply where Romeo played his football.

It was where he grew up.

Where he made lifelong friendships.

Where he celebrated success.

Where he experienced disappointment.

Where football became part of who he was.

Looking back now, it's difficult to separate Romeo Frediani from the black and white shirt.

One helped shape the other.

Dreaming Bigger

As Romeo settled into life at Hobart Juventus, his ambitions grew with him.

Like so many young footballers, his dreams evolved as each one was achieved.

First, he wanted to play for Juventus.

Then he wanted to represent Tasmania.

Then Australia.

And one day, he hoped to coach.

"My ambition as a young player was first to play for Juventus, then to play for my country and then to coach," Romeo said.

"I achieved two of those three."

There is no disappointment when he reflects on that today.

Just gratitude.

Because every dream he chased demanded the same thing.

Hard work.

"I trained hard throughout my younger years and rarely missed a session.

"If I didn't have team training, I'd still find somewhere to train.

"There were no excuses.

"I just wanted to play."

It's a simple statement, but it probably says everything about Romeo's approach to football.

Nothing was ever handed to him.

If he wanted to improve, he trained.

If there wasn't a session organised, he found somewhere to kick a ball anyway.

Football wasn't something he did.

It was simply who he was.

Heroes Became Teammates

Like every young footballer, Romeo grew up with heroes.

As a striker there was one player he admired above all others.

"Bruce Ward.

"That's what I wanted to be.

"I used to love going to watch him."

He also remembers watching Peter Brine, Steve Craven and Ken Morton, along with many of the outstanding Italian footballers who helped shape Tasmanian football, including Frank Genovese, Nick Lapolla, Defelice and many others.

Then something remarkable happened.

The players he had admired from the sidelines became teammates.

Sergio Pace.

Carlo Ambrosino.

Neil Connell.

Nick Di Martino.

Frank Genovese.

Romeo Fabrizio.

Dominic Longo.

"I felt privileged to play in an era of such high standard, with so many quality players around."

It was a wonderful era for football in Tasmania.

Quality overseas players arrived and immediately lifted the standard.

Training became more demanding.

Matches became more physical.

Every week tested you.

Nothing came easily.

"You had to work for everything."

When asked about the best players he shared the field with, Romeo smiled.

"I could go on forever."

Michael Lapolla.

Steve Kannageiser.

Steve Walker.

Massi Fernandez, who Romeo still describes as an outstanding footballer despite spending only a short time in Tasmania.

There were representative teammates too.

David Stoddart.

Ian Parker.

Snowy Compagne.

Anthony Guilbert.

Brendon Lakoseljac.

Every name sparked another memory.

Another game.

Another reminder of just how fortunate he felt to play in one of the strongest eras Tasmanian football has seen.

Representing Tasmania

Representative football became another important chapter in Romeo's journey.

He proudly represented Tasmania from Under 13s through to Under 16s, experiences that not only tested his football ability but broadened his horizons.

Every time he pulled on the Tasmanian strip, he was representing much more than himself.

He was representing his club.

His family.

His teammates.

And the football community that had shaped him.

One match, in particular, has never left him.

Playing against Japanese powerhouse Nagoya Grampus Eight.

"It was an unbelievable experience."

Representative football also created lifelong friendships.

Players who had spent the season trying to beat each other suddenly became teammates.

The rivalries disappeared.

For a little while, everyone was pulling in the same direction.

Like so many talented young footballers, Romeo dreamed of taking the next step.

Playing for Australia.

He attended national training camps alongside some of the country's brightest young talent.

Dominic Longo.

John Markovski.

Zoran Ilic.

Sean Murphy.

Mark Bosnich.

John Filan.

Steve Refenes.

Carl Veart.

And many others.

"I attended the national camps but never quite made the final squad."

There is no sense of regret.

Only appreciation for the opportunity.

Looking back now, Romeo speaks with pride about having represented Tasmania and tested himself against the very best players of his generation.

The Toughest Opponents

Football in Tasmania during that era was fiercely competitive.

Every weekend presented another challenge.

When asked which teams were the hardest to play against, Romeo didn't hesitate.

"White Eagles."

Then he laughed.

"I'm not a tall person, and they always seemed like giants when they walked out of the change rooms."

The matches were always physical.

Always demanding.

Always memorable.

Then there was Olympia.

The Juventus and Olympia derby was one of Tasmanian football's great rivalries.

Passion.

Pride.

Bragging rights.

They were never just another game.

Devonport also featured among the toughest opponents Romeo encountered.

"They were always hard-fought matches."

Looking back now, Romeo doesn't remember those games because of the result.

He remembers the people.

The players.

The friendships.

The respect that grew between fierce competitors over many seasons.

Those memories, he says, will stay with him forever.

As I read Romeo’s answers about those years, one thing became increasingly obvious.

He had achieved almost everything he had set out to achieve as a young footballer.

He had worn the black and white shirt he had dreamed about since childhood.

He had represented Tasmania.

He had tested himself against some of Australia's best young players.

Football had given him more than he could ever have imagined.

Then, on what began as a perfectly ordinary trip to Launceston, everything changed.

The Day Everything Changed

Football has a funny way of convincing us that next week will look much like last week.

Another training session.

Another game.

Another trip up the highway.

For Romeo Frediani, the day that changed his life began exactly like that.

A normal drive to Launceston.

A trip to play Riverside.

He even drove that day so his aunt and uncle could come along and watch.

Nothing suggested this would be any different from countless other away trips.

Until one moment changed everything.

"The thing I can only remember at the time was lying on the ground holding my leg, thinking, 'Is it, or isn't it, broken?'"

"It was."

Even now, Romeo can still recall the strange events surrounding that afternoon.

The ambulance seemed to take an eternity to arrive.

By then there had already been several other injuries during the match.

One player had suffered a broken or dislocated collarbone.

Another needed stitches after a head injury.

Someone else had even been stung by a bee while sitting on the bench.

"What a day that was," Romeo reflected.

Then, despite everything, his football humour surfaced.

"I did score that goal.

"But the goalpost came off better than I did."

Only football people could probably laugh at a line like that.

Behind the humour, however, lay an injury that would change the course of Romeo's football life forever.

A Month That Changed Everything

Romeo was taken to hospital in Launceston.

At first, it seemed straightforward.

The broken bone was repaired with a rod and screws.

Like many footballers, Romeo immediately began thinking about getting back onto the pitch.

"I was up the next day thinking, 'Okay... six or eight weeks and I'll be back to normal.'"

He couldn't have been more wrong.

The swelling continued to worsen.

Doctors became increasingly concerned.

Eventually they diagnosed compartment syndrome, a serious condition where pressure builds within the muscles and threatens blood flow to the affected limb.

Romeo was rushed back into surgery.

The pressure was released.

But the danger wasn't over.

Over the following days he underwent more operations.

Each time he was taken into theatre, surgeons prepared him for the possibility that they might not be able to save his leg.

"I broke down a few times over that period.

"Every time I went in for surgery they reminded me there was a possibility I could lose my leg below the knee."

It is almost impossible to imagine what those conversations must have been like.

One week earlier, Romeo had been chasing a football.

Now he was wondering whether he would keep his leg.

Learning to Walk Again

Eventually the danger passed.

His leg was saved.

But life would never be quite the same.

"It took me nearly a year to learn how to walk again."

For months he couldn't drive.

He couldn't work.

Simple everyday tasks suddenly became enormous challenges.

Romeo also had to come to terms with permanent damage.

"I lost the tendons that allow you to lift your foot."

"It was something I just had to learn to live with."

It wasn't simply a football injury anymore.

It had become a life-changing injury.

Then came another difficult realisation.

Football, as he had always imagined it, was over.

"It was a difficult time because football was basically my life.

"It's all I wanted to do.

"I wanted to get to the next stage of my career.

"That was no longer possible as a player."

For someone whose entire life had revolved around football, that acceptance may have been the hardest challenge of all.

The Club That Stood Beside Him

When Romeo speaks about his recovery, he rarely talks about himself for very long.

Before long, he starts talking about other people.

His club.

The Italian community.

The people who refused to let him face the journey alone.

"The club was very supportive.

"And the Italian community was also very helpful during my recovery."

Those acts of kindness have never been forgotten.

One person, in particular, remains deeply important to Romeo.

George Marino.

George was President of Hobart Juventus at the time.

"George and his family helped me a lot by keeping me involved.

"Looking back now, I think that probably helped my mental health."

Sometimes people don't realise the difference they're making.

A phone call.

A visit.

An invitation to stay involved.

For Romeo, those simple acts of support became a lifeline.

Life Had Other Plans

Like anyone who has experienced a life-changing injury, Romeo admits he still wonders what might have been.

"Yes, I always thought about it.

"And I still do sometimes."

Then he paused.

"But life has a plan for all of us.

"Obviously going further as a player was not the plan that was set for me."

It's a remarkably accepting way to look back on what happened.

There is no bitterness.

No anger.

Just acceptance.

As I read Romeo's words, it struck me that perhaps football hadn't finished with him at all.

It simply had a different role planned for him.

Romeo just didn't know it yet.

A Second Football Life

For many footballers, the end of their playing career also marks the end of their involvement in the game.

That was never going to be the case for Romeo Frediani.

If he couldn't play the game he loved, he would find another way to stay involved.

"If I couldn't play, I wanted to coach and share the knowledge I had been given by the coaches during my playing career."

His first coaching role came while he was still recovering from his injury.

"I remember my first coaching job after the accident. I had a walking stick."

It wasn't the picture he had imagined.

But he wasn't about to let that stop him.

One of his closest friends, Spiros, stepped in to help.

"I did all the planning and coaching, and Spiros did all the practical work and running around. I was so grateful for his help."

Football has always relied on people quietly helping each other.

This was one of those moments.

The team also travelled well beyond the football pitch.

"We used to go around picking the kids up, taking them to the games and dropping them home afterwards."

Then Romeo smiled as another memory surfaced.

"My father used to do exactly the same thing back in the 1970s."

"It was a full-circle moment."

Sometimes football has a remarkable way of connecting generations.

One More Challenge

Despite everything he had been through, one thought never really left him.

Could he play again?

Around six years after the accident, Romeo decided to find out.

A group of mates invited him to play social indoor football.

He became the goalkeeper.

"I couldn't kick a ball properly, so I thought being a keeper might be fun."

Before long, another opportunity appeared.

A Zebras social team was formed, bringing together many of the legends of the old Juventus era.

Nick Di Martino.

Nick Lapolla.

Fraraccio.

And many more familiar names.

Slowly, Romeo's confidence began to return.

"I had to learn how to run again.

"I had to learn how to kick a ball again without dorsiflexion."

It wasn't easy.

There were setbacks.

Minor injuries.

Frustrations.

But he kept training.

He became fitter.

He returned to the reserves alongside players such as Michael Lapolla, Frank Mainella and Chris Cox.

For many people, that would have been enough.

For Romeo, there was still one more goal.

"I wanted to play first-team football again."

He trained harder than ever.

Eventually, his opportunity arrived under coach Nick Lapolla.

"It was the best year."

Romeo reels off the names almost instinctively.

Mainella.

Lapolla Junior.

Chris Cox.

Mark Falzon.

Brett Pullen.

Aaron Brazendale.

Ryan Smith.

Ricky Self.

Michael Connolly.

"It was a great team."

Together they achieved something special.

The Summer Cup.

The League.

The State Cup.

The treble.

Only then did Romeo feel ready.

"That was when I decided it was time to retire.

"On my terms."

After everything he had endured, those three words carry enormous weight.

Football had taken so much away.

In the end, it also gave him the opportunity to walk away exactly as he wanted.

Building Futsal Tasmania

Romeo's playing career may have ended, but football still had another chapter waiting for him.

Ironically, his first taste of futsal came many years earlier.

"When futsal first started at the YMCA in the late 1980s and early 1990s, a few of us used to race over from KGV after games to play."

It was fun.

Fast.

Something different.

Years later, around 2009, Romeo decided he wanted to make football more than simply a weekend passion.

He applied for a position with Football Federation Tasmania.

It didn't eventuate.

Not long afterwards, another opportunity appeared.

"Our sons had been playing futsal, so I gave my résumé to Corey Smith in case anything came up."

Something did.

More than sixteen years later, Romeo is still helping shape the game through Futsal Tasmania.

"I've seen lots of ups and downs," he said.

"But now I can honestly say there have been a lot more ups."

One thing became very clear as I worked through Romeo's story.

He doesn't see the success of Futsal Tasmania as his own.

He sees it as something built by many people.

A Team Effort

Ask Romeo what he is most proud of and he doesn't start by talking about himself.

He starts by talking about others.

"Building the profile of futsal in Tasmania has been a big part of its growth.

"But it's not only because of me.

"It's because of our loyal coaches and our futsal family."

Then he speaks about someone who has shared that journey every step of the way.

His wife, Raelene.

"For the past 13 years she's been instrumental in the growth of futsal in Tasmania."

Through marketing.

Photography.

Social media.

Community engagement.

Promoting players.

Promoting events.

Creating opportunities.

Today, Raelene's role extends across the wider Australian organisation, but Romeo says she remains a huge part of everything Futsal Tasmania continues to achieve in Tasmania.

Listening to Romeo, it's obvious that he measures success differently.

Not by what he has achieved alone.

But by what a committed group of people has built together.

Changing Young Lives

Of all the achievements Romeo could have chosen, it wasn't a championship or a trophy that stood out.

It was the schools program.

"The schools program is probably the one I'm most proud of."

It began with just a handful of teams on a single court.

The following year there were more.

Then more again.

The program expanded into the North West.

Then into Launceston.

Participation continued to grow.

This year more than 300 teams took part, making it the largest schools futsal tournament Futsal Tasmania has ever delivered.

Romeo believes it will continue to grow.

Just as importantly, Futsal Tasmania has created opportunities for young players to represent Tasmania at national championships and international events.

"With the support of our loyal coaches we've come a long way.

"We've gone from being the whipping boys to winning national titles."

For Romeo, however, the greatest reward isn't measured by medals.

It's watching young people discover a love for football.

The Indoor Game's Greatest Lesson

Romeo firmly believes futsal deserves greater recognition within Australian football.

"I wish futsal had been around when I was young."

Not simply because it's enjoyable.

Because it develops footballers.

"It's a passing game.

"You have to create space.

"You have to think quickly."

He talks about first touch.

Decision making.

Ball control.

Creativity.

Playing under pressure.

The constant involvement every player has in both attack and defence.

The discipline the game demands.

"It's taken a long time for some outdoor coaches to embrace what futsal can do.

"But they're starting to understand."

Listening to Romeo, it becomes obvious that he doesn't see futsal as competing with outdoor football.

He sees it as helping young footballers become better players.

How Do You Measure a Football Life?

As I reached the final pages of Romeo Frediani's story, I found myself thinking back to the title of this interview.

Football.

Family.

Loyalty.

They aren't just three words.

They are the threads that run through every chapter of Romeo's life.

His family's journey from Italy to Tasmania.

A little boy with a football at his feet.

A lifetime devoted to one club.

A career interrupted by an injury that changed everything.

A second football life built through coaching and Futsal Tasmania.

And thousands of young people who have benefited from the opportunities he has helped create.

When I asked Romeo how he hoped people would remember him, his answer said everything.

"I hope people remember me for who I am as a person.

"My loyalty to the football club I grew up with.

"My family.

"And for giving their child an opportunity in football or futsal in a positive way."

WHEN THE CAMERAS LEAVE

It’s 3am.

I should be asleep.

Instead I’m watching Argentina and Egypt produce another World Cup classic.

This tournament still has a couple of weeks to run and it has been magnificent.

The football.

The drama.

The stories.

