A Headquarters for Football Tasmania, not a home for Football

Image of the potential “Home of Football - Wentworth Park”

This is a long post, but I couldn’t leave anything out and I suspect I’ll be writing much more on this topic because it has been front and centre through almost 20 years in Tasmanian football.

I’ve watched the “Home of Football” idea return in Tasmanian football again and again.

It comes back dressed in different language, pinned to different sites, launched with optimism, and then quietly parked while the game continues on without it.

At various points the idea has floated around Cambridge. Then the Showgrounds. Now Wentworth Park.

Each time the pitch is similar. A central home. A showcase facility. The headquarters. The solution.

But here’s the bear poke.

Before we ask where this Home of Football should be built, we should ask a more confronting question.

Do we even want one?

And if we build it, who exactly is it for?

Because what is being proposed does not feel like a home for Tasmanian football.

It feels like a headquarters for Football Tasmania.

I’ve watched grassroots football fund itself

I’m not theorising here. I’ve lived it.

I’ve watched clubs fund goals, nets and equipment through sausage sizzles and canteens. I’ve seen volunteers unlock sheds, line-mark pitches, set up fields, manage rosters, referee shortages, discipline issues, wet-weather chaos and still turn up the next week.

That’s the reality of Tasmanian football.

It is bottom-up funded, volunteer-powered, and community-owned.

So when a proposal arrives that shifts the centre of football away from clubs and into a central facility, it deserves more than excitement. It deserves scrutiny.

Because in Tasmania, home grounds aren’t a tradition.

They’re a survival mechanism.

The Home of Football: a recurring Tasmanian storyline

The story is familiar.

A vision is announced. Plans are drawn. People talk about legacy and transformation. Clubs are told this is what football needs.

Then time passes.

Then a new version appears somewhere else.

The sites change, Cambridge, the Showgrounds, Wentworth Park. The storyline stays the same.

This isn’t written to mock the idea. It’s written because every time this proposal returns, it carries a hidden assumption.

That Tasmanian football needs one central home.

That assumption deserves scrutiny.

Grassroots football already has homes

Tasmania already has homes of football.

Hundreds of them.

They are the club grounds where kids play every weekend. They are the school ovals where parents stand with coffee in hand. They are the local venues where volunteers run canteens to buy the next set of nets, or replace a goal frame, or pay for training gear.

This is what a bottom-up funded sport looks like.

Clubs don’t just play football at their grounds.

They survive there.

Home games pay for:

• canteen income and fundraising

• equipment replacement

• balls, bibs, cones, nets

• training gear and goalkeeper gloves

• referee payments

• first aid supplies

• the gradual improvements that keep a club alive

For many clubs, the difference between replacing nets or not comes down to a handful of home match canteens.

That is the economics of Tasmanian football.

Clubs want to play at home

Clubs want to play at home.

Schools want to play at home.

Junior associations want to play local.

Parents want to play local.

In a small state, the “home” part isn’t sentimental. It’s logistical. It’s cultural. It’s economic.

And it’s not just clubs.

Junior football is built for decentralisation.

CRJFA has over 400 teams. Those games are concentrated into Saturday mornings. Not spread across the whole weekend. Not spread across the whole day.

And importantly, CRJFA matches are 9-a-side at most.

Junior football is designed to be played across multiple club and school venues at once, close to families and communities.

So the question becomes obvious.

If every team wanted to play their match at one central Home of Football between 9am and 1pm on a Saturday morning, what would that even look like?

I know this because it was suggested at the time that junior games could be played there. It was never going to work.

The answer is, it would look impossible.

Grassroots football cannot be centralised without breaking the community model that holds it up.

Two models: centralised football vs distributed football

This debate is often framed like a simple facilities question.

Where should the Home of Football go?

But that’s not what it really is.

This is a debate about two different models of football.

Model A: Centralised football

One major venue.

Central programs.

Central showcases.

Central finals.

Centralised power, over time, whether intended or not.

Model B: Distributed football

Many upgraded local venues.

Clubs remain the centre.

Communities stay attached to their grounds.

Investment is spread across the system, not concentrated at the top.

The more centralised the infrastructure becomes, the more centralised the sport becomes.

And in a small state, centralisation has consequences.

If Football Tasmania did its core job, a Home of Football wouldn’t be necessary

Here’s the sharper point.

If Football Tasmania focused on what only a governing body can do properly, then a Home of Football becomes an optional supplement, not a defining project.

Those core functions are straightforward.

