Tony Pignata – The Football Person Part One

Photo - Nikki Long

When you've publicly challenged someone in print, you don't usually expect them to agree to sit down for an interview. Yet that's exactly what Football Tasmania CEO Tony Pignata did. In the first of a two-part series, I discover the football person behind the title.

A Coffee, A Conversation… and a Different Perspective

When you publicly criticise someone, you don't usually expect them to say yes when you ask for an interview.

I've only been writing football blogs since December. In that relatively short time, I've questioned Football Tasmania on facilities, pathways, governance and the future direction of our game. At times, I've questioned Tony Pignata himself.

So, when I sent Tony an email asking if he would agree to be interviewed, I genuinely wasn't sure what the response would be.

His reply surprised me.

It was warm, generous and gracious.

Of course, he said. He'd be happy to be interviewed.

There was just one condition.

The interview had to be in person.

That challenged me more than he probably realised.

One of my weaknesses is confrontation.

My sons often call me a "keyboard warrior."

They're probably right.

It's much easier to write a blog behind a laptop than it is to sit across the table from someone you've publicly criticised and ask difficult questions face to face.

I'll admit, I briefly wondered whether I should back away from the idea.

After all, Tony would have read many of my blogs over the past seven months. Some had been critical of Football Tasmania and, on occasion, of him personally. Being the Chief Executive Officer of Football Tasmania probably makes him one of the easiest targets in Tasmanian football.

Instead, we arranged to meet over coffee at Hobart's iconic State Cinema.

One hour and twenty-two minutes later, we were still talking.

In truth, we could easily have kept going.

I had arrived expecting to interview the Chief Executive Officer of Football Tasmania.

Instead, I found myself talking to another football person.

Growing Up Italian

The conversation didn't begin with Football Tasmania.

It didn't begin with governance, facilities or the A-League.

Instead, it began where every football story should.

Childhood.

Tony Pignata grew up in Melbourne as the son of Italian migrants from the Naples region.

"I'm a first-generation Australian," he told me. "Mum and Dad came from the Napoli area."

Football wasn't simply another sport in the household.

It was part of the family's identity.

Napoli was his club.

His football club.

His connection to his parents' homeland.

Years later, he would experience something that most football supporters only dream about.

Watching Diego Maradona play for Napoli at the famous Stadio San Paolo against the great AC Milan side of Marco van Basten, Ruud Gullit and Frank Rijkaard.

"I think it might even have been during my honeymoon," he laughed.

I couldn't resist asking what his wife thought about spending part of a honeymoon watching football.

Tony smiled.

"She's not my wife anymore."

It wouldn't be the last time Tony laughed at himself during our conversation.

As the coffee arrived, I had a feeling this interview might not unfold quite as I had imagined.

More Than Just One Sport

Growing up in Melbourne meant football competed with almost every other sport imaginable.

Australian Rules football was impossible to escape.

"I'm an Essendon supporter," Tony admitted with a grin. "For my sins."

Like many boys of his generation, he played everything.

Football.

Cricket.

Australian Rules.

He even played A Grade cricket.

But football always won.

"It was my passion."

One of Tony's earliest football influences came from his father, who played local football in Melbourne.

Football wasn't just something he played.

It was something he grew up around.

Then came 1982.

Italy won the FIFA World Cup.

For millions of Italian families around the world, it wasn't simply another sporting triumph.

It was deeply personal.

Tony still remembers it vividly.

Football had become part of who he was.

"I Knew at Thirteen"

Many footballers spend years believing they'll become professionals.

Tony didn't.

"I knew when I was about thirteen," he said matter-of-factly.

"I wasn't going to be a professional player."

Why?

"I just wasn't quick enough."

There was no disappointment in his voice.

No regret.

Just honesty.

"I just loved playing."

It turned out that was enough.

He worked his way through the Victorian competitions before playing senior football with Box Hill. He was equally happy captaining the reserve side when that was where he was needed.

"I didn't really care," he said.

"If I was in the first team, great. If I played reserves, I played reserves. I just wanted to play."

One thing I like in people is honesty.

Tony could easily have told me he was unlucky.