The television audiences.

Watching Australia fall in love with football all over again.

The World Cup hasn’t changed football.

It has simply reminded Australia that football exists.

Then I got up to make a coffee.

On the back porch sat my muddy football boots from last night.

Covered in mud.

Covered in grass.

Covered in reality.

And just like that...

I wasn't watching the World Cup anymore.

I was back where football actually lives.

Here I go again...

If you're already rolling your eyes thinking...

"Not another Victoria Morton article about football funding..."

Congratulations.

You've been paying attention.

Because yes...

Here I go again.

Banging that drum.

I've written about what the Qatar World Cup should have meant.

I've written about not wasting the once-in-a-generation opportunity the FIFA Women's World Cup gave us.

Now, while another magnificent World Cup is still lighting up television screens around the world, I'm looking at a pair of muddy boots wondering whether we've learnt anything at all.

Spoiler alert.

I don't think we have.

Actually...

I'm bloody fed up.

Fed up watching football become fashionable every four years.

Fed up watching politicians discover football just long enough for another photo opportunity.

Fed up hearing speeches about participation while clubs are literally running out of places to put children.

Fed up hearing volunteers praised while expecting them to keep performing miracles.

Because the boots are still muddy.

Nothing has changed.

Last night

Last night around 140 girls and boys squeezed onto one football pitch for the first training session.

An hour later another 100 arrived for the second.

Think about that.

Around 240 children on one winter's evening.

Not because there was a World Cup festival.

Not because it was a special event.

Because it was a normal Tuesday night.

And it wasn't just happening at our club.

It was happening at football grounds all over Tasmania.

And all over Australia.

Parents dropping their children off after work.

Wanting them active.

Healthy.

Engaged.

Off their phones.

Building friendships.

Learning teamwork.

Wonderful.

Now help us find somewhere for them to play.

Instead football clubs all over the country are dividing pitches.

Staggering training.

Negotiating over patches of grass.

Praying the lights stay on.

Crossing their fingers the weather holds.

Making do.

Again.

Every four years politicians discover football

It's become one of my favourite traditions.

The World Cup starts.

Suddenly politicians love football.

Scarves appear.

Jerseys appear.

Selfies appear.

Press releases appear.

Everyone wants to be photographed with a football.

Everyone tells us football has united Australia.

Forgive me if I don't get swept away.

I've seen this movie before.

The script never changes.

Only the cast.

Football gets another pat on the head.

"Wonderful tournament."

"Great participation."

"Football has captured the nation."

Then the cameras leave.

And so does the attention.

Ticket to Play... where exactly?

This week Premier Jeremy Rockliff proudly announced another expansion of the Ticket to Play program.

Good.

Seriously.

Helping families afford sport is exactly what governments should do.

But here's a radical suggestion.

Before we celebrate getting more children into football...

Perhaps we should build somewhere for them to actually play.

What a crazy idea.

Football doesn't have a participation problem.

Football has an infrastructure problem.

Participation without infrastructure isn't sport policy.

It's a waiting list.

Another stadium...

Meanwhile Tasmania debates another oval stadium.

Whether you're for it or against it isn't really my point.

My point is priorities.

Football isn't asking for another stadium.

We're asking for lights.

Drainage.

Change rooms.

Grass.

The boring stuff.

The basics.

Apparently that's the difficult bit.

The magical government money tree

Here's another phrase that always makes me smile.

"The Government is investing..."

Really?

I didn't realise governments had jobs.

Governments don't earn money.

Australians do.

Stop pretending government is some generous relative dipping into its own savings account.

It's spending our money.

Somewhere we've convinced ourselves there's a magical money tree growing behind Parliament House.

There isn't.

We're the money tree.

Every taxpayer.

Every PAYG deduction.

Every GST payment.

Every small business.

Governments don't spend government money.

They decide how to spend ours.

Which means every spending decision is really a decision about priorities.

So yes...

I think we're entitled to ask why Australia's biggest participation sport keeps ending up with the leftovers.

Read the report

If you're wondering whether this is just one grumpy football tragic having another whinge...

Don't take my word for it.

Read the Football Supporters Association Australia report.

Australia has:

• 1.9 million football participants.

• More than 3,300 community clubs.

• Government funding averaging just $37 per participant.

• A $2.8 billion infrastructure shortfall.

Including:

• $1.56 billion for change rooms.

• $851 million for lighting.

• $391 million for drainage.

Not luxury.

Not corporate boxes.

Not giant scoreboards.

The basics.

Read the report:

www.fsaaus.com

Join the Football Supporters Association Australia:

www.fsaaus.com/join

Membership is free.

Volunteer-led.

The bigger its voice becomes, the harder it becomes for governments to ignore Australia's biggest participation sport.

And while you're there, download the template letter to your local MP.

If enough of us stop shaking our heads and actually start speaking up, perhaps someone might finally start listening.

Government didn't build football

Here's another uncomfortable truth.

Governments love celebrating football's growth.

They didn't build it.

Parents did.

Volunteers did.

Coaches did.

Communities did.

Football grew because ordinary Australians kept turning up.

Week after week.

Winter after winter.

Government simply turns up when the cameras do.

When the cameras leave

That's when you'll find football.

Not in the corporate box.

Not in another ministerial media release.

Not posing for photographs in a green and gold scarf.

You'll find it on wet winter nights.

You'll find it under inadequate lights.

You'll find it on overcrowded grounds.

You'll find volunteers somehow making the impossible possible.

Again.

Here is my challenge

Some of you will finish reading this and think...

"There she goes again."

You're right.

Here I go again.

Because until I stop walking past muddy football boots wondering where another 240 children are going to train...

I'm not stopping.

The World Cup still has a couple of weeks to run.

I'll enjoy every minute of it.

But when the final whistle blows, I don't want another speech telling me how much Australia loves football.

I've heard those speeches before.

I want someone to prove it.

Next Tuesday those boots will be muddy again.

Around 240 children will turn up again.

Across Tasmania.

Across Australia.

Volunteers will somehow make it work again.

They always do.

The question isn't whether football will keep turning up.

It always has.

The question is whether governments will ever stop applauding football from the grandstand...

...and finally walk onto the pitch.

Because football doesn't need another pat on the head.

It needs a fair go.

Today We Are All Belgian

Yesterday I wrote a satirical blog about Folarin Balogun.

It was meant to make people smile.

I joked that perhaps every football club in the world should now start appealing red cards.

I joked that maybe every club president should ask FIFA to suspend an automatic suspension.

I joked that perhaps all we needed was Gianni Infantino's phone number.

The joke didn't last long.

Less than twenty-four hours later, football stopped laughing.

Today...

We are all Belgian.

Not because we suddenly support Belgium.

Not because we want Belgium to beat the United States.

But because Belgium has become the nation asking the question every football supporter, every referee, every coach, every club president and every football administrator around the world is now asking.

Do the rules still mean what they say?

This is no longer about one player

This story has outgrown Folarin Balogun.

It has outgrown Belgium.

It has even outgrown Donald Trump.

It has become a story about whether football still believes in one of its oldest and simplest principles.

The rules apply equally to everyone.

That is the question now hanging over this World Cup.

It started with one red card

Balogun, one of the United States' key attacking players, was sent off against Bosnia and Herzegovina.

The referee produced a red card.

VAR reviewed it.

VAR agreed.

Red card.

For everyone involved in football, that has always meant one thing.

An automatic one-match suspension.

Not maybe.

Not depending on circumstances.

Automatic.

Then something football had never seen before happened.

Donald Trump has publicly confirmed he contacted FIFA because he did not believe the challenge deserved a red card.

Gianni Infantino has publicly confirmed he received that phone call.

Infantino says he explained there was an independent judicial process and insists FIFA's judicial bodies acted independently and according to their powers.

Then FIFA announced that Balogun's suspension itself had been suspended.

Not overturned.

Not rescinded.

Suspended.

Football immediately began asking questions.

Belgium refused to stay silent

Belgium's Football Association didn't simply complain.

It produced one of the strongest statements I have ever read during a World Cup.

It said it was "astonished."

It pointed to FIFA's own Disciplinary Code.

It pointed to FIFA's own World Cup Competition Regulations.

It pointed to FIFA Circular No. 16 distributed before the tournament.

Every one of them said exactly the same thing.

A red card results in an automatic suspension for the next match.

Belgium says it still hasn't received the written reasons for FIFA's decision.

It says it hasn't received the referee's report.

It says it hasn't received the disciplinary committee's reasoning.

Instead, it found itself arguing over a decision that had already changed the course of the tournament.

Then football spoke

At first it was Belgium.

Then UEFA.

Europe's governing body described FIFA's decision as:

"Unprecedented."

"Incomprehensible."

"Unjustifiable."

Read those words again.

They weren't written by a disappointed supporter.

They weren't written by a newspaper columnist.

They were written by one of football's most powerful governing bodies.

UEFA went even further.

It reminded FIFA that a one-match suspension following a red card is "not a discretionary option."

Then came perhaps the most damning sentence of all.

"When the certainty of rules is no longer guaranteed by its guardians, the integrity of the game is at stake."

That should send a chill through everyone who loves football.

Then came the football people

Wayne Rooney.

Ståle Solbakken.

Thomas Tuchel.

Jürgen Klopp.

José Mourinho.

Different countries.

Different personalities.

Different football philosophies.

Yet they all arrived at remarkably similar conclusions.

Rooney cut through every legal argument.

If the red card was wrong...

Overturn the red card.

If the red card was right...

The suspension stands.

Don't invent a third option.

Solbakken asked the question every referee in the world is probably asking.

"What about the next red card?"

Exactly.

Because if this one can be treated differently...

Why not the next?

Klopp questioned whether politics had any place in football's disciplinary process.

Mourinho reportedly summed it up in the simplest football language imaginable.

"If the red card is a red card, it stays a red card."

And then...

Even Sepp Blatter.

For younger readers, Blatter was FIFA President from 1998 until 2015.

His presidency ended amid the biggest corruption scandal in FIFA's history.

He remains one of the most controversial administrators football has ever known.

Which makes this almost impossible to believe.

Even Sepp Blatter thinks FIFA got this wrong.

Read that again.

When even Sepp Blatter is questioning FIFA's handling of a disciplinary decision...

Football has entered extraordinary territory.

My satire became reality

Yesterday I joked that every federation would start appealing cards.

Today...

France has appealed Michael Olise's yellow card.

Moroccan football figures are openly asking whether they should challenge yellow cards too.

Belgium continues fighting.

Exactly the precedent Belgium warned about has already begun.

Pandora's box has been opened.

And it may prove impossible to close.

Twenty years in football

There is one reason this story has struck such a chord with me.

For more than twenty years I have been involved in football administration.

As a club administrator and president, I have had countless players, coaches and parents ring after a red card.

Some pleaded.

Some argued.

Some were convinced the referee had made a terrible mistake.

Some were absolutely right.

But my answer never changed.

"I'm sorry. A red card means an automatic one-match suspension."

Sometimes they didn't like the answer.

Sometimes I didn't like giving it.

But everyone accepted it because that was football.

The rule was the rule.

There were no special circumstances.

No phone calls.

No exceptions.

No "let's suspend the suspension."

Just certainty.

Today, for the first time in more than two decades in football...

I'm not sure I'd know what to tell them.

Because if the World Cup can suspend an automatic suspension...

Why couldn't every player ask the same question?

Mauricio Pochettino has a chance to make a statement

FIFA says Folarin Balogun is eligible to play.

That doesn't mean he has to.

Mauricio Pochettino has spent his life in football.

He understands dressing rooms.

He understands respect.

He understands that football's greatest strength has always been that the same laws apply to everyone.

No one is suggesting he has done anything wrong.

His player has been declared eligible.

But sometimes leadership isn't about asking, "Can I?"

It's about asking, "Should I?"

Imagine the statement it would send if Pochettino left Balogun out.

Not because FIFA told him to.

Not because Belgium demanded it.

But because he wanted the result decided without anyone questioning whether one team had received special treatment.

Imagine the respect that decision would earn across world football.

It would say:

"We'll win with the players who were always eligible to play."

Would it cost the United States one of its best forwards?

Perhaps.

Could it restore a little faith in the integrity of this World Cup?

I believe it could.

Football remembers moments of sportsmanship just as much as it remembers trophies.

This could become one of them.

FIFA has a credibility problem

This World Cup has produced magnificent football.

Wonderful stories.

Extraordinary crowds.

Record television audiences.

And yet, around the football world, people are talking about lawyers.

Rules.

Appeals.

Politics.

Phone calls.

Not because supporters want to.

Because FIFA has allowed the conversation to move away from the pitch.

That should concern every football administrator on the planet.

Because trust is football's most valuable asset.

Once supporters begin believing the rules depend on circumstances rather than certainty...

Once they begin wondering whether "automatic" really means automatic...

Once they begin questioning whether every nation is truly treated equally...

Football has a problem far bigger than one controversial disciplinary decision.

Today we are all Belgian

This isn't really about Belgium anymore.

It isn't about the United States.

It isn't even about Folarin Balogun.

It's about every football nation that wants to believe the same rules apply to everyone.

Today it's Belgium asking the questions.

Tomorrow it could be Australia.

Or England.

Or Brazil.

Or Morocco.

Or New Zealand.

Because once one automatic suspension becomes negotiable...

Every automatic suspension becomes negotiable.

The irony is that Belgium may never win this argument.

They may lose on the pitch.

They may lose in the hearing room.

But they have already achieved something important.

They have forced the football world to ask a question FIFA can no longer ignore.

Not whether Balogun should play.

Not whether Donald Trump should have made the call.

Not even whether Gianni Infantino influenced the decision.

Those arguments will continue.

The bigger question is much simpler.

When the governing body of world football says a rule is automatic...

Can every football nation still trust that it is?

Because once that certainty disappears...

Football loses something far more valuable than one World Cup match.

It loses trust.

And today...

We are all Belgian.

Donald, Gianni and the Get Out of Red Card Free Card

Because for twenty years I've been telling players a red card meant a mandatory holiday.

For the best part of two decades my phone would ring.

"Vicki... surely we can appeal this?"

"It was never a red card."

"The referee got it wrong."

"There has to be something we can do."

As the contact person at South Hobart FC, my answer was always exactly the same.

"No."

"It doesn't matter whether we agree with the referee."

"A red card means an automatic one-match suspension."

End of discussion.

Sometimes they were furious.

Sometimes they thought it was unfair.

Sometimes, privately, I agreed with them.

But that was football.

Red card.

One week holiday.

See you next Saturday.

Apparently...

...not anymore.

A little background

For those who haven't been glued to the FIFA World Cup over the past week, here's the short version.

Folarin Balogun is one of the United States' key attacking players.

He was shown a red card during the Americans' Round of 32 victory over Bosnia and Herzegovina. Like every player sent off at this World Cup, everyone assumed exactly the same thing.

He would miss the next match.

The United States' next opponent?

Belgium.

The American media accepted it.

The Belgian media accepted it.

Football accepted it.

Then FIFA announced something nobody saw coming.

Using Article 27 of its Disciplinary Code, the FIFA Disciplinary Committee suspended the implementation of Balogun's suspension.

Yes...

Read that again.

The suspension...

...was suspended.

Which meant Balogun was suddenly available to play Belgium after all.

And that's when this story stopped being about one footballer and became a story about football's rule book.

Somewhere in Zurich...

Phone rings.

"Hello, Gianni speaking."

"Gianni, it's Donald."

"Oh... hello Mr President."

"I've got a little problem."

"What seems to be the issue?"

"Our striker has a red card."

"Oh dear."

"I'd like him to play."

"..."

"..."

"Leave it with me."

Before anyone rushes to the comments...

Relax.

