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.