He could have blamed injuries.

He could have suggested someone overlooked his talent.

He didn't.

"I wasn't quick enough."

There was no self-pity.

No excuses.

Just an honest assessment from someone who loved football enough to keep playing anyway.

As our conversation continued, I realised this wasn't the only time Tony answered a difficult question with disarming honesty.

In fact, I began to notice something else.

Tony rarely tried to make himself sound more important than he was.

He spoke openly about not being quick enough to become a professional footballer. He was just as comfortable talking about captaining the reserves as he was discussing running A-League clubs.

There was no attempt to rewrite history.

I found that refreshing.

Football administration can sometimes feel full of titles and egos.

Tony seemed much more interested in talking about football than talking about himself.

It wouldn't be the last time during our conversation that I found myself quietly reassessing some of my earlier assumptions.

Playing for the Love of the Game

Although Tony accepted early that he wasn't going to become a professional footballer, he also knew football wasn't going to disappear from his life.

"I just kept playing," he said.

He remained with Box Hill until he was around thirty-three years of age.

That wasn't the end of his playing days. Tony continued in a thirds competition into his early fifties, coached Box Hill's reserves and later moved into club administration as a volunteer board member.

Football kept finding new ways to hold him.

Listening to him describe those years, something struck me.

Today we talk endlessly about elite pathways, scholarships and professional opportunities.

Tony's measure of success seemed much simpler.

"I just wanted to play."

There was no suggestion that reserve football was beneath him.

No frustration about not being a permanent first-team player.

Football wasn't about status.

It wasn't about recognition.

It was about belonging.

Friendships.

Shared experiences.

Being part of a club.

Perhaps that's something many of us lose sight of as football becomes increasingly professional.

For Tony, the game itself was always enough.

The Lessons Football Teaches

As we continued talking about his playing days, Tony spoke less about goals and trophies and more about what football had given him.

Not medals.

Not championships.

Life lessons.

Resilience.

"I remember getting dropped for a cricket grand final," he recalled. "My brother took my place."

Many young players might have walked away.

Tony didn't.

"I played in the reserves instead."

He smiled as he remembered it.

"It teaches you resilience."

That word came up more than once during our conversation.

Resilience.

Not the kind you learn in a boardroom.

The kind you learn on muddy pitches, in changerooms and after difficult conversations with coaches.

You get dropped.

You lose games.

You have setbacks.

You just keep going.

Listening to him, I found myself thinking that perhaps football's greatest gift isn't producing elite players at all.

Perhaps it's producing resilient people.

The friendships matter.

The discipline matters.

Learning to cope with disappointment matters.

Long after the final whistle has blown, those lessons remain.

Tony spoke warmly about the friendships football had given him over the years.

"Most of my friends are from football," he said.

It wasn't hard to understand why.

Training two or three nights each week.

Playing on weekends.

Travelling together.

Winning together.

Losing together.

Football has a way of creating friendships that often last a lifetime.

I found myself nodding.

My own football journey has been different, but I understood exactly what he meant.

Some of my closest friendships have also come through football.

Perhaps that's one of the game's greatest strengths.

Long after players stop playing, the relationships remain.

A Different Kind of Ambition

Unlike many talented young footballers, Tony wasn't driven by dreams of fame.

His ambition was remarkably uncomplicated.

Play at the highest level he could.

Enjoy the game.

Stay involved.

There was something refreshing about that.

Today we often measure success by contracts, representative honours or professional careers.

Tony measured it differently.

If football was part of his life, he was happy.

That simple philosophy would quietly shape the rest of his journey.

Life Beyond the Touchline

While football filled his evenings and weekends, Tony's professional life was taking a very different direction.

He studied finance at university.

It was there he met his future wife.

"I got married when I was twenty-three," he told me.

Like many football people, he learned to juggle two worlds.

By day, he was building a career in investment banking.

By night, and every weekend, football remained his escape.

He spoke about those years almost matter-of-factly.

There was no suggestion he was chasing a career in football.

In fact, quite the opposite.

He was building a successful corporate career.

Football was simply the thing he loved.
As our conversation drifted away from football for a moment, Tony spoke proudly about his two sons, Jack and Max.