It's satire.

But let's be honest.

Reality has become so bizarre that satire is struggling to keep up.

The FIFA Rule Book

For as long as I can remember, football has been wonderfully simple.

Red card.

Automatic suspension.

Not "maybe."

Not "subject to review."

Not "depending who you are."

Automatic.

In fact, that's exactly what FIFA's own rules say.

Article 66.4 of the FIFA Disciplinary Code states that a player sent off is automatically suspended for the team's next match.

Article 10.5 of the FIFA World Cup Competition Regulations says exactly the same thing.

FIFA Circular No. 16 reminded every competing nation of that rule before the tournament.

And the same message was reportedly reinforced at every pre-match coordination meeting.

So everyone thought they understood the rules.

Until they didn't.

Because FIFA relied on Article 27 of the Disciplinary Code to suspend the implementation of Balogun's suspension.

The suspension...

...was suspended.

If that sentence hurts your head...

You're not alone.

Belgium isn't laughing

The Royal Belgian Football Association has responded with one of the strongest statements you'll ever read during a World Cup.

They say they are "astonished."

Not disappointed.

Not concerned.

Astonished.

They argue that FIFA has contradicted both its own Disciplinary Code and its own World Cup Competition Regulations.

They point out that every federation was told before the tournament that a red card automatically resulted in a one-match suspension.

They note that the same rule was reinforced before every match.

Now they say they are investigating "all potential options" to safeguard the rights of participating teams and protect the fundamental principles of fair play.

It's hard to blame them.

Their argument is devastatingly simple.

If the suspension was automatic for every other player...

...why wasn't it automatic this time?

Dear Football Tasmania...

May I respectfully ask a question?

Can we all now begin applying to have our automatic suspensions suspended?

Should every club lodge an application after every red card?

Perhaps there needs to be a new form.

Application to Suspend My Suspension

Reason for application:

☐ I didn't mean it.

☐ The referee got it wrong.

☐ It was my first red card.

☐ Mum says I'm a good kid.

☐ I promise never to do it again.

☐ I know someone who knows someone.

☐ The White House has been informed.

I'm joking.

Mostly.

But you can see the problem.

Twenty years of getting it wrong?

How many conversations have club administrators around Australia had just like mine?

"Sorry.

Nothing we can do.

It's an automatic suspension."

How many coaches have accepted that?

How many players have served their mandatory holiday because everyone believed the rules were crystal clear?

How many clubs have never even bothered asking because they were told there was simply no avenue of appeal?

If Article 27 can now suspend an automatic suspension...

...what exactly have we all been telling players for the last twenty years?

The optics couldn't be worse

Perhaps Balogun should never have been sent off.

Many respected football people believe the referee got it wrong.

That's a perfectly legitimate football debate.

But once the red card stood...

...everyone believed the consequence was automatic.

Then came reports that the White House had contacted FIFA asking for the decision to be reviewed.

FIFA insists the decision was made independently by its Disciplinary Committee using powers available under Article 27.

I accept that's FIFA's position.

But football has another problem.

Justice doesn't just have to be done.

It has to be seen to be done.

And the optics of this are dreadful.

The host nation loses one of its key players before a knockout match.

Political interest becomes public.

The suspension disappears.

Even if everything was handled entirely properly, football was always going to have a credibility problem.

The precedent

This is bigger than one player.

Bigger than Belgium.

Bigger than the United States.

Because every federation in the world will now be asking the same questions.

Can this happen again?

What criteria were used?

Why this player?

Why now?

And perhaps the biggest question of all...

If "automatic" doesn't always mean automatic...

...is it really automatic at all?

One final thought

For twenty years, I thought I understood one of football's simplest rules.

Red card.

One-match suspension.

Apparently, I didn't.

And if someone who has spent decades helping administer one of Australia's most respected football clubs no longer knows how an "automatic suspension" works...

Imagine how every club president...

Every club secretary...

Every coach...

Every volunteer...

And every football administrator around the world feels today.

Because the next time a player receives a red card, every club president will probably ask exactly the same question.

"Is this suspension really automatic?"

Or...

"Can we ask for the suspension to be suspended?"

Perhaps the first phone call should be to Gianni.

And if that doesn't work...

Well...

Maybe someone has the White House switchboard.

Because if an automatic suspension isn't automatic anymore...

Football may have just rewritten one of its oldest and simplest rules.

And judging by Belgium's response...

This story is only just getting started.

Nominate That Woman

It's time our Hall of Fame reflected the whole story of Tasmanian football.

Like many around me, when I saw the inaugural Football Tasmania Hall of Fame announced last year, I had two immediate thoughts.

The first was congratulations.

The recipients were all worthy. Among them was my husband, Ken Morton. I couldn't have been prouder.

Ken's contribution to Tasmanian football spans more than five decades as a player, coach and developer of thousands of young footballers. His induction was richly deserved, and as a family we were incredibly proud to see him recognised.

I also want to acknowledge Matthew Rhodes, whose advocacy and determination were instrumental in making the Hall of Fame a reality. Preserving the stories of those who built our game is something football should have done years ago, and Matthew deserves enormous credit for seeing it through.

My second thought was this.

Where were the women?

I simply couldn't believe that, after more than a century of organised football in Tasmania, there weren't more women whose contribution was worthy of Hall of Fame recognition.

I've since heard that one woman may have been nominated but declined the honour. If that's the case, I respect that decision completely.

But it also made me ask another question.

Surely there were other women.

Or were there remarkable women whose stories were never put forward?

I almost didn't write this article.

Not because I don't believe what I'm about to say, but because I knew some people would immediately assume it was really about me. That somehow this was my way of saying, "Nominate me."

I wrestled with whether to leave it unwritten.

Then I realised something.

If I stayed silent because of what people might think, I'd also be staying silent about the many women whose contribution to football deserves to be recognised.

So this isn't about me.

It's about them.

Now, before anyone jumps to conclusions, let me be equally clear.

I have no idea who was nominated. I don't know what discussions took place around the selection table. It may well be that very few women were nominated.

But perhaps that's exactly the issue.

Why Aren't More Women Being Nominated?

Across Australia, women receive fewer honours than men. Those responsible for the Order of Australia have publicly acknowledged one of the reasons. Women are nominated less often.

In recent years, around 62 per cent of nominations for the Order of Australia have been for men. More interestingly, both men and women have tended to nominate men more often than women.

I don't know whether Football Tasmania faces the same challenge.

But I do know this.

Over the past two decades I've had the privilege of visiting clubs all over Tasmania. I've sat in cold committee rooms, stood on muddy sidelines, worked with associations and watched football in every corner of our state.

Along the way I've met some extraordinary women.

Not women looking for recognition. Quite the opposite.

Women who simply got on with the job because the game needed them.

I've met women who have devoted twenty, thirty and even forty years to our game.

Women who have played.

Women who have coached.

Women who have refereed.

Women who have run clubs.

Women who have led associations.

Women who have organised competitions.

Women who have built junior football.

Women who have balanced budgets, written grant applications, found sponsors, answered thousands of emails, organised rosters, welcomed new families and quietly held clubs together when no one else would.

Many of them have quietly shaped our game in ways that deserve to be remembered.

Too often, that work is described as "helping out."

It isn't.

It's leadership.

It's governance.

It's football.

Too often, football honours naturally gravitate towards the people we watched every Saturday afternoon.

The goalscorers.

The captains.

The coaches.

And they absolutely deserve to be celebrated.

But football greatness should never be judged solely by what happened on the pitch.

Football is greater than that.

It is built by players.

Coaches.

Referees.

Administrators.

Committee members.

Parents.

Volunteers.

Groundskeepers.

Registrars.

Treasurers.

Canteen managers.

The people who establish clubs.

The people who develop players.

The people who fight for better facilities.

The people who organise competitions.

The people who quietly create opportunities for others.

Without them, there is no game to celebrate.

Every great player stood on the shoulders of someone whose name rarely appeared in the headlines.

Sometimes those shoulders belonged to a woman.

If we genuinely want our Hall of Fame to tell the story of football in Tasmania, then it must tell the whole story.

Not just the story of the men who built the game.

The story of the women who built it too.

That isn't about lowering standards.

It's about recognising excellence wherever we find it.

There are women whose contribution unquestionably meets the Hall of Fame standard.

The question isn't whether they exist.

The question is whether we are nominating them.

Because honours cannot recognise the people whose names never appear on a nomination form.

The Hall of Fame Belongs to All of Us

Football Tasmania Chief Executive Officer Tony Pignata recently said there are "plenty more trailblazers and loyal servants of the football community that deserve to be recognised."

I couldn't agree more.

My hope is that among those trailblazers and loyal servants are the many remarkable women whose contribution has too often gone unnoticed.

Football Tasmania has now opened nominations for the 2026 Hall of Fame.

Community members are invited to nominate deserving individuals by outlining their contribution and impact, with nominations assessed by a panel drawn from the Tasmanian football community. Nominations close at 5.00pm on Thursday, 23 July.

A Challenge

When you finish reading this article, I want you to do one thing.

Think of one woman.

Just one.

One woman whose contribution has genuinely shaped your club, your association or football in Tasmania.

Not someone who simply volunteered.

Someone who led.

Someone who built.

Someone whose influence is still being felt today.

Tell her story.

Write the nomination.

Don't assume someone else will do it.

History remembers the names we choose to record.

Let's make sure we're recording the whole history of Tasmanian football.

Football Tasmania has opened the door.

Now it's our turn.

Let's not let another year go by asking where the women were.

Let's make sure they're nominated.

Nominate that woman.

More Than Ninety Minutes

What Australia v Egypt could mean for Australian football

Tomorrow morning, Australia will play Egypt for a place in the FIFA World Cup Round of 16.

On paper, it is simply another football match.

In reality, it could become one of those rare sporting moments that changes how a nation feels about a game.

I've been around football long enough to know that some matches are remembered long after the score has been forgotten.

The result will determine whether the Socceroos continue their World Cup journey.

But it may also influence participation, investment, media attention and, perhaps most importantly, how Australians value football itself.

That is why this match matters.

Bigger than one result

At four o'clock tomorrow morning, millions of Australians will quietly make a choice.

Some will stay in bed.

Others will set an alarm.

Some will wander into the lounge room with a coffee, trying not to wake the family.

Pubs and clubs across the country will open before dawn. Football clubs will gather to watch together. Children will fight sleep because they don't want to miss history.

That, in itself, tells us something.

Football still has an incredible ability to bring Australians together.

Moments matter in sport.

Not just because of what happens on the scoreboard.

Because they shape memories.

They inspire children.

They create conversations in schoolyards and workplaces.

They remind us why we care.

If Australia falls short...

It will hurt.

Every World Cup campaign eventually comes to an end for all but one nation, and this Socceroos side has already earned enormous respect.

They have once again shown the resilience that has become part of Australia's football identity.

There will still be that familiar question.

What if?

What if this was the generation that could have gone one step further?

If Australia wins...

Something shifts.

Not because football suddenly becomes Australia's biggest sport.

It won't.

But success changes conversations.

The Matildas showed us that during their remarkable run in 2023.

Suddenly football dominated the national conversation.

Families who had never watched the game became emotionally invested.

Young girls and boys wanted to play.

Participation grew.

Success reaches people in ways that advertising campaigns never can.

Imagine Australia reaching the quarter finals.

Breakfast television leads with football.

The back pages belong to football.

Schools buzz with conversation.

Children recreate the winning goal at lunchtime.

Parents who barely watched football suddenly know the names of the Socceroos.

That is how sporting cultures grow.

A thank you to the Premier

One person who deserves credit this week is Premier Jeremy Rockliff.

A lifelong AFL supporter by his own admission, he recognised what this match means to thousands of Tasmanians by allowing pubs and clubs to remain open through the early hours of the morning so supporters could gather to watch together.

That was a thoughtful gesture.

It also highlights something worth considering.

If football can unite Tasmania at four o'clock on a winter's morning, perhaps it is also time to think about whether the game receives facilities that reflect the number of people who play it every weekend.

Football is not asking to be bigger than AFL.

Nor should it.

But Australia's most participated team sport deserves facilities that allow it to thrive.

If we celebrate football when the world is watching, we should also support football when thousands of volunteers and families turn up every weekend.

Every journey starts somewhere

Every Socceroo once stood on an ordinary football ground somewhere in Australia.

Before the television cameras.

Before the national anthem.

Before the professional contracts.

Long before they represented Australia, someone simply gave them the chance to play.

A coach encouraged them.

A club welcomed them.

A family believed in them.

A community became part of their journey.

That is why tomorrow morning belongs to more than the players wearing green and gold.

It belongs to every person who has helped a child fall in love with football.

International success doesn't begin in a World Cup stadium.

It begins on community grounds all over Australia.

What it means in Tasmania

Sometimes we wonder whether football matters down here.

We travel.

We fundraise.

We advocate.

We celebrate another set of lights, another upgraded pitch or another small improvement because we know how much difference it makes.

Yet tomorrow morning, Tasmania will feel exactly the same as Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane.

For ninety minutes, the tyranny of distance disappears.

We are simply Australian football supporters.

Tomorrow morning, every one of us will hope the Socceroos take another step.

Whatever happens, football in Australia has another opportunity to show the country why this game matters so much to so many people.

More Than Ninety Minutes

Tony Popovic has spoken throughout this campaign about making history rather than simply admiring it.

Perhaps tomorrow morning the Socceroos will do exactly that.

If they lose, they will still have represented Australia with courage and pride.

If they win, Australian football may wake up just a little bit bigger than it was the day before.

And if that happens, let's make sure we do something with it.

Let's build the pitches.

Let's improve the changerooms.

Let's light the grounds.

Let's invest in the facilities that every football family deserves.

Because history is not made only in packed stadiums before millions of television viewers.

It begins on ordinary football grounds all over Australia.

And perhaps that is what tomorrow morning is really about.

Why Metro FC Leaves Me Green with Envy

Tonight is the night.

Every now and then, you visit a football club that simply makes you smile.

For the past few years, I've been fortunate to build a wonderful relationship with Simon, Greg and Lisa at Metro FC. Through Morton's Soccer School we've trained there, the club has generously hosted Hobart Cup matches, and I've worked closely with them in my role as President of the Central Region Junior Football Association.

Every interaction has been positive.

Every visit has been enjoyable.

But I'll admit something.

Every time I drive through those gates, I'm just a little bit green with envy.

A Club I Always Enjoy Visiting

The facilities at Metro FC are simply outstanding.

Two fully lit pitches.

Spacious, modern changerooms.

A magnificent new clubhouse that has become the heart of the club.

There is room for football to breathe, to grow and to bring people together.

As someone who has spent decades around football grounds across Tasmania, I genuinely appreciate what Metro has built.

It is a facility any community club would be proud to call home.

Just a Little Green With Envy

The envy isn't about wanting what someone else has.

It's about recognising what is possible.

Every football club dreams of facilities like these.

We all want somewhere our players can develop, our volunteers can gather, our parents can enjoy a coffee and our community can feel at home.

Metro has created exactly that.

And football in Tasmania is better for it.

Who Remembers the Old Clubhouse?

Of course, it wasn't always like this.

Who remembers the old Metro clubhouse?

Golly.

Whenever I think back, I can't help but hear the Monty Python sketch.

"Luxury!"

"We used to dream of living in a corridor..."

"We lived in a shoe box in the middle of the road..."

Now, I'm not suggesting the old Metro clubhouse was quite a shoe box in the middle of the road...

...but by today's standards, it certainly feels like another era.

Yet those old facilities produced footballers.

They produced coaches.

They produced volunteers.

They produced lifelong friendships.

They produced memories that have lasted generations.

The buildings may have changed, but the spirit of the club has remained exactly the same.

