How a Coaching Interview, a Swear Word, and a Soccer School Altered My Life

I didn’t arrive in football with a plan. I wasn’t chasing a title, a presidency, or a platform. I was a parent with a football-obsessed son and nowhere for him to play.

My youngest, Max, showed promise from the moment he could kick, a wicked left foot, but his school didn’t offer football for children under Grade 2. No teams. No pathway. Nothing.

So, like thousands of parents before me, I went looking.

I contacted the Central Region Junior Football Association (CRJFA), spoke to Tony Chaffey and John Barker, and before long I was standing at South Hobart Primary School training sessions, surrounded by children who simply wanted to play. At that point, South Hobart Football Club didn’t have junior teams. That came later. So we stayed put until my boys were old enough to transition into SHFC at youth level.

And that’s how football gets you. Not by ambition, but by proximity. Once you start standing on sidelines, you’re in the system before you even notice.

I Didn’t Come from Football

Most people in Tasmanian football aren’t born into it. They simply find themselves there. I was one of them.

I wasn’t a player, referee, or coach. I was a restaurant owner, a single parent, and a small-business operator who made cakes and desserts so I could work around my sons’ schooling, sport, and activities.

Hospitality was in my blood, not football. I’d owned two restaurants, worked in some of the biggest hotels in Australia in banqueting, and organised events far larger and more demanding than Saturday morning kick-offs.

Football was never the plan.

But like countless parents before me, I didn’t choose football.

Football chose me.

Despite my accidental entry into the sport, football didn’t just shape my life, it shaped my family. Two of my sons, Ned and Max Clarke, grew up on the sidelines with me. What began as something to keep them busy became a passion that defined their futures. Both now hold AFC A-Licence coaching qualifications and teaching degrees, and both work in football.

Football isn’t something you watch from a distance. It pulls you in.

The Tap on the Shoulder

Training nights became routine. Too far to go home. Too cold to sit in the car. Too interesting to ignore what was happening.

One night, someone tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I’d join the board. I can’t remember if it was Brian Roberts, Rod Hill, or John Barker, but the tap came.

And I said yes.

Not because I understood football governance or politics, but because I was there. That was more than twenty years ago. I started as Secretary. The gateway role. Innocent enough.

Until it wasn’t.

The Day Everything Changed

In 2007, I found myself interviewing a man named Ken Morton for the senior coaching role.

He had played for Manchester United and coached across England, Ethiopia, New Zealand, Malaysia, Vietnam, and in the old National Soccer League for Wollongong Wolves and Heidelberg United. He also had a long history with Tasmanian clubs.

And he was offering to take the South Hobart job for free.

The board hesitated.

They debated. They stalled. They questioned whether he was the right choice.

My filter vanished.

“You have got to be fucking joking,” I said. “This man played for Manchester United, has coached all over the world, and you’re not going to give him the job?”

Not subtle.
Very effective.

Ken was appointed.

I didn’t know it that night, but that moment would change everything, not just for the club, but for me.

The Presidency I Didn’t Ask For

By 2009, conversations about leadership became pressure. Ken and Jed, the Division One men’s coaches at the time, cornered me after training.

“You have to do it. We need change.”

I didn’t feel ready. Women rarely do unless every box is ticked. Men tend to look at the same checklist and think, “I’ll be right.”

I stepped forward anyway.

Reluctantly.
Awkwardly.
Completely unprepared, and exactly what the moment required.

I became President of South Hobart Football Club in 2009.

How Morton’s Soccer School Was Born

After Ken’s appointment, there was no payment for senior coaching and no income to support staying in Tasmania. Ken’s son Nick was 11, and Ken wanted to stay to see him grow up.

One afternoon he said, “I’ve always wanted to start a soccer school.”

So we did.

Morton’s Soccer School began with 16 players. Four were our own sons.

Not exactly a lucrative start.

The rest paid $50 a month for four sessions a week. Skills-based, not team-based. Proper coaching. Real development. Something Tasmania hadn’t seen before.

People criticised us for charging fees.

They saw cost.
We saw value.

The following year, the school doubled.

Now, nearly every club uses some version of the model we were criticised for creating.

Progress is always called a problem before it becomes a standard.

The Cold Nights No One Talks About

While the school grew and the club evolved, I spent countless hours waiting. Standing. Sitting. Freezing.

If you were ever at Wellesley Park in the old days, you’ll understand when I say it was the worst building in football.

One toilet. No heat. No privacy. No consideration for women. I used to hold on, not because I was busy, but because I couldn’t face the facilities.

I remember thinking, surely this can get better. Surely someone is going to fix this.

That someone, apparently, was me.

Years later, when the new clubhouse opened, I put a sign on the toilet door:

“Female Staff Only.”

It sounds trivial. It isn’t.

It was the first time I’d walked into a football toilet without wondering what might crawl out.

If you want people to stay in football, stop treating them like they’re lucky to be uncomfortable.

That’s a whole post of its own.

Football, Accidentally, Became My Life

Somewhere between board meetings, player pathways, and cold nights in tin sheds, I found more than a club.

I found purpose.

And I found Ken.

The coach I swore the board into appointing became my partner in football and in life. We’ve been together since 2007.

I came for my son.
I stayed because the game needed me.
Somewhere along the way, football became my world.

Why I’m Writing This

After sixteen years as President, I’m stepping down in December 2025. I’ll remain on the board for a time, not because I can’t let go, but because knowledge in football isn’t passed on. It has to be extracted.

When Brian Roberts died, an ocean of history went with him. I wish I’d written more down.

I’m not making that mistake again.

This blog is my attempt to document what I know, the stories, the battles, the politics, the wins and the failures, before they’re lost.

If You Love Football, You’re in the Right Place

If you’ve ever stood in the rain for football, stayed late to lock rooms, carried cones, bibs or dreams, fought councils for space, coached because no one else would, defended volunteers, or believed this sport deserves more than it gets, then this isn’t just my story.

It’s ours.

This isn’t a farewell.

It’s a beginning.

Football didn’t just give me a club.

It gave me a voice.

And now, finally, I’m using it.