His pride in his boys was unmistakable.

It was another reminder that there is always much more to a person than the title on their business card.

Before he was a football administrator, he was simply a dad.

The Career Change

Then opportunity knocked.

The organisation now known as Football Victoria was looking for a new Chief Executive Officer.

"There was an opportunity," Tony explained.

"It just felt like the right career change."

Again, I was struck by how understated he was.

Many people describe life-changing decisions as moments they had dreamed about for years.

Tony didn't.

There was no dramatic story.

No lifelong ambition.

No carefully mapped-out career plan.

He saw an opportunity.

He applied.

He got the job.

Sometimes the biggest decisions in our lives aren't accompanied by fireworks.

Sometimes they simply feel right.

The role became Tony's first experience leading the game rather than simply playing it.

"It was a tough environment," he admitted.

Victorian football is complex.

Large clubs.

Strong personalities.

Politics.

Competing interests.

Anyone who has spent time in football administration would understand exactly what he meant.

It was a steep learning curve.

Looking back now, Tony doesn't dwell on the politics.

Instead, he talks about what those years taught him.

How governing bodies operate.

How clubs think.

How impossible it is to make everyone happy.

That final lesson would become something of a theme throughout our conversation.

No matter where you work in football, someone will disagree with your decisions.

It's simply part of the job.

"I'm a Numbers Man"

I asked Tony whether his years in banking still influenced the way he approached football.

His answer came quickly.

"I'm a numbers man."

He wasn't boasting.

He was explaining.

Football clubs may exist because of passion.

But they survive because of good financial management.

Budgets matter.

Cash flow matters.

Every dollar matters.

Later in our conversation, when we discussed Football Tasmania's finances, those same themes would emerge again.

The football supporter in Tony might dream.

The banker in Tony still counts.

It is an interesting combination.

One built on emotion.

The other built on discipline.

Perhaps successful football administration requires both.

A Phone Call That Changed Everything

After several years leading Victorian football, another opportunity appeared.

This one was unlike anything he had experienced before.

A brand-new professional football club in New Zealand was looking for a Chief Executive Officer.

Its name was Wellington Phoenix.

The club had a licence.

An owner.

An idea.

Everything else still had to be built.

Tony smiled as he remembered it.

"We had six weeks."

I looked at him.

"Six weeks to build an A-League club?"

He nodded.

"Six weeks."

It sounded almost impossible.

It probably was.

And yet, somehow, they did it.

Before the Difficult Questions

As I packed away my notebook and switched off the recorder, I realised something.

We had spent an hour and twenty-two minutes together.

In truth, we probably could have talked for another hour.

What surprised me most wasn't Tony's football journey.

It wasn't the stories about Wellington Phoenix, Sydney FC or Perth Glory.

It wasn't even the football people he had worked alongside.

It was discovering how much we actually had in common.

Both of us have devoted more than twenty years of our lives to football.

Both of us have sat through countless meetings.

Both of us have wrestled with budgets, facilities, volunteers and the never-ending challenge of trying to leave the game in a better place than we found it.

We have both experienced the highs that football brings and the frustrations that come with trying to improve it.

The obvious difference is that Tony has spent much of his career working professionally in football.

Mine has always been as a volunteer.

Perhaps that gives each of us a different perspective.

Neither is necessarily right or wrong.

They're simply different ways of looking at the same game.

When I walked into the State Cinema that morning, I thought I was going to interview the Chief Executive Officer of Football Tasmania.

Instead, I met the football person behind the title.

That doesn't mean I've suddenly changed my views on every issue.

I haven't.

There are still difficult conversations to have.

Facilities.

Pathways.

The future of the NPL and our competitions.

The A-League.

Wentworth Park.

Government funding.

The relationship between Football Tasmania and its clubs.

Those were the questions sitting in my notebook when I first emailed Tony asking for an interview.

To his credit, he didn't shy away from any of them.

He simply said yes.

Those conversations deserve the same honesty that shaped this first one.

We'll tackle them in Part Two.

Because sometimes, before you challenge the decisions, it's worth understanding the person making them.