The Tasmanian Tyranny of Distance

So near, and yet so far.

There is one thing that always makes me smile.

Living in Tasmania, we seem to have our own version of the tyranny of distance.

I still hear people say, "It's all the way out at North Chigwell."

Really?

North Chigwell is only about 13 kilometres from the Hobart CBD. On a normal day, it's little more than a 10 to 15-minute drive.

Sometimes we convince ourselves somewhere is a long way away simply because we don't go there very often.

The reality is that football families travel much further than that every weekend.

Parents leave the Huon before sunrise.

Families come from Sorell, the Eastern Shore, Brighton, New Norfolk and the Channel.

Compared to those journeys, North Chigwell is hardly an expedition.

And once you arrive, you'll quickly realise the drive was worth it.

It Doesn't Happen by Accident

Facilities like this don't simply appear.

They are built through vision.

Through persistence.

Through grant applications, fundraising, planning meetings, negotiations and thousands of volunteer hours that most people never see.

The ribbon cutting might last only a few minutes.

The work behind it often takes years.

It is also only fair to acknowledge Independent Federal MP Andrew Wilkie, whose support in securing Federal Government funding helped turn this vision into reality.

But funding is only the beginning.

It still takes committed club people to turn bricks and mortar into a football home.

Metro has been blessed with generations of volunteers who have done exactly that.

Everyone who has contributed to Metro FC should feel incredibly proud of what has been achieved.

Eighty Five Years of Community

This weekend isn't just about opening a wonderful new clubhouse.

It's about celebrating 85 years of football.

Think about that.

Eighty five years of players pulling on the Metro shirt.

Eighty five years of coaches giving up evenings.

Eighty five years of volunteers cooking barbecues, marking pitches, washing jerseys, serving in canteens and balancing budgets.

Clubs don't survive for 85 years by accident.

They survive because generation after generation decides they are worth fighting for.

That is something every football person can respect.

A Great Day for Tasmanian Football

Football shouldn't be jealous of facilities like Metro's.

Football should celebrate them.

Every quality facility strengthens our game.

Every successful community club raises the standard for everyone else.

Metro's new clubhouse isn't just good news for Metro FC.

It's good news for football in Tasmania.

So congratulations to everyone who has been part of the journey.

To Simon, Greg, Lisa and the many volunteers, committee members, players, coaches and families who have contributed over the years, well done.

I'm still just a little green with envy every time I visit.

But much more than that, I'm grateful that our game has another home we can all be proud of.

Happy 85th birthday, Metro FC.

Here's to the next 85 years.

Who Measures the Health of Our Clubs? I Fear Too Many Are Quietly Struggling.

There is an old saying that every organisation should know what its most important asset is.

In football, I sometimes wonder whether we've forgotten.

We spend countless hours discussing competitions.

League structures.

Promotion and relegation.

Finals.

Streaming.

Governance.

Licensing.

Scheduling.

Participation.

Referee development.

Coach education.

All of these things matter.

They should matter.

But perhaps we've forgotten to ask a much simpler question.

What is the most important part of the football ecosystem?

I would argue it isn't the competition.

It isn't the governing body.

It isn't the representative team.

It isn't even the elite pathway.

It's the football club.

Everything in our game begins there.

A five-year-old doesn't join Football Tasmania.

They don't join Football Australia.

They join a football club.

Parents don't volunteer for governing bodies.

They volunteer for clubs.

Sponsors don't invest in fixture lists.

They invest in clubs.

Children don't create lifelong football memories because of a competition structure.

They create them because of the people around them.

The coach who encourages them.

The volunteer who lines the field.

The canteen manager who knows everyone's name.

The committee member who quietly unlocks the clubhouse every Tuesday and Thursday night.

The teammate who becomes a lifelong friend.

Every Socceroo.

Every Matilda.

Every NPL player.

Every coach.

Every referee.

Every administrator.

Every volunteer.

Almost every football journey begins at a football club.

That is why I believe the health of football should never be judged solely by the strength of its competitions or governing bodies.

It should also be judged by the health of its clubs.

Are they financially sustainable?

Are volunteers still willing to put their hands up?

Are sponsors seeing value?

Are families enjoying the match-day experience?

Are committees growing stronger?

Or are clubs simply becoming better at surviving?

These aren't anti-governing body questions.

They're governance questions.

Because the role of a governing body isn't simply to administer competitions.

Surely it is also to create an environment where clubs can flourish.

Strong clubs create strong competitions.

Strong competitions strengthen governing bodies.

The flow of football has always been from the grassroots up - not from the boardroom down.

Why I'm Writing This

Those thoughts were already in my mind this week when I received an email from someone heavily involved in running a football club.

It wasn't written for publication.

It wasn't intended to make headlines.

It was simply an honest reflection on the pressures they believe their club is facing.

Their identity will remain confidential because this article isn't about one club.

It's about a much bigger issue.

As I read their words I couldn't help wondering how many presidents, treasurers, committee members and volunteers across Tasmania would quietly nod their heads.

Not because every club faces exactly the same challenges.

But because many are probably confronting similar ones.

Increasing costs.

The constant search for sponsors.

More administration.

More compliance.

More travel.

Fewer volunteers.

Trying to remain competitive while balancing a budget that never seems quite large enough.

The email wasn't angry.

It wasn't political.

It wasn't looking for sympathy.

It was simply the honest thoughts of someone trying to keep a football club healthy.

And it made me stop and ask myself a question.

If clubs are the foundation of football...

Who is measuring their health?

Football's Hidden Economy

Most supporters see ninety minutes of football.

Club committees see everything else.

They see the invoices.

The insurance.

The electricity bills.

The travel costs.

The equipment that needs replacing.

The ground hire.

The fundraising.

The sponsorship meetings.

The grant applications.

The rosters.

The volunteers who ring at 7.00am to say they can't make it.

The search for someone else to cook the barbecue.

Football has a hidden economy.

Thousands upon thousands of volunteer hours.

Hours that never appear on a balance sheet.

Hours freely given because people love their football club.

That goodwill has carried football for generations.

But goodwill is not an unlimited resource.

Nine Home Games

For clubs competing in the NPL, there are only nine home games.

Nine opportunities to generate gate income.

Nine opportunities to welcome sponsors.

Nine opportunities to sell food and drinks.

Nine opportunities to showcase the club to its community.

Those weekends matter.

Lose one to poor weather.

Lose another to a rescheduled midweek fixture.

Lose another because supporters don't know when the game is on.

Suddenly opportunities become very limited.

Many clubs rely on those match days to help fund everything else they do.

When attendance falls, the impact extends well beyond the gate.

The canteen feels it.

The bar feels it.

Sponsors notice it.

The entire club feels it.

Has The Club Day Changed?

I wonder whether we've quietly lost something that once made football clubs special.

There was a time when multiple teams from the same club played at the same venue.

Families arrived early.

Players stayed after their own game.

Parents watched older age groups.

Senior players watched juniors.

Juniors stayed to watch the first team.

The clubhouse remained busy.

Children kicked footballs around between games.

People belonged.

Today that experience is becoming harder to create.

It isn't unusual for one club to have teams spread across multiple venues and sometimes multiple cities on the same weekend.

Nobody intended to weaken the traditional club day.

But perhaps that has become one of the unintended consequences.

Volunteers Are Football's Greatest Asset

Every year volunteers are asked to do more.

Safeguarding.

Governance.

Licensing.

Reporting.

Digital systems.

Compliance.

Risk management.

Every one of those requirements exists for a good reason.

This isn't an argument against standards.

Football should have high standards.

But volunteers don't experience these requirements one at a time.

They experience the cumulative weight of all of them.

Another form.

Another deadline.

Another meeting.

Another policy.

Another online module.

Another audit.

Eventually every volunteer asks themselves the same question.

"How much more can I realistically do?"

That should concern every single person who loves football.

Because volunteers don't usually resign dramatically.

They simply stop volunteering.

And when they do, replacing them becomes one of the hardest jobs in football.

A Licence Fee Is Not A Health Check

Perhaps this is the question that troubles me most.

Every year clubs pay their licence fees.

They complete the paperwork.

They satisfy the compliance requirements.

They meet the standards expected to participate.

This year many also absorbed an increase in licence fees.

From the outside everything appears healthy.

The fee has been paid.

The boxes have been ticked.

The licence has been granted.

But is the club actually healthy?

That's a completely different question.

Is the treasurer lying awake wondering how the next bill will be paid?

Are volunteers burning out?

Has sponsorship become harder to secure?

Are committees getting smaller?

Are gate receipts falling?

Is the canteen generating the income it once did?

A club can be fully compliant and quietly dying at the same time.

Paying a licence fee proves only one thing.

It proves a club has managed to pay a licence fee.

It tells us nothing about the financial or operational health of the organisation behind it.

Sometimes it feels as though the relationship between governing body and club has become increasingly centred on compliance.

Whether intended or not, the cumulative effect is that many clubs feel they are spending more time satisfying the system than strengthening their football community.

That perception alone should concern us.

Participation in the NPL and WSL should absolutely require high standards.

Nobody is arguing otherwise.

But there is an important difference between setting standards with clubs and simply placing obligations on clubs.

The strongest sporting systems don't simply regulate their clubs.

They strengthen them.

They don't just ask:

"Have you met the standard?"

They also ask:

"What can we do to help you succeed?"

That is what genuine partnership looks like.

Because the success of a governing body can never be separated from the success of its clubs.

Who Measures The Health Of Our Clubs?

Football measures many things.

Participation.

Coach education.

Referee numbers.

Registrations.

Safeguarding.

Facilities.

Governance.

Licensing.

All of these are important.

But who measures whether clubs themselves are becoming stronger?

Do we know if sponsorship is increasing or declining?

Do we know whether volunteers are staying or walking away?

Do we know whether clubs are financially healthier today than they were five years ago?

Do we know whether committees are finding it easier or harder to recruit volunteers?

I don't have those answers.

Perhaps that's part of the problem.

If we aren't measuring them, how do we know whether our reforms are achieving what they were intended to achieve?

Good governance isn't simply introducing change.

It is evaluating whether that change is strengthening the game.

Football has become very good at measuring compliance.

I'm not sure we've become equally good at measuring sustainability.

And What About Our Associations?

While this article has focused largely on clubs, the same questions should also be asked of our regional associations.

They too rely heavily on volunteers.

They coordinate thousands of matches every season.

They support hundreds of teams and volunteers.

They solve problems that most people never see.

Much of that work is carried out quietly, behind the scenes, by people who simply care about football.

If clubs are the heartbeat of football, then associations are its circulatory system.

Both need to be healthy if the game is to thrive.

The Conversation We Need

This article isn't about blaming Football Tasmania.

Nor is it about suggesting that every reform has been wrong.

Many changes have improved our game.

Higher standards matter.

Better governance matters.

Safeguarding matters.

Coach education matters.

Live streaming has brought enormous benefits.

But perhaps it is time to ask one more question alongside all of those.

Are our clubs becoming stronger?

Because if the answer is no, then we owe it to ourselves to understand why.

For twenty years I have watched football from almost every angle imaginable.

As a parent.

A volunteer.

A club administrator.

A board member.

An association president.

One thing has never changed.

Football has always been built from the grassroots up.

Every player.

Every coach.

Every referee.

Every volunteer.

Every administrator.

Almost every football journey begins at a football club.

If we ever lose sight of that, we risk measuring the success of our game by the wrong things.

The true health of football isn't found in a strategic plan.

It isn't found in a licensing document.

It isn't found in a compliance checklist.

It is found on a cold Tuesday night when volunteers unlock the gates, coaches put out the cones, parents arrive with children full of excitement and another generation falls in love with football.

Protect the clubs.

Support the associations.

Strengthen the volunteers.

If we get those things right, football will look after itself.

When "Mid-Season" Isn't Really Mid-Season

Today, at 5.00pm, Tasmania's transfer window closes.

Normally, that wouldn't be particularly remarkable.

Transfer windows close all over the football world.

But Tasmania isn't like most football competitions.

Some clubs now have only five league matches remaining.

Others have six.

A couple have seven because of games in hand.

Which made me stop and ask a very simple question.

In what world is that "mid-season"?

Tasmania Isn't England

Transfer windows weren't invented for Tasmania.

They were introduced to provide stability to football competitions by limiting when clubs can register players during the season.

That makes perfect sense.

But most football leagues are much longer than ours.

England plays 38 league matches.

Spain plays 38.

Italy plays 38.

Germany plays 34.

Major League Soccer plays around 34.

Even Australia's A-League Men now plays a 26-match regular season before its finals series.

Tasmania?

Eighteen.

That changes everything.

The Brutal Mathematics

Let's strip it back to the numbers.

Ten clubs.

Eighteen rounds.

Five finalists.

Two clubs relegated.

Now look at what that actually means.

50% of clubs qualify for the finals.

20% are relegated.

Only 30% simply finish where they finish.

Stop and think about that.

Seventy per cent of the competition either celebrates or suffers because of the way the competition is structured.

That's not criticism.

That's mathematics.

There Is No Time

An 18-round season offers a maximum of 54 points.

Lose your opening three matches...

...and you've already surrendered 16.7% of every point available for the entire season.

There isn't time to build slowly.

There isn't time to quietly recover.

There isn't time to "come good after the break."

Every point becomes magnified.

Every mistake becomes more costly.

Every decision carries greater weight.

You either hit the ground running...

...or you spend the rest of the year chasing.

The Scramble

Just look at today's ladder.

South Hobart is chasing the Premiership.

Kingborough Lions, Devonport City and Launceston City are trying to reel them in.

Riverside Olympic currently occupies fifth place.

Clarence Zebras, Glenorchy Knights and South East United are all trying to force their way into the finals.

Meanwhile, Launceston United and Ulverstone are fighting for survival.

Every point matters.

Every goal matters.

Every injury matters.

Every suspension matters.

Every signing matters.

That is exactly what promotion and relegation should create.

I absolutely love that.

But then we arrive at today.

The transfer window closes.

For some clubs there are only five league matches remaining.

That isn't the middle of the season.

That's the run home.

Then There's The Finals

This is where I start asking even more questions.

What is the purpose of the finals series?

Not because I'm against finals.

Because I genuinely want to understand the philosophy.

Football has traditionally been beautifully simple.

You play everyone.

Home and away.

Finish first.

You're champions.

Cup competitions provide the knockout football.

Australia has largely chosen a different path.

Finish first and you're the Premiers.

Win the finals series and you're the Champions.

That's a perfectly legitimate model.

But is it the right model for a ten-team competition lasting only eighteen rounds?

Or have we simply adopted finals because that's what Australian sport does?

The Birthday Party

Then another thought popped into my head.

Maybe it's just me...

...but sometimes I wonder whether we've become just a little too generous.

Half the competition plays finals.

Twenty per cent gets relegated.

Only three clubs simply finish where they finish.

It almost feels like the football equivalent of a five-year-old's birthday party where everyone goes home with a prize.

Before anyone rushes to the comments...

Yes, I'm being deliberately provocative.

But beneath the cheeky analogy sits a serious question.

What is the purpose of a five-team finals series in a ten-team, eighteen-round competition?

What problem is it solving?

Is it about excitement?

More meaningful matches?

Commercial value?

More football?

Or something else entirely?

I'd genuinely like to know.

One Competition Or A Collection Of Ideas?

Football people often debate promotion.

Or relegation.

Or finals.

Or transfer windows.

As though they're separate conversations.

They're not.

They're all connected.

An eighteen-round season.

Five finalists.

Two relegated.

A transfer window that closes with only five to seven league matches remaining.

Has anyone ever stood back and asked whether all of those pieces actually fit together?