• competitions that work and are stable

• referee frameworks that protect, retain and develop officials

• coach education that supports clubs across the state

• governance that is transparent and trustworthy

• promotion of the game

• genuine club support and capability-building

That is the job.

But when Football Tasmania expands into areas that should belong to clubs, especially player development, the centre of gravity shifts.

Which leads to a bigger issue.

Mission creep: when the governing body becomes a club

This is where we need a concept Tasmanian football rarely names.

Mission creep.

Mission creep is when an organisation gradually expands beyond its core purpose, usually in ways that sound reasonable at the time.

We’ll just add this program.
We’ll just fill this gap.
We’ll just deliver this directly.

Then, slowly, the organisation becomes something else.

In football terms, it looks like this.

The governing body stops focusing on governing and starts delivering football itself.

It becomes a program provider.

It begins operating like a club or an academy.

And the moment a governing body becomes a delivery machine, it starts needing:

• facilities

• grounds

• central venues

• control over scheduling and programming

• “pathways” that sit above clubs rather than within them

That is when the Home of Football stops being about serving football.

It becomes a base of operations.

And that changes the relationship between Football Tasmania and clubs.

Instead of enabling clubs, the system risks competing with them.

Who benefits most from a Home of Football?

This is the uncomfortable question we avoid.

A Home of Football benefits:

• Football Tasmania’s programs

• centralised development pathways

• administration and HQ functions

• showcase events and visiting content

• finals hosted centrally

• high performance needs

Those things might be worthwhile.

But who benefits least?

• volunteer clubs trying to keep the lights on

• junior associations who need distributed venues

• communities that depend on local grounds

• parents who rely on convenience and familiarity

• clubs whose budgets rely on home games and canteens

That imbalance matters, because it reveals the risk.

A Home of Football may strengthen the organisation while weakening the clubs that fund the game.

There is also another uncomfortable reality. A Home of Football has to sit somewhere. If it is built at the home ground of one club, then it effectively becomes that club’s home ground, with permanent advantages attached. Hosting, familiarity, prestige, access and association with state programs would naturally concentrate around that venue. In a small state, that matters. If we are going to centralise football infrastructure, we should at least be honest about which clubs benefit structurally and which clubs are asked to subsidise it from the outside.

Finals would move away from clubs, permanently

A Home of Football doesn’t just create a venue.

It changes the incentives and economics of football.

Because a central venue has a natural pull. It becomes the default.

Finals, representative programs, showcases, coach education blocks.

Slowly, clubs stop hosting the big days.

And that has consequences.

If finals are moved permanently to a central Football Tasmania venue, it means:

• fewer home finals, even when clubs earn them

• loss of finals-day canteen income

• loss of fundraising events

• loss of community pride

• reduced incentive to invest in club facilities

A finals series should reward clubs, not relocate them.

Finals are not where football lives.

But they are where clubs earn money, build identity, and feel seen.

Centralising them shifts money and status away from clubs and toward the governing body.

That might not be the intention.

But it will be the outcome.

We’re already seeing how centralised thinking can distort what finals are meant to be. The recent move toward tendering for finals venues may sound fair on paper, but in practice it can produce outcomes that make little sense for the football community. Last year the Lakoseljac Cup Final was hosted in Devonport, despite two southern men’s teams contesting it. Supporters were expected to travel, the crowd was small and the atmosphere suffered. It became an inconvenience rather than a celebration. It didn’t look great as a showcase, particularly with political figures present to “open facilities” in front of a very modest crowd. Finals are supposed to reward clubs and communities. When they become a travelling roadshow, they start serving optics more than football.

“But we need it for visiting teams and A-League matches”

There is always another argument for a central venue.

We need it for visiting teams, they say.

A-League matches.

Showcase events.

Interstate content.

But let’s be honest about what this means in Tasmania.

We are not building for the football we have.

We are building for the football we imagine.

We also need to be clear about who pays for this visibility. Tasmania pays for content. Governments subsidise it. We pay for teams to come. We pay to stage the spectacle.

It might be exciting.

But it does not change the daily reality of the game.

We are a very, very long way from having an A-League team.

So who are we building this for, and what are we not building while we chase that future?

What problem are we actually trying to solve?

This is the question we keep skipping.

If the problem is coach education, a hub can help.

If the problem is referee development, a hub can help.

If the problem is lack of synthetic capacity, a hub may help.

But if the problem is:

• clubs with no lights

• change rooms not fit for purpose

• toilets and storage missing

• volunteer burnout

• local grounds struggling

• clubs fundraising week to week

Then a Home of Football does not solve it.