Or have we gradually assembled a competition one decision at a time?

Good Design Starts With A Philosophy

Good competition structures don't happen by accident.

They're designed.

Every decision changes another part of the competition.

The length of the season.

The transfer window.

Promotion and relegation.

The number of finalists.

Prize money.

Scheduling.

Everything is connected.

And every design should begin with a philosophy.

I'm simply asking...

What is Tasmania's philosophy?

I'd Genuinely Like To Know

I've written before about Tasmania's eighteen-round competition.

Today's transfer deadline simply brought those questions flooding back.

Who designed this model?

What problem was it trying to solve?

Why eighteen rounds?

Why five finalists?

Why two relegated?

Why does "mid-season" arrive when, for some clubs, the finish line is already in sight?

Perhaps there are excellent answers.

If there are, I'd genuinely like to hear them.

Because competition structures shouldn't exist simply because they've always existed.

They should exist because they are the best structure for the football we're trying to produce.

And if we were designing Tasmania's premier football competition from a blank sheet of paper today...

Would we really build exactly this?

Or would we start by asking a different question?

What sort of football competition are we actually trying to create?

England Wrote the Rules. The World Wrote the Story.

Photo: Al Jazeera

Ken stayed in bed.

I didn't.

Seven minutes into England's Round of 32 match against DR Congo, my television told me everything I needed to know.

DR Congo 1.

England 0.

"It ain't coming home," I announced to an empty lounge room.

It's become a bit of a tradition in our house.

Whenever England wobble at a major tournament, I can't help myself.

"It ain't coming home."

Harry Kane had other ideas.

England recovered to win 2-1 and, for another few days at least, the dream lives on.

But as I watched the match unfold, I realised I had been asking the wrong question.

Perhaps the question isn't whether football is coming home.

Perhaps it is whether it ever really belonged to just one home in the first place.

England's Burden

No football nation carries expectation quite like England.

Every World Cup arrives with memories of 1966.

Every tournament is viewed through the lens of history.

Every victory fuels belief.

Every setback invites national soul-searching.

The tabloids sharpen their headlines.

The broadsheets sharpen their analysis.

Managers are dissected.

Players are scrutinised.

By breakfast, England's performance has become a national conversation.

England doesn't just carry expectation.

It carries ownership.

Every World Cup feels like another opportunity to reclaim something it believes began with it.

That is the burden of being the nation that codified the modern game.

England doesn't just play the opposition.

It plays history.

It plays expectation.

It plays a song that has become famous around the football world.

The Wrong Story

England survived.

Harry Kane delivered.

Thomas Tuchel lives to fight another day.

That will dominate the headlines.

Every country watches the World Cup.

England watches England.

But I am not convinced England's victory is the most interesting football story.

The more interesting story is this:

DR Congo scored after seven minutes and pushed one of the world's traditional football powers all the way.

Twenty or thirty years ago, many people would have described that as one of the great World Cup shocks.

Today?

I am not sure it even qualifies as a surprise.

The Numbers Tell Their Own Story

If England's comeback felt like a narrow escape, perhaps that tells us more about modern football than it does about England.

Consider a few numbers.

DR Congo had not appeared at a World Cup for 52 years.

Before this tournament, their only previous appearance was in 1974 as Zaire, when they lost all three matches without scoring a goal.

This year they returned, drew with Portugal, defeated Uzbekistan to reach the knockout stages for the first time, and then took the lead against England after just seven minutes.

Fifty-two years ago, DR Congo came to the World Cup hoping to belong.

This year, they came expecting to compete.

There is a world of difference between those two ambitions.

African football isn't rising anymore.

It has arrived.

This is no longer a collection of isolated upsets.

It reflects decades of investment in coaching, academies, player development and belief.

Japan's story is just as compelling.

Once considered outsiders, they are now expected to compete.

Their players are scattered across Europe's biggest leagues, and victories over traditional powers are no longer treated as miracles but as genuine possibilities.

The gap has not disappeared.

But it has narrowed.

And every World Cup seems to narrow it a little more.

While England Looked Back, The World Looked Forward

England gave us the modern laws of football.

That contribution can never be overstated.

When football spread around the world, it didn't simply copy England.

It evolved.

Every nation added something of its own.

England codified the game.

Scotland taught it to pass.

Uruguay gave it a World Cup.

Italy made defending an art.

Brazil made it beautiful.

The Netherlands reinvented movement.

Germany made excellence routine.

Spain made possession irresistible.

Argentina made football poetry.

France demonstrated the strength of a modern multicultural football nation.

Japan showed what patience, planning and technical excellence could achieve.

Asian football continues to close the gap.

Morocco inspired a continent.

African football is writing the next chapter.

Football Belongs Everywhere

None of this diminishes England's contribution.

The modern game still owes an enormous debt to England.

The Premier League remains one of the world's great competitions.

English clubs attract the best players, coaches and supporters from every continent, and English football continues to shape how the game is played and consumed around the world.

England never stopped contributing.

It simply stopped being the only nation shaping football's future.

The English media will rightly celebrate Harry Kane.

They'll analyse England's performance.

They'll debate whether this was a warning or a turning point.

But perhaps they'll spend less time asking how DR Congo became good enough to make England work so desperately for victory.

That, to me, is one of the defining stories of modern football.

England exported football.

The world imported it.

Then it started making improvements.

England gave the world football.

The world said, "Thank you."

Football isn't trying to come home.

It found millions of homes a long time ago.

In Rio.

In Buenos Aires.

In Tokyo.

In Casablanca.

In Kinshasa.

In Sydney.

In Hobart.

And yes...

In England too.

More Than a Visa Player

Photo courtesy of the Mercury 2018

Every transfer window, football clubs receive hopeful emails from players around the world. Behind every highlight reel lies a much bigger question than "Can he play?" Sometimes, if you're very lucky, the answer changes your club forever.

Today’s inspiration came from an email I received overnight.

It landed in my inbox from a young Norwegian striker looking for an opportunity in Australia.

It was beautifully presented.

A professional football CV.

Highlight videos.

Statistics.

References.

An agent.

Photos alongside Erling Haaland and other talented Norwegian footballers from their junior days.

It was exactly the sort of application football clubs receive during every transfer window.

As I read it, I found myself smiling.

Not because I knew whether the player was good enough.

The truth is, I had absolutely no idea.

Instead, it reminded me of the hundreds of similar emails that landed in my inbox during my years as President of South Hobart.

Every one of them was asking the same question.

"Will you give me a chance?"

The Sales Pitch

There is absolutely nothing wrong with those emails.

In fact, if I were trying to build a football career on the other side of the world, I'd probably do exactly the same.

The transfer window is just as busy for agents as it is for clubs.

Their job is to create opportunities for their players.

They are selling potential.

Every highlight video shows the best moments.

Every CV lists achievements.

Every reference comes from someone who believes in the player.

That's exactly as it should be.

But a football club has a very different job.

The club isn't buying a product.

It's welcoming a person.

Someone who will spend every day with teammates.

Someone who will represent your badge.

Someone who may become a role model for your youngest players.

The club's job isn't simply to ask,

"Can he play?"

It's to ask,

"Will he make our club better?"

The Three-Minute Superstar

A three-minute highlight reel can make almost anyone look outstanding.

Goals.

Skills.

Perfect passes.

Great tackles.

What it doesn't show are the other eighty-seven minutes.

Does the player work for the team?

How do they react when things aren't going well?

Do they train hard?

Will they embrace the club?

Will they respect the volunteers?

Will they be happy living on the other side of the world?

Football clubs aren't simply recruiting footballers.

They're inviting someone into their culture.

The Real Cost

Supporters often ask why clubs don't simply sign more overseas players.

The answer is that the player's wage is only part of the story.

There are flights.

Visas.

Accommodation.

Transport.

Insurance.

Finding employment.

Helping someone settle into a new country.

At community and semi-professional clubs, those responsibilities rarely belong to paid staff.

They belong to volunteers.

Over the years, Ken and I have collected players from airports.

Helped them find somewhere to live.

Introduced them to employers.

Helped them open bank accounts.

Invited them into our home for meals.

Sometimes they arrived knowing nobody in Tasmania.

Sometimes they spent Christmas on the other side of the world, thousands of kilometres from their own families.

That's what football clubs do.

You don't simply recruit a player.

You welcome a person.

Sometimes Football Finds You

Not every overseas player arrived through an agent.

Sometimes football found us instead.

A backpacker travelling through Tasmania would hear about the club and ask if they could train.

Someone on a working holiday visa would simply want somewhere to play while they were here.

No polished CV.

No glossy sales pitch.

Just a footballer asking for a chance.

Sometimes they stayed for a few weeks.

Sometimes a season.

And every now and then...

...you hit the jackpot.

Ken's Test

Ken has always had a very simple philosophy when it came to recruiting overseas players.

"Is he better than what we've already got?"

Then came the second question.

"Is he better than one of the young players we've spent years developing?"

They're fair questions.

Every visa player takes a place in your squad.

Every visa player requires more work.

More organisation.

More responsibility.

More volunteer time.

If they aren't genuinely going to improve the team, or raise the standards around them, why wouldn't you invest that same time and energy into a young player you've developed yourself?

That never meant we were against overseas players.

Far from it.

It simply meant the benchmark had to be high.

More Than Talent

Football is funny like that.

One player can change the personality of an entire dressing room.

The right person raises standards without saying very much.

They train well.

They encourage teammates.

They make younger players want to improve.

Their enthusiasm becomes contagious.

Unfortunately, the opposite can also be true.

One player with a poor attitude can drain the energy from an entire squad.

They don't just affect their own performances.

They affect everyone around them.

That's why recruiting overseas players has never simply been about ability.

Character matters just as much.

Perhaps more.

Because when you bring someone halfway around the world, you're not just adding another footballer.

You're helping shape the culture of your club.

Then There Was Renato

Every now and then, though, you got it right.

One of those players for us was Renato De Vecchi.

Renato arrived in Tasmania in 2018 having already played professionally in Brazil, Croatia, Denmark, Northern Ireland and Sweden.

On paper, he looked like an exciting signing.

On the pitch, he was even better.

He scored goals.

He created goals.

But statistics never really explained what made him special.

There was style in everything he did.

Every touch carried confidence.

Every time he received the ball, you sensed something might happen.

It didn't take long before Renato became one of those players people looked forward to watching.

But if that was all he had brought, I don't think I'd still be writing about him today.

What made Renato such a successful signing wasn't just his football.

He embraced the club.

He respected the volunteers.

He connected with teammates.

He became part of the South Hobart family.

Years later, I read that another club had described him as someone who would be a role model for younger players.

I smiled when I saw that.

That was exactly the Renato we knew.

He proved something we've always believed.

The best visa players don't simply improve your first team.

They improve your club.

The Next Email

Every transfer window another email would arrive.

Another striker.

Another midfielder.

Another beautifully prepared application.

Another dream.

Some would never come to Tasmania.

Some would stay only briefly.

A few would become very good footballers.

And every now and then one would become something much more than that.

Supporters only ever see the player running onto the pitch.

They rarely see the emails.

The research.

The phone calls.

The uncertainty.

The airport pickups.

The meals around the family table.

The volunteers quietly helping someone build a life in Tasmania.

Every transfer window was a gamble.

Somewhere in that pile of emails might be the next great goalscorer.

Somewhere might be a player who never settles.

Somewhere might be a player who changes the personality of your club.

You never really know.

That's why, after all these years, I came to one simple conclusion.

Agents sell opportunity.

Football clubs recruit people.

Because the very best visa players don't just score goals.

They leave your club stronger than they found it.

And every now and then...

...if you're very fortunate...

...you find a Renato.

What Principles Determine Football Tasmania's Financial Settings?

Sometimes Football Gives You Questions

One of the unexpected joys of writing over the past six months has been discovering that I enjoy asking questions as much as offering opinions.

Sometimes football gives you answers.

Sometimes it simply gives you better questions.

This week, while researching an entirely different topic, I stumbled across two Football Tasmania memorandums.

One outlined Championship entry fees and prize money.

The other explained referee charges for the 2026 season.

I found myself reading them side by side.

By the time I finished, I wasn't thinking about the numbers.

I was thinking about the principles.

Why I've Narrowed The Focus

Before anyone asks why I haven't included the National Premier League or Women's Super League, it's because those competitions operate under different financial arrangements.

The NPL and WSL are governed by participation agreements and licence fees that create a very different financial model.

Rather than comparing competitions with different funding structures, I've deliberately focused on the men's and women's Championship competitions, where the comparisons are much clearer.

A Conversation I Remember

Reading the referee memorandum reminded me of a Football Tasmania Presidents' meeting from years ago.

I remember asking a fairly simple question.

"If I was a referee, and one appointment paid more than another, why wouldn't I naturally prefer the higher-paying game?"

I also remember there being an explanation.

The problem is...

I can't remember what it was.

Perhaps it was a perfectly sound reason.

If so, I'd genuinely like to understand it again.

The Numbers

Looking only at the Championship competitions, the published financial settings are different.

Entry Fees

Men's Championship: $2,795

Women's Championship: $1,830

Prize Money

Men's Championship

• Winners: $4,000

• Runners-up: $2,000

Women's Championship

• Winners: $3,000

• Runners-up: $1,000

Referee Payments

Men's Championship

• Referee: $141

• Assistant Referee: $69

Women's Championship

• Referee: $107

• Assistant Referee: $58

These are simply the published figures.

On their own, they don't tell us whether the decisions are right or wrong.

They simply raise a question.

One Thing That Caught My Eye

Interestingly, Men's and Women's Social League matches attract the same referee payments.

So Football Tasmania already applies equal referee remuneration in those competitions.

The different financial settings appear in the Championship competitions.

That made me curious.

What principle changes between those levels?

A Good Example Of Transparency

One thing I genuinely liked was the referee memorandum itself.

It didn't simply announce that referee charges were increasing by five per cent.

It explained why.

Football Tasmania outlined growth in referee numbers, improved match coverage across the state, increased investment in referee development and the decision to increase referee remuneration.

Whether clubs agreed or disagreed with the increase wasn't really the point.

The reasoning was there for everyone to understand.

To me, that's good governance.

So What Are The Principles?

That naturally led me back to the Championship figures.

Are entry fees, prize money and referee remuneration all based on the same underlying principles?

Or does each have its own rationale?

Are the figures based on participation numbers?

Competition costs?

Revenue generated?

Historical arrangements?

Strategic investment?

Referee experience?

Appointment criteria?

Or something else entirely?

There may be perfectly sound reasons.

There may be several.

I simply don't know.

Why It Matters

This isn't really an article about four thousand dollars versus three thousand dollars.

Nor is it an argument that every figure should automatically be identical.

Football is more complex than that.

Competitions cost different amounts to administer.

Different competitions may generate different revenue.

Strategic investment decisions have to be made.

I understand all of that.

What interests me is understanding the principles.

Transparency doesn't require everyone to agree with every decision.

It simply helps everyone understand how the decision was reached.

Once the principles are understood, clubs and the wider football community can have informed discussions.

Without them, we're left guessing.

A Genuine Question

Football Tasmania has invested considerable effort into growing the women's game.

Participation continues to increase, and that's something the football community should celebrate.

Against that backdrop, I think it's reasonable to ask how the financial settings for the men's and women's Championship competitions are determined.

This isn't an accusation.

It isn't a criticism.

It's simply a governance question.

What principles determine Championship entry fees, prize money and referee remuneration?

I'd genuinely be interested in hearing the answer.

Because good governance isn't just about publishing the numbers.

It's also about helping the football community understand the thinking behind them.

A Coaching Licence Can't Teach This

A week of reflection on coaching, leadership and the qualities that no certificate can ever fully measure.

Can a coaching licence teach someone to lead?

It's a question I found myself asking this week after reading a lively Facebook debate about coaching licences.

As always, opinions were divided.

Some argued coaching licences are essential if football is to improve.

Others insisted that some of the best coaches they had ever known didn't hold the highest qualifications.

As I scrolled through hundreds of comments, I realised they were all debating knowledge.

But I wasn't thinking about knowledge.

I was thinking about leadership.

Let Me Start Here

Before I go any further, let me make something absolutely clear.

I believe in coach education.

I believe in lifelong learning.

Why else would I spend eighteen months completing the AFC Certificate in Football Leadership and the AFC Diploma of Club Management?

I wasn't required to undertake those qualifications.

I chose to.

Because I wanted to become a better football administrator.

A better leader.

A better contributor to our game.

Education matters.

Learning matters.

Football is better when people continue to invest in themselves.

A Week That Made Me Think

This week three Tasmanian coaches made me stop and think.

Brian Murphy.

Tom Ballantyne.

James Sherman.

Different clubs.

Different personalities.

Different coaching journeys.

Yet each of them reminded me of something different about coaching.

I've only known Brian Murphy for a relatively short time.

I've interviewed him and met him a couple of times.

Like every coach, he won't get everything right all of the time.

What impressed me about his recent public reflections wasn't that he claimed to have all the answers.

Quite the opposite.

He questioned his own preparation, communication and leadership before looking anywhere else.

Whether people agreed or disagreed with every decision he has made as a coach, that willingness to reflect honestly on his own performance is something I admired.

Tom Ballantyne reflected on the emotional rollercoaster that coaching can be.

The joy.

The disappointment.

The people around him.

His players.

His staff.

The privilege of leading a football team.

Again, I was struck by how little he spoke about himself and how much he spoke about the people beside him.

Then came the announcement that Glenorchy Knights and James Sherman had parted company.

James leaves behind one of the strongest coaching résumés in Tasmanian football.

His departure was another reminder that coaching is one of the most rewarding, yet one of the most unforgiving, professions in our game.

Results are visible every weekend.

The thousands of hours of preparation rarely are.

As I reflected on all three, one thought kept returning to me.

Football often searches for quick fixes.

Change the coach.

Change the formation.

Change the players.

Yet the coaches I've admired most have always spoken about something different.

Learning.

Development.

Patience.

Process.

Building something that lasts.

Their reflections made me think about the coaches I've been fortunate enough to live alongside.

The View Most People Never See

Perhaps I have been a fortunate woman.

For many years I had a front-row seat to senior football that very few club presidents ever experience.

Not because I was President.

Because I lived with coaches.

I've spent a lifetime watching coaching from the inside.

Not from the grandstand.

Not from social media.

But from the kitchen table.

Our family has always believed in education.

Ken, Ned and Max all hold AFC A Licences.

Yet none of them would tell you they have finished learning.

Ken has continually developed himself throughout a lifetime in coaching and still analyses matches with the same enthusiasm he had decades ago.

Ned has invested in three university degrees, accumulated a considerable HECS debt, completed coaching qualifications and dedicated himself to coach education, technical development and academy leadership. His appetite for learning seems almost endless.

Max is no different. Alongside his teaching degree and senior coaching career, he is travelling to Wales later this year, at considerable personal expense, to complete his UEFA C Licence. Not because anyone expects him to, but because he wants to become a better coach.

Their qualifications aren't trophies.

They're milestones on a lifelong journey of learning.

Watching them taught me something.

The best coaches don't simply prepare their teams.

They prepare themselves.

I didn't just watch ninety minutes on a Saturday afternoon.

I watched everything that happened before those ninety minutes.

The preparation.

The tactical planning.

The video analysis.

The endless phone calls.

The difficult conversations.

The player management.

The notebooks full of ideas.

The games replayed over and over searching for one small improvement.

The sleepless nights after defeats.

The excitement before big matches.

The relentless pursuit of becoming better.

Football didn't stop when training finished.

It came home.

It sat around the dinner table.

It travelled in the car.

It filled weekends.

It occupied holidays.

To them, football wasn't simply a game.

It was a responsibility.

It was a profession.

It was a craft they were constantly trying to master.

To them...

It was life.

The Things You Can't Print on a Certificate

That experience has taught me something.

A coaching licence is important.

It demonstrates commitment.

It demonstrates education.

It demonstrates a willingness to learn.

But it cannot tell me everything.

It can't measure leadership.

It can't measure preparation.

It can't measure communication.

It can't measure character.

It can't measure humility.

It can't measure integrity.

It can't measure passion.

It can't measure curiosity.

It can't measure resilience.

It can't measure empathy.

It can't measure whether players trust you.

It can't measure whether they'll follow you when things become difficult.

It can't measure whether, after a disappointing result, your first instinct is to point the finger...

...or to look in the mirror.

Those qualities aren't awarded at the end of a course.

They're built over years.

Through mistakes.

Through reflection.

Through experience.

Through a willingness to keep learning.

Football's Greatest Strength... and One of Its Greatest Challenges

Football is a wonderful game because almost everyone has an opinion.

Many of us have played.

Millions watch it every week.

Parents coach junior teams.

Supporters analyse tactics every Monday morning.

Perhaps that's why football has always faced one unique challenge.

Almost everybody believes they can coach.

When Ken and I started Morton's Soccer School nearly twenty years ago, one of the biggest barriers wasn't finding children who wanted to improve.

It was convincing parents that coaching itself had value.

"Why would I pay someone to coach my child?"

"We've always done it ourselves."

Thankfully, attitudes have changed.

Coach education is now rightly valued.

That is good for football.

But perhaps we should be careful not to confuse qualifications with coaching itself.

Knowledge matters.

Experience matters.

Leadership matters.

Character matters.

The Best Coaches Never Stop Learning

Looking back over this week, I realised something.

I've never met a great coach who thought they were one.

The best coaches I've known have all had different personalities.

Different philosophies.

Different ways of communicating.

Different ways of leading.

Brian Murphy.

Tom Ballantyne.

James Sherman.

Ken Morton.

Ned Clarke.

Max Clarke.

Different journeys.

Different stories.

Yet every one of them shares something remarkably similar.

They are all still learning.

They are all still asking questions.

They are all still searching for ways to become better.

The more experienced they become...

...the more curious they seem to be.

Perhaps that's the one qualification every truly great coach possesses.

Not a licence.

Not a trophy.

Not a title.

But curiosity.

The humility to believe there is always something else to learn.

Final Whistle

The older I get, the less interested I become in what hangs on a person's wall and the more interested I become in what sits inside their heart.

Qualifications matter.

Education matters.

Experience matters.

But so do curiosity.

Humility.

Preparation.

Leadership.

Character.

Communication.

The willingness to ask yourself difficult questions.

They are qualities no certificate can ever fully measure.

Football should continue investing in coach education.

It should continue raising standards.

It should continue encouraging coaches to challenge themselves.

A coaching licence can teach tactics.

It can teach methodology.

It can teach session design.

It can teach the technical side of our game.

But the qualities I've admired most in coaches have never been framed on a wall.

They've been demonstrated every day through preparation, humility, curiosity and leadership.

Because coaching can be taught.

Leadership has to be lived.

104 Matches. 48 Nations. 211 Dreams.

Estadio BBVA, the home of CF Monterrey. Monterrey is the third largest city in Mexico.

It has become famous during this World Cup because of the spectacular backdrop of Cerro de la Silla, the iconic mountain that rises behind the stadium. Many fans have said the photos look so perfect they appear AI-generated.

Just how big is the FIFA World Cup?

Most of us sit down and watch the FIFA World Cup without giving much thought to what it actually takes to stage it.

We see the football.

The goals.

The upsets.

The penalty shootouts.

But behind every match is one of the biggest sporting businesses on Earth.

As I started researching this article, I found myself saying, "I didn't know that."

Hopefully you will too.

It Starts With 211

FIFA has 211 member associations.

That means football is officially played in more countries than there are members of the United Nations.

From Australia to Argentina.

From Brazil to Bhutan.

From England to Eswatini.

I have to admit, I had to look up Eswatini. It used to be called Swaziland until 2018.

If I learned something while researching this article, perhaps you will too.

Every one of those 211 nations dreams of reaching the FIFA World Cup.

In 2026, 48 countries have achieved that dream.

For the first time in history, almost one quarter of FIFA's member associations are represented at the tournament.

Bigger Than Ever

Until now, the men's World Cup featured 32 teams and 64 matches.

This year there are:

• 48 nations

• 104 matches

• 39 days of football

• Three host countries

• 16 host cities

That's an extra 40 World Cup matches compared with Qatar in 2022.

Why?

From a football perspective, more countries get the chance to experience the world's biggest tournament.

For nations that have spent decades falling just short, that's enormous.

But there is another consequence.

Forty extra matches also means more football for broadcasters, more sponsorship opportunities, more tickets, more hospitality and more fans watching around the world.

Football and business often grow together.

Just How Big Is It?

Here are a few numbers that surprised me.

• 211 FIFA member associations.

• 48 nations qualify.

• 104 matches.

• 39 days.

• Around 1.4 billion people watched the 2022 World Cup Final.

• Billions more will watch at least part of the 2026 tournament.

• More than US$4 billion comes from television rights alone.

• The tournament is expected to generate almost US$9 billion in total revenue.

It's almost impossible to comprehend.

For just over a month, football becomes the biggest entertainment event on the planet.

So How Much Money Are We Talking About?

The 2026 World Cup is expected to generate almost US$9 billion.

Spread across 104 matches, that's an average of around US$86 million per match.

That doesn't mean FIFA makes US$86 million every time the referee blows the whistle.

It isn't ticket sales.

It isn't profit.

It's simply the total money expected to come into the tournament divided by the number of matches.

Like any business, FIFA also has enormous costs.

It has to organise 104 matches across three countries, produce the global television broadcast, provide technology like VAR and goal-line technology, pay prize money, manage security, transport, staffing and logistics, and continue investing in football around the world.

Think about your local café.

It might take $10,000 in a week.

That doesn't mean the owner earns $10,000.

They still have wages, rent, electricity and suppliers to pay.

FIFA works exactly the same way.

The numbers are simply much bigger.

Television Is King

Most people would probably assume ticket sales are FIFA's biggest source of income.

They aren't.

Television is.

Broadcasters around the world are expected to pay more than US$4 billion simply for the right to show the matches.

Why?

Because live sport is one of the few things people still insist on watching live.

You might watch a movie next week.

You might binge a television series next month.

But when the World Cup Final kicks off, people want to watch it as it happens.

That makes live football incredibly valuable.

The rest of FIFA's income comes from sponsors, hospitality, ticket sales, licensing, merchandise and digital partnerships.

Why It Matters

One thing I hadn't fully appreciated is this.

The World Cup isn't simply FIFA's biggest event.

It's also FIFA's biggest fundraiser.

Unlike a football club, FIFA doesn't sell tickets every weekend.

It doesn't have a domestic league.

Instead, every four years it stages the biggest football tournament on the planet.

The money generated during those few weeks helps fund football over the next four years, including prize money, coaching education, development programmes and investment across FIFA's 211 member associations.

The Bigger Picture

You don't have to agree with every decision FIFA makes.

But it helps to understand the economics behind them.

Expanding the tournament gave more countries the opportunity to qualify.

It also created 40 additional World Cup matches.

Those matches create more football.

More excitement.

More opportunities.

And yes, more money.

The next time you sit down to watch a World Cup match, remember this.

You're not just watching 22 players chasing a ball.

You're watching an event that brings together 211 football nations, billions of viewers and one of the biggest sporting enterprises the world has ever seen.

And if you're like me, you'll probably never look at the World Cup in quite the same way again.

Silly O'Clock

They used to say Australia came to a standstill for the Melbourne Cup.

On Friday afternoon, it wasn't a horse race that stopped the nation.

It was the Socceroos.

Pubs filled before lunchtime.

People booked annual leave.

Others balanced work laptops beside pints.

City squares overflowed.

Primary school halls and classrooms across Tasmania were transformed into mini fan zones, with children dressed in green and gold to cheer on Australia. Teachers embraced the occasion, recognising this was one of those rare moments that transcended the classroom. Some even turned it into lessons about geography, culture and national identity.

And somehow, after ninety tense minutes, a nil-all draw felt like a victory.

As I watched it all unfold, I wasn't surprised.

I smiled.

Because I'd seen it all before.

Where It All Began

Long before I met Ken, I was that football mum.

The one waking the kids at silly o'clock because the Socceroos were playing.

Blankets on the couch.

Hot chocolate in hand.

School uniforms waiting by the door.

Looking back, perhaps I wasn't winning any Parent of the Year awards.

School could wait.

The Socceroos couldn't.

But before all those early morning alarms came one unforgettable night.

16 November 2005. Homebush.

I was there with my boys.

More than 82,000 Australians packed into Telstra Stadium believing this just might finally be our night after 32 years away from the World Cup.

Marco Bresciano gave Australia the lead.

Mark Schwarzer saved two penalties.

Then came the moment every Australian football supporter can still picture.

John Aloisi stepped forward.

The net bulged.

The shirt came off.

And an entire nation erupted.

We weren't just going back to the World Cup.

Australian football had changed forever.

From then on, life seemed to be measured in World Cups.

Germany in 2006 gave us Tim Cahill's unforgettable double against Japan, John Aloisi's stunning volley and Harry Kewell's injury-time equaliser against Croatia that sent Australia into the Round of 16.

South Africa in 2010.

Brazil in 2014.

Russia in 2018.

Qatar in 2022.

Now North America in 2026.

Every tournament brought another excuse to wake the family at ridiculous hours.

Another excuse to tell the kids, "Just this once."

Looking back now, I don't regret a single one of those early mornings.

The boys are grown now.

The hot chocolate has become coffee.

Ken sits beside me instead.

The kick-off times are still ridiculous.

The excitement hasn't changed one bit.

I Found My Tribe

When you've spent decades involved in football, you sometimes forget that not everyone lives and breathes the game the way you do.

Then the World Cup arrives.

Suddenly, people are taking long lunches to watch Australia.

Pubs are overflowing.

Workplaces wheel televisions into meeting rooms.

Friends who haven't mentioned football for four years suddenly become experts on goal difference and knockout permutations.

And you realise something.

You've found your tribe.

Not just people who watch football.

People who understand why ninety minutes can matter.

People who know why a draw can feel like a win.

People who are prepared to rearrange their day because Australia is playing.

For one afternoon, the football community wasn't a small group scattered around grounds every weekend.

It was everywhere.

The School Halls

One of my favourite images from Friday wasn't from a packed pub.

It was from schools.

Across Tasmania, primary schools embraced the occasion.

School halls became live sites.

Classrooms filled with children dressed in green and gold.

For one morning, football wasn't a distraction from learning.

It was the lesson.

It was about community.

Belonging.

National pride.

And sharing an experience together.

Years from now, many of those children probably won't remember what they learnt in maths that Friday.

But they'll remember watching Australia qualify for the knockout stages with their classmates.

Just as I remember waking my own children at ridiculous hours to watch the Socceroos all those years ago.

We Should Know Better Than To Forget

Of course, this feeling doesn't belong only to the men's game.

Those of us in football certainly should know better.

The Matildas showed us exactly what a nation falling in love with football looks like.

Packed stadiums.

Big screens.

Children wearing jerseys.

Families gathering together.

People who had never watched a full football match suddenly living every kick.

In two years' time, when the Women's World Cup comes around again, I have no doubt Australia will do it all over again.

The same colours.

The same excitement.

The same sense of belonging.

Because this isn't really about the men's game or the women's game.

It's about football.

It's Always Been There

For years we've heard the same old line.