It might even worsen it, because it draws attention and investment away from the places football already lives.

The funding problem: one ribbon cutting or many real upgrades

Here is the question that should keep clubs awake.

If government finds major funding for football, where does it go?

Into one showcase facility.

Or into the dozens of club and school venues that already exist.

Because lighting upgrades are not glamorous.

Toilets are not glamorous.

Change rooms are not glamorous.

Storage and fencing are not glamorous.

But they are what football needs.

A new headquarters doesn’t put lights on local grounds.

A new headquarters doesn’t upgrade community change rooms.

A new headquarters doesn’t solve the weekly workload carried by volunteers trying to keep local venues functional.

Tasmania doesn’t need one great home.

It needs many better homes.

So what should we be pushing for?

If we want a real football infrastructure legacy, here is what would actually transform Tasmanian football.

• lights at more community grounds

• better change rooms and toilets

• storage, fencing, safety and access upgrades

• synthetic upgrades where they make local sense

• shared facility funding across regions

• partnership models that reduce volunteer burden

• investment that strengthens clubs rather than bypassing them

This is not as politically exciting as a single mega project.

But it is far more powerful.

Because it strengthens the foundation.

And in Tasmania, football is foundation-first.

The bear poke question

So I’ll end with this.

If the government has funding for football, should it be spent on a single Home of Football?

Or should it be used to upgrade the many homes of football we already have?

Because if football funding builds one headquarters, the organisation wins.

If football funding upgrades local grounds, the game wins.

And in a small state, that difference matters.

When the Ceiling is Fixed

Some familiar faces from Tasmania at Northcote FC

My son Max moved to Victoria this season. His coaching role there has given me the opportunity to visit other clubs, see different environments and for a few games at least, become a Northcote City FC supporter when Ken and I can get across to watch.

That context matters, so I want to be clear about it.

On this visit, I spent time watching a group of players train in an environment that looks and feels different to home.

Not better.
Just bigger.

Different scale.
Different exposure.
Different possibility.

Among the group were several familiar faces. Players who spent time in Tasmania. Players who trained, played and developed within clubs like South Hobart FC and Launceston City FC. Players now wearing different colours, in a different state, under brighter lights.

Last season, Max was coaching NPL in Tasmania. This season, he is coaching NPL 2 in Victoria.

That move, along with the players who followed opportunity, has drawn criticism.

Leaving Isn’t Disloyal

There is a reflex in Tasmanian football to confuse protection of competitions with protection of people.

We hear it often.
“He poached our players.”
“We found them and you stole them away.”

As if players are assets to be guarded, rather than people with ambition.
As if staying put is a moral virtue and leaving is a character flaw.

But rarely do we ask what staying actually costs the player.

Tasmania’s men’s pathway has a very clear ceiling. NPL is the top. Women’s Super League isn’t even classified as NPL yet. There is no promotion beyond it. No second tier to aspire to. No professional bridge waiting above. That reality isn’t new and it isn’t controversial. It simply is.

When the ceiling is fixed, movement is not betrayal. It is logic.

Pathways Have to Lead Somewhere

We talk constantly about pathways. We build them. We market them. We promise young players that if they work hard, commit and improve, doors will open.

Sometimes those doors are not in Tasmania.

If a player reaches the top of the local system and still has ambition, what exactly are we asking them to sacrifice to make others feel comfortable?

Are we developing footballers, or are we preserving the illusion that the system is enough simply because it exists?

As President of a club, of course I wanted players to stay. I wanted to win titles. I wanted success. But I also knew the limits of what we could offer, and often, those limits were the truth we didn’t like to say out loud.

A pathway that goes nowhere is not a pathway. It is a holding pattern.

Development Doesn’t End at the Border

The players training at Northcote did not arrive unformed.

Some came through local academies.
Some arrived via visa pathways.
Some moved from interstate or overseas and continued their development here.

All of them, in different ways, spent time inside Tasmanian clubs. They trained. They played. They contributed. They were part of the ecosystem.

Their move interstate does not erase that work. If anything, it reflects the role Tasmanian clubs play in developing, hosting and progressing players, regardless of where those players started.

When players are good enough to step into bigger leagues, stronger competitions and more visible environments, that should be recognised as success, not framed as loss.

And when we criticise coaches or clubs for enabling that movement, what we are really doing is punishing ambition for not staying small.

Bigger Budgets, Bigger Exposure

Victoria offers scale Tasmania simply cannot.

Bigger budgets.
More matches.
More eyes.
More movement between levels.

That is not an insult to Tasmanian football. It is a demographic and structural reality.

Thinking big, as a coach or as a player, is not a sin.

Pretending otherwise does not protect the game here. It only limits the people within it.

What Are We Afraid Of?

Perhaps the discomfort is not really about recruitment, or loyalty, or who signed whom.

Perhaps it is about confronting the limits of our own system.

Because once we acknowledge that players sometimes have to leave to keep growing, we are forced to admit that local success is not always the end of the story.

And that is an uncomfortable truth in a small football state.

Today I saw players who spent part of their development in Tasmanian football training in a different environment, carrying with them everything they learned while they were here.

They were not taken.

They moved because staying would have meant pretending the ceiling didn’t exist.

And perhaps the real discomfort comes from the fact that we all know it does.

Matthew Rhodes - the person behind Tassie Football Central

Matthew Rhodes, Tassie Football Central - photograph taken by Nikki Long

Tassie Football Central has become a fixture of Tasmanian football life.

On weekends, thousands of people refresh the page for live scores, results, short reports and recognition. It is often the fastest, sometimes the only, place where matches across the state are acknowledged in real time.

But pages do not run themselves.

Behind Tassie Football Central is Matthew Rhodes. Consistent, present, largely unseen. I wanted to speak with Matthew not about reach or algorithms but about the person who shows up every week and why.

What follows is Matthew’s story, largely in his own words.

Football as constancy

“Football has pretty much been my life. Apart from my children and family, it’s one of the most important things in my life.”

For Matthew, football is not something that comes and goes.

“It gives me satisfaction seeing people get recognition in all the leagues around the state, which I believe TFC offers.”

Before Tassie Football Central existed, he saw a gap.

“We didn’t have an independent page on social media where we could discuss football issues.”

The page itself began simply.

“I just got an impulse one day to start the TFC Facebook page. To be honest, I never thought it would go past a couple of hundred members.”

It didn’t stop there.

When people start relying on you

“No, I never thought it would achieve anything like it has. It’s quite humbling.”

Last season alone, Tassie Football Central recorded more than five million views.

A typical matchday starts early.

“The day starts at around 6.30am when I post the statewide scorer board.”

It ends late.

“It probably doesn’t finish till about 10pm because there is always something going on after a day of football.”

Between those hours, Matthew moves between games, updates scores, approves posts, watches live feeds and writes reports.

“The site was created to give the most exposure to every club in Tasmania for free.”

“It’s humbling knowing so many players, families and clubs depend on what you post. I never take anything for granted. I try and improve the coverage every year so it feels new and different for all the members.”

Showing up, staying separate

Matthew’s voice online is direct and unfiltered.

“No, it’s just me. It’s just pure emotion I am feeling at the time.”

That honesty comes with distance.

“To give an honest opinion you have to stay separated and detached, if that makes sense.”

For Matthew, neutrality is not accidental. It is a principle.

The separation shows up in small moments.

“My youngest son asks me who you going for today and I say no one.”

While teams socialise after matches, Matthew goes home.

“I pretty much go to a game, come home, update the scoreboard and watch the live feed for my post-match reports.”

Criticism comes with the role.

“I’ve learned to accept criticism. If you have an opinion, I believe you should always hear someone else’s opinion. Like anything, sometimes it’s tough.”

It can also be lonely.

Recognition, quietly held

Matthew spends much of his time recognising others.

When asked whether anyone had recognised his work in a way that stayed with him, he paused.

“I spent a lot of time communicating with Peter Mies and he used to say ‘keep them honest’. That saying stayed with me.”

There were others.

“Cathy Hancock supporting me in the early days was tremendous. And Vicki yourself has always been a great support.”

He also speaks about the community itself.

“The 8.5 thousand followers is something that I treasure as well.”

And then, the work itself.

“Football Tasmania starting the Hall of Fame was ten years’ work for me. I wrote over a hundred emails and stories. That is something I am very proud of.”

Day to day

In the last two years, Matthew’s life changed suddenly.

“Two heart attacks. The last one involved a six-hour operation and a huge recovery.”

He was forced to retire from work.

“I’ve gone from earning about seventy thousand a year to around thirty thousand.”

Tassie Football Central did not stop.

“Huge role in my rehab. It took a lot out of me, so TFC was huge in my healing.”

Matthew now lives day to day.

“A good day is I wake up. For me that’s a gift. I suppose I’m one of those people that have died and come back, so every day is a bonus.”

That reality has sharpened how