"Australia isn't really a football country."

Friday reminded us that it absolutely is.

The World Cup doesn't create football fans.

It reveals them.

The Guardian captured the scenes perfectly.

Packed pubs.

Overflowing live sites.

People taking long lunches.

Workplaces pausing.

Families gathering.

Thousands of Australians putting everything else on hold to watch the Socceroos.

Here in Hobart, something special happened too.

After ABC Radio Hobart's Ryk Goddard asked why Tasmania didn't have a proper public viewing opportunity, the community responded.

The Odeon opened its doors before dawn.

The Hanging Garden welcomed more than a thousand supporters.

Sometimes football simply needs someone prepared to ask,

"Why not?"

Maybe that's the lesson.

Australia has never needed convincing to love football.

Every four years, the World Cup simply reminds us.

Until Next Time

In another few weeks, life will return to normal.

The pubs will empty.

The school halls will return to assemblies.

The giant screens will come down.

Those of us who live our lives around football will head back to community grounds, junior matches, NPL fixtures, WSL matches and cold winter mornings.

We'll still be there.

We always are.

Because football isn't something we discover every four years.

It's something we live every week.

And in two years' time, when the Matildas step onto the biggest stage once again, I have no doubt Australia will answer the call all over again.

Because football has never really left us.

For one glorious Friday afternoon, the whole country simply remembered.

My tribe became the whole country.

Football Deserves Better Than Silence

Football 101 | Part 1: Bringing the Game into Disrepute

Football deserves better than silence.

It deserves informed conversation.

It deserves people prepared to ask difficult questions.

It deserves people willing to challenge ideas.

It deserves accountability.

But it also deserves respect.

Somewhere between silence and abuse sits the conversation football should be encouraging.

That made me wonder.

How many of us actually understand where that line is?

Football people love quoting the Code of Conduct.

Sometimes as a warning.

Sometimes as a weapon.

Sometimes because they genuinely care about standards.

But I often wonder how many of us have actually read it.

Welcome to Football 101.

Over the coming months I'd like to explore some of the phrases, rules and governance concepts we hear every week but rarely stop to explain. Not as a lawyer, but as someone who has spent decades involved in football administration, governance and volunteering.

I have always believed football needs more people willing to speak up.

Not fewer.

The game doesn't improve because everyone agrees.

It improves because people ask questions.

They challenge decisions.

They debate ideas.

They hold clubs, administrators and governing bodies accountable.

Healthy football welcomes respectful discussion.

It shouldn't fear it.

But speaking up also comes with responsibilities.

There is a line.

The challenge is understanding where that line sits.

Can you publicly criticise a decision?

Can you question a policy?

Can you write a blog?

Can you challenge a governing body?

Can you say the board got it wrong?

The answer isn't simply yes.

And it isn't simply no.

It depends on how you do it.

So I went back to the Code of Conduct.

Not looking for reasons to stay quiet.

Looking for where football draws the line.

Because if we're going to encourage people to speak up, and I think we should, we also owe them an understanding of the boundaries.

It's Not Just About Players

One of the first things that struck me is that many football people assume the Code of Conduct is aimed at players.

A player sent off for abuse.

A coach dismissed for misconduct.

A referee writing a report.

In reality, it is much broader than that.

Depending on your role, the Code can apply to coaches, administrators, directors, volunteers, referees, committee members and club officials.

In other words, most of us.

It's Not Just About What You Say

Another surprise is that much of the Code isn't actually about words.

When people hear "Code of Conduct" they often think about social media posts or interviews after a match.

In reality, much of it deals with behaviour.

Integrity.

Honesty.

Respect.

Conflicts of interest.

Safeguarding.

Discrimination.

Abuse.

The Code is as much about how we conduct ourselves as it is about what we say.

The Grey Area

The easy examples are easy.

Most football people would agree there is no place for racism, bullying, harassment, threats or discrimination.

The interesting part comes later.

Football has always been built on opinions.

We debate competition structures.

We debate player pathways.

We debate scheduling.

We debate coaching appointments.

We debate governance.

We debate promotion and relegation.

And occasionally we debate whether an 18 degree day really requires a hydration break.

So where is the line?

Let's put it to the Pub Test.

The Pub Test

Imagine somebody standing outside your local club saying these things.

"I disagree with that decision."

"I think the competition structure needs changing."

"I would have handled that differently."

Most people would probably say that's healthy football debate.

Now consider these.

"That administrator is incompetent."

"The board lied."

"The competition was fixed."

Most of us instinctively feel the difference.

The first group criticises decisions.

The second group makes statements about people.

You don't need a law degree to understand that those are very different conversations.

Whenever I'm writing, I try to ask myself one simple question.

Am I challenging an idea, or am I attacking a person?

It is a surprisingly useful test.

The Facebook Effect

Twenty years ago, if you disagreed with a football decision, you probably told a few people around the clubrooms.

The conversation lasted ten minutes.

Then everyone went home.

Today that same opinion can be shared online and reach thousands of people within minutes.

Football hasn't changed.

The audience has.

That is one reason why Codes of Conduct have become increasingly important.

Words that once disappeared into the night now remain online.

So What Happens If Someone Complains?

This was the part that fascinated me most.

Most football people know there are disciplinary panels.

Very few know what happens before a matter ever reaches one.

Someone raises a concern.

That concern is assessed to determine whether there appears to be a case to answer.

Not every concern becomes a formal complaint.

Not every complaint proceeds.

Not every disagreement becomes a hearing.

Not every Facebook post results in charges.

Some matters go no further.

Some are investigated.

Some proceed through the disciplinary process.

Some don't.

I suspect most football people have no idea how many concerns never make it beyond that first assessment.

Who Decides?

This was probably the question I wanted answered more than any other.

If somebody believes you've breached the Code of Conduct, who actually decides?

Is it the person making the complaint?

The CEO?

A member of staff?

The answer is more complicated than that.

A concern may be raised.

It may then be assessed to determine whether there is a case to answer.

If it proceeds, the question of whether the Code has actually been breached is determined through football's disciplinary process.

That distinction matters.

A complaint is not a finding.

An allegation is not a determination.

An opinion is not the same thing as a decision.

Football has processes for a reason.

I suspect most football people would be surprised to learn how that process actually works.

Perhaps that's a topic for another Football 101 article.

What If The Complaint Is Wrong?

This question interested me just as much.

What happens if somebody complains, but the complaint has no merit?

What if criticism is mistaken for misconduct?

What if somebody simply doesn't like what has been written?

That's why football has processes.

Evidence matters.

Fairness matters.

People should have an opportunity to know the case against them and respond.

Most of us would call that common sense.

Lawyers call it natural justice.

The Blogger's Rule

After writing football articles, I've developed a rule of my own.

Criticise decisions.

Criticise policies.

Criticise structures.

Criticise outcomes.

Ask difficult questions.

Hold organisations accountable.

But be very careful when you start criticising people's motives.

There is a big difference between saying:

"I disagree with the decision."

and

"I know why they made the decision."

One is opinion.

The other is often assumption.

As a writer, that distinction matters.

I've also learnt that the strongest articles rarely need speculation.

The facts are usually powerful enough.

My Take

After reading the Code of Conduct, I came away with one overwhelming thought.

Football doesn't need fewer people prepared to speak up.

It needs more.

The game improves because people ask questions.

Because they challenge ideas.

Because they debate respectfully.

Because they hold all of us accountable.

The Code of Conduct shouldn't be viewed as something that silences discussion.

It should encourage better discussion.

Criticise decisions.

Challenge policies.

Question governance.

Hold leaders accountable.

Just don't confuse robust debate with personal attack.

Football deserves better than silence.

It deserves informed conversation.

Perhaps that's the real lesson.

The question isn't whether you should speak up.

It's how you choose to do it.

And if Football 101 helps even a few people better understand where that line sits, then writing this first article will have been worthwhile.

Forgive Me If I Call Bullshit

I laughed when I saw the image.

Not because it was particularly clever.

Because it perfectly captured what football supporters around the world are thinking.

There stood Harry Kane, captain of England, one of the fittest athletes on the planet.

The game stopped.

The hydration break arrived.

And a supporter held up a sign in front of the television screen that simply read:

ADVERTISEMENT

That, in one image, is the entire debate.

Football is played in halves.

Two of them.

Not quarters.

Which is why so many supporters are struggling with FIFA's latest obsession.

FIFA says the hydration breaks are purely about player welfare.

Football supporters aren't so sure.

Get On With It

Before somebody accuses me of wanting players collapsing from heat exhaustion, let's be clear.

If it is dangerously hot, stop the game.

If conditions genuinely put player welfare at risk, have a cooling break.

Nobody sensible disagrees with that.

Cooling breaks in extreme conditions already existed. Most football people had no problem with them.

I've spent decades standing on football grounds around Tasmania.

I've watched junior football at North Chigwell in weather where parents could barely feel their fingers.

I've stood at Wentworth Park in winter rain wondering whether I should have packed another jacket.

I've watched players train under lights on freezing Hobart evenings.

Football has always adapted to the conditions in front of it.

That's why cooling breaks in extreme heat never bothered me.

If it's 40 degrees, stop the game and let the players cool down. If it is freezing deal with it.

That's common sense.

What makes less sense is stopping every match regardless of whether the conditions justify it.

Australian football supporters have spent years arguing that the A-League shouldn't be played in summer because of the impact of extreme heat.

If FIFA wants to see a match that genuinely needs a hydration break, I can introduce them to a January afternoon in Western Sydney.

That's where footballers deserve sympathy.

That's where cooling breaks make sense.

That's where player welfare becomes the dominant consideration.

Not when it's 18 degrees in Boston and raining.

Yet during this World Cup, a hydration break was still taken in exactly those conditions.

Nobody looked at 18 degrees and rain in Boston and thought:

"You know what these players need? A hydration break."

And that's the problem.

At that point it stops looking like a heat policy.

It starts looking like a football policy.

Even The Coaches Are Complaining

This isn't just grumpy supporters yelling at clouds.

Marcelo Bielsa says the breaks add nothing and take away a lot.

Thomas Tuchel says they change the identity of the game.

That is exactly the point.

The issue isn't hydration.

The issue is identity.

Football feels different when you stop it every twenty minutes.

The rhythm changes.

The momentum changes.

The atmosphere changes.

And football people instinctively know it.

Thankfully Harry Kane Was Saved

There stood Harry Kane, captain of England and one of the fittest athletes on the planet.

Thankfully the game was stopped just in time.

Another few minutes and he may have forgotten to apply Rexona.

Harry got a drink.

The coaches got a team talk.

The broadcasters got a commercial break.

Everybody wins.

Or so we are told.

Forgive Me If I Call Bullshit

We are told the hydration breaks are essential for elite athlete welfare.

Fair enough.

Then the players return from the break and spend the next five minutes surrounded by advertisements for burgers, soft drinks, potato chips, beer and deodorant.

Apparently dehydration is the health issue we are worried about.

We are told modern footballers are elite athletes whose bodies must be treated like temples.

The match stops so they can hydrate correctly.

Then the television coverage immediately encourages the rest of us to eat a Big Mac, demolish a family-sized bag of Smiths chips and wash it all down with a soft drink.

Forgive me if I call bullshit.

If this is genuinely about player welfare, then say it.

If it is genuinely about heat management, then have a heat policy.

But don't be surprised when supporters connect the sporting decision with the commercial opportunities that suddenly appear around it.

Football supporters aren't stupid.

The Coincidence

The problem FIFA has isn't that supporters oppose player welfare.

The problem FIFA has is that football supporters possess eyes.

We can see the game stopping.

We can see the advertisements appearing.

We can see the extra commercial inventory being created.

Then we are told the two things are completely unrelated.

Football supporters are being asked to ignore a coincidence that arrives every 22 minutes.

And once supporters stop believing the explanation, the argument is already lost.

The irony is that FIFA may be right.

The breaks may genuinely help players recover.

The problem is that every time the game stops, supporters are given another reason to suspect there is more going on than player welfare.

The Slippery Slope

Football has spent decades telling us every change is small.

VAR was a small change.

Longer added time was a small change.

Hydration breaks are a small change.

Individually, perhaps they are.

Collectively they create a different game.

A game that feels increasingly designed for television.

A game that feels increasingly comfortable with interruptions.

A game that looks a little less like football and a little more like every other sport competing for advertising dollars.

Maybe that's inevitable.

Maybe I'm simply getting older.

But not every old idea is a bad one.

My Armpits Can Wait

If it is 40 degrees in Dallas, stop and get a drink.

If players are genuinely at risk, stop the game.

Player welfare should always come first.

But if it is 18 degrees in Boston and raining, get on with it.

Football doesn't need more interruptions.

Football doesn't need more commercials.

And football certainly doesn't need more opportunities for somebody to sell me deodorant in the middle of a football match.

Trust me.

At my age, I am already aware.

My deodorant can wait.

Football is played in halves.

Not quarters.

The First One There

I started writing this article a few weeks ago.

Back then it was going to be a thank you to the volunteers who are always the first ones there.

The people who unlock gates.

Put out flags.

Pump up footballs.

Get everything ready before anybody else arrives.

Then life happened.

A few difficult conversations happened.

A few disappointments happened.

And somewhere along the way this article became about something else entirely.

Or perhaps it didn't.

Perhaps it was always about the same thing.

The first one there.

This weekend at Wellesley Park, while the light is still dim, the dew sits heavy on the grass and Mt Wellington/kunanyi watches over an empty football ground, I will be the first one there.

The corner flags are still stacked against the fence.

The goals are still chained together.

The car park is empty.

Football hasn't started yet.

Somebody still has to make it happen.

For seventeen years, give or take, that somebody has often been me.

Not because anybody appointed me.

Not because there was a roster.

Not because I was looking for recognition.

Simply because somebody had to do it.

Ask Vicki

Over time, being the first one there becomes a habit.

Then a responsibility.

Then, somehow, part of your identity.

Need a ball pumped up?

Ask Vicki.

Lost a shirt?

Ask Vicki.

Need a gate unlocked?

Ask Vicki.

Can't find the first aid kit?

Ask Vicki.

Need an answer?

Ask Vicki.

The funny thing is I don't remember volunteering for most of those jobs.

They just sort of found me.

Somewhere along the way, "Does anybody know?" became "Vicki will know."

The first one there becomes the keeper of football's small secrets.

Which key opens which door.

Where the spare bibs are stored.

Which goal wheel is broken.

How to get the lights working when they decide they don't want to.

Who ordered the medals.

Where the pump is.

The knowledge builds up slowly over years until one day people simply assume you know.

And usually, you do.

Seventeen Years Later

One small responsibility became another.

One season became another.

One year became another.

Then suddenly seventeen years had gone by.

For most of that time I never really questioned it.

Like thousands of volunteers across Australia, I simply got on with it.

Because that's what volunteers do.

We see a problem and fix it.

We see a gap and fill it.

We carry things because somebody has to carry them.

And if we're honest, because we care.

We care about the players.

We care about the coaches.

We care about the game.

We care about creating opportunities for others.

For years that was enough.

Lately though, I have found myself asking a question I never really considered before.

If I had known then what I know now, would I still have been the first one there?

It is not a comfortable question.

Because it forces you to look back over years of early mornings, late nights, meetings, emails, planning, problem-solving and responsibility.

It forces you to ask whether the sacrifices were worth it.

It forces you to ask whether the people around you understood what it cost.

And perhaps most uncomfortably of all, it forces you to ask whether you would make the same choices again.

The Strange Reward For Being Reliable

The older I get, the more I realise football has a habit of relying on people who simply keep turning up.

Reliable people.

Capable people.

People who don't seek credit.

People who quietly get things done.

The problem is that reliability can become invisible.

Not because people are ungrateful.

Because they become accustomed to it.

Expected becomes normal.

Normal becomes unnoticed.

Until one day somebody else has to do the job.

Then suddenly everyone discovers how much work there actually was.

I think that's what many long-serving volunteers struggle with.

Not the work itself.

Not the hours.

Not even the responsibility.

It is the feeling that what was given freely somehow became expected.

That the contribution became ordinary.

That years of commitment became just part of the furniture.

The strange reward for being reliable is that people come to rely on you.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until one day you find yourself standing alone on an empty football ground wondering whether you still want to be the first one there.

Not because you don't love football.

Not because you don't care.

Not because you have stopped believing in what football can do for people.

But because you are tired.

Tired of carrying responsibility.

Tired of solving problems.

Tired of being the answer every time there is a question.

The Question

Perhaps every long-serving volunteer reaches this point eventually.

The point where they stop asking, "What else needs doing?"

And start asking a different question.

Not who takes over.

But why they kept doing it for so long in the first place.

The truth is that lately I have found myself wondering whether I was foolish.

Whether I gave too much.

Whether I should have said no more often.

Whether football took more from me than it gave back.

Some days I think it did.

Other days I stand on the side of a football field filled with players and know it didn't.

Maybe that is why this question is so difficult to answer.

Because seventeen years can never be measured in hours.

They are measured in people.

The players who found confidence.

The coaches who found opportunity.

The volunteers who became friends.

The children who became adults.

The football journeys that started with a single training session.

The memories that still make you smile years later.

The first ones there are rarely looking for recognition.

Most would be embarrassed by it.

But every now and then they deserve to know that somebody noticed.

This weekend I will unlock the gate.

I will put out the flags.

I will answer the questions.

I will get football underway.

Just as I have done for years.

But for the first time in a very long time, I find myself wondering something.

What happens when the first one there no longer wants to be the first one there?

I'm not sure I know the answer.

Maybe that's a question every long-serving volunteer eventually has to ask themselves.

The Most Disposable People In Football

A respected coach was sacked this week.

As always happens in football, the conversations started immediately.

Was it the right decision?

Who should replace them?

Who is available?

Would somebody relocate?

Would there be suitable applicants?

Within hours, the discussion had moved from the coach who had left to the challenge of finding the next one.

Football coaches are disposable.

That sounds harsh, but it comes with the job.

Contract or no contract, every coach understands the reality.

At some point they will be questioned.

At some point they will be criticised.

At some point they may be replaced.

That is football.

Coaches leave for better money.

Coaches leave for bigger opportunities.

Coaches are sacked.

Coaches resign.

One club's failed appointment somehow becomes another club's exciting new recruit.

Football coaching has to be one of the most unique professions in the world.

Ask José Mourinho.

By now he has probably been sacked more times than I have had hot breakfasts.

Yet clubs keep hiring him.

Why?

Because football has always believed the next opportunity might produce a different outcome.

The same thing happens at every level of the game.

A coach can be considered the problem at one club and the solution at another six months later.

Which is why I have always found football's relationship with coaches so fascinating.

Coaches Understand The Risk

For more than twenty years I have lived in a coaching family.

My husband is a coach.

My two sons are coaches.

One now coaches in Melbourne, meaning I increasingly hear the Victorian conversations as well as the Tasmanian ones.

What strikes me is that coaches generally understand the profession better than the clubs employing them.

Most coaches know their tenure might be short.

Many clubs behave as though finding another coach will be impossible.

The coaches I know understand the risks.

They know results matter.

They know expectations matter.

They know patience is often in short supply.

At some point every coach will be criticised.

At some point every coach may be replaced.

Good coaches accept that reality the day they take the job.

Tasmania Is An NPL Coaching Destination

The idea that quality NPL coaches are impossible to find has always puzzled me.

If anything, Tasmanian football provides evidence to the contrary.

Look around the NPL.

Many of the coaches leading clubs today were not born in Tasmania.

Many were not even born in Australia.

They relocated here because they wanted the opportunity.

They came because they saw Tasmania's NPL as a chance to build a reputation, develop their careers and test themselves in a senior environment.

That is not a criticism.

In many ways it is a compliment to our competition.

People relocate for opportunities they value.

The reality is that Tasmania has become a destination for ambitious coaches.

Post an NPL coaching vacancy on LinkedIn and you probably won't be waiting long for expressions of interest.

Coaches are always looking for opportunities.

For many years Tasmania has been viewed as a stepping stone, a shop window and a chance to build a coaching résumé.

Ambitious coaches know that strong work in Tasmania can lead to opportunities elsewhere.

Which raises an obvious question.

If coaches are willing to move from interstate and overseas to coach in Tasmania, why do clubs continue to behave as though coaching candidates are impossible to find?

Football Is Not A Normal Job

Part of the problem is that clubs sometimes think about coaching recruitment like they are filling a conventional vacancy.

Football does not work like that.

You are not recruiting an accountant.

You are not recruiting an administrator.

You are not recruiting somebody to tick a box in an organisational chart.

Football coaching is not a nine-to-five job.

It never has been.

Nobody becomes a football coach because they are chasing predictable hours.

Nobody becomes a football coach because they want their weekends free.

Nobody becomes a football coach because they are looking for a quiet life.

Most NPL coaches are part-time.

Many earn less than what would be considered a living wage if you calculated the hours they actually commit.

Yet they keep coaching.

Why?

Because coaching is rarely a financial decision.

It is an emotional one.

People coach because they love football.

They coach because they love competition.

They coach because they love building teams.

They coach because they love the challenge.

They coach because there is nothing quite like the feeling before a big game and nothing quite like the feeling after a significant win.

The people attracted to coaching are usually wired differently.

The best coaches I know never really switch off.

Football follows them everywhere.

A family dinner becomes a discussion about selection.

A holiday becomes a chance to watch football somewhere else.

A quiet evening becomes an opportunity to review video.

Most sensible people would look at that lifestyle and decide it isn't for them.

Coaches look at exactly the same lifestyle and think it sounds fantastic.

My husband coached for years with little or no financial reward.

In fact, for ten years he coached without being paid at all.

Not because it made economic sense.

Because he loved it.

Was that unusual?

Yes.

Was the motivation unusual?

No.

Across Tasmania and across Australia, football is full of coaches who continue because they love the game far more than the game loves them back.

Nobody relocates to Tasmania for an NPL coaching salary.

They relocate for the opportunity.

The Question Clubs Need To Ask

Which brings me to the question at the heart of this discussion.

There is a difference between backing a coach because you believe they are the right person and backing a coach because you are frightened you won't find another one.

One is a football decision.

The other is a fear of making one.

Good coaches understand they may lose their job.

They accept that risk the day they sign a contract.

Many boards seem far less comfortable with uncertainty.

The fear of replacing a coach can become more powerful than the assessment of the coach itself.

And that is where clubs can get themselves into trouble.

Because finding the right coach and finding a coach are not the same thing.

There are coaches willing to relocate.

There are coaches willing to take risks.

There are assistant coaches who believe they are ready.

There are coaches succeeding at lower levels who are waiting for an opportunity.

The challenge is not always finding candidates.

The challenge is having the confidence to make a decision.

Stability Or Comfort?

For sixteen years I was President of South Hobart.

For much of that time the senior coach happened to be my husband.

Fortunately, I never had to seriously consider sacking him.

He did an adequate job.

South Hobart never finished lower than third.

Success makes life easier.

When results are strong, clubs talk about stability, culture and long-term planning.

When results are not so strong, clubs start talking about fresh voices, fresh ideas, new directions and opportunities to freshen things up.

Sometimes those conversations are justified.

Sometimes they are not.

But stability is not automatically a virtue.

Sometimes stability is excellent.

Sometimes it is simply comfort.

And sometimes comfort is just fear dressed up as strategy.

Football's Great Coaching Contradiction

Perhaps football's biggest coaching contradiction is this.

The coach understands they may lose the job.

The club is frightened of finding another coach.

One side accepts uncertainty.

The other often tries to avoid it.

For more than twenty years I have watched coaches move between clubs, states and countries.

I have watched coaches arrive with big reputations and leave quietly.

I have watched coaches be criticised one year and recruited the next.

Football moves on remarkably quickly.

If NPL coaching in Tasmania was about money, we would have a coaching shortage.

If NPL coaching in Tasmania was about job security, we would have a coaching shortage.

If NPL coaching in Tasmania was about lifestyle, we would have a coaching shortage.

Yet coaches continue to arrive.

They relocate from interstate.

They relocate from overseas.

They come for the challenge.

They come for the opportunity.

They come because Tasmania remains a place where ambitious coaches can build a reputation, develop their craft and perhaps take the next step in their coaching journey.

Which leaves one final question.

Are clubs backing their coaches because they genuinely believe they are the right person for the job?

Or because they are frightened of searching for the next one?

Those are very different reasons.

And football people usually know the difference.

The Draw Is Over. Now The Real Work Begins

First things first, congratulations to Kingborough Lions United.

Drawing Melbourne Victory is exactly the sort of tie clubs dream about when they enter the Australia Cup.

It will bring attention, excitement, a strong crowd and another opportunity to showcase Tasmanian football on a national stage.

The players should enjoy it.

The supporters should enjoy it.

The club should enjoy it.

But having been involved in several Australia Cup campaigns with South Hobart over the years, I can tell them something else.

The draw is the fun part.

The following morning is when the real work begins.

From 777 Clubs To 32

This year a record 777 clubs entered the Australia Cup.

After months of qualifying matches, only 32 remain.

Kingborough are one of them.

Less than five per cent of the original field are still standing.

That achievement should not be overlooked.

The Australia Cup remains one of the few competitions in Australian sport where a community club can earn the right to host one of the country's biggest professional clubs.

There are no invitations.

There are no wildcards.

You qualify by winning matches.

How The Competition Works

The Round of 32 is where the A-League clubs enter the competition.

The draw is completely open.

There are no seeds.

No conferences.

Anyone can draw anyone.

If a Member Federation club is drawn against an A-League club, the Member Federation club receives hosting priority.

That is why Melbourne Victory will travel to Tasmania rather than the other way around.

If scores are level after ninety minutes, extra time is played.

If they are still level after extra time, penalties decide the winner.

There are no second chances.

Lose and your campaign is over.

Win and you move on.

The Competition Has Changed

One interesting feature of today's competition is that everybody goes into the same draw.

That was not always the case.

In the early years of the competition, Football Australia protected a number of A-League clubs by matching them against each other before the wider draw took place.

The result was fewer A-League clubs available for Member Federation clubs to draw.

At South Hobart we often felt that the ideal scenario was to draw another Member Federation club in the first round.

Win that match and suddenly your chances of drawing an A-League club in the next round improved significantly.

There was always a balance between protecting professional clubs and creating opportunities for community clubs.

The modern open draw feels much closer to the spirit of what the Australia Cup was designed to be.

Home Draws Are Not Always At Home

This is one of the biggest misconceptions about the competition.

People assume that if you are drawn at home, you play at home.

That is not always the case.

South Hobart qualified for the national rounds four times.

Yet we never played a single Australia Cup match at D'Arcy Street.

We didn't have lights that met the competition requirements.

Our "home" matches were played elsewhere.

We hosted Marconi at Blundstone Arena.

We hosted Tuggeranong United at KGV.

We hosted South Melbourne at KGV.

We travelled away to Sydney United 58.

South Hobart supporters used to celebrate the draw.

Those of us organising the match would celebrate for about ten minutes before asking the same question.

"Right. Where are we actually going to play it?"

Supporters Celebrate. Administrators Check Their Calendars.

Supporters see a home draw and think they have won the lottery.

Administrators see a home draw and immediately start checking their calendar.

An away draw is relatively straightforward.

Book flights.

Book accommodation.

Turn up and play.

A home draw is something entirely different.

The Australia Cup is a national competition.

It is also a national broadcast product.

The moment the draw is completed, clubs begin working through venue requirements, security plans, media requirements, broadcasting arrangements, operational meetings and compliance obligations.

The emails start arriving very quickly.

Usually before the excitement from the draw has completely worn off.

Home Draws Are Not Always The Jackpot

The reality for South Hobart was that despite qualifying multiple times, we either lost money or only just broke even on our Australia Cup campaigns.

That wasn't because the competition itself was flawed.

It was because we couldn't play at D'Arcy Street.

Our home ties were relocated to larger venues to meet competition requirements and once venue hire and additional operational costs were factored in, the numbers simply didn't stack up.

Other clubs have had very different experiences.

Devonport have been able to host Australia Cup matches at Valley Road and have enjoyed the benefits that come from bringing large crowds into their own facility.

Kingborough may find themselves in a similar position.

If the match can be played at a venue they control and manage effectively, hosting Melbourne Victory could prove to be a significant opportunity both financially and for the club's profile.

Every club's circumstances are different.

There Is No "Warm Up Out The Back"

One thing I learned quickly through South Hobart's Australia Cup experiences is that the standards are understandably strict.

Professional clubs are entitled to appropriate facilities.

Match officials are entitled to appropriate facilities.

Broadcasters have requirements.

Sponsors have requirements.

Football Australia has requirements.

There is no telling Melbourne Victory to warm up behind the clubhouse because there happens to be some spare grass there.

There is no improvising television camera positions on match day.

Everything is planned.

Everything is assessed.

Everything is documented.

This is not local league football.

For one night, your club becomes part of a national competition.

And all of that starts long before the first whistle.

Why Cupsets Happen

One of the fascinating quirks of the Australia Cup is that state league clubs are often in the middle of their season when these matches are played.

The A-League clubs are frequently still in pre-season.

On paper the professional clubs have stronger squads.

In reality the state league clubs can be fitter, sharper and carrying the confidence that comes from playing competitive football every week.

That is one reason the Australia Cup produces so many memorable upsets.

The Midweek Challenge

Another thing many people don't realise is that Australia Cup matches are always played midweek.

That creates a unique challenge.

Players still have jobs.

Volunteers still have jobs.

Club officials still have jobs.

Supporters have work and school the next morning.

People finish their working day and then help stage a national football event.

The players are not full-time professionals.

Most of the volunteers are not paid.

Yet the event is expected to operate at a professional standard.

That is one of the remarkable things about the Australia Cup.

For all the professionalism on display, much of the competition is still powered by volunteers.

For One Night, You Become Event Managers

For most of the year football clubs worry about results.

For an Australia Cup tie, clubs suddenly become event organisers.

You are hosting Football Australia.

You are hosting broadcasters.

You are hosting match officials.

You are hosting the visiting club.

You are hosting media.

You are hosting sponsors.

And you are often hosting a crowd several times larger than normal.

Parking.

Security.

Catering.

Signage.

Entry points.

Toilets.

Traffic management.

Everything changes.

Why It Is Still Worth It

Reading all this, you might wonder whether hosting is worth the effort.

Absolutely.

For one night a local football club becomes part of the national football conversation.

Players who train after work get the chance to test themselves against professionals.

Volunteers who normally operate in the background help deliver a national event.

Supporters get to experience something special.

Communities get to showcase themselves.

That is the reward.

One thing I learned from South Hobart's Australia Cup journeys is that every club secretly wants a glamour tie.

What they really hope for is a glamour tie they can successfully host.

Kingborough have earned this opportunity.

They should enjoy every minute of it.

Because while Melbourne Victory will dominate the headlines, the real story is that a club from southern Tasmania has fought its way through a field of 777 clubs and earned the right to host one of Australia's biggest football brands.

Last night Kingborough supporters celebrated drawing Melbourne Victory.

This morning the planning began.

That, in many ways, is the Australia Cup.

Equal parts dream and logistics.

And all the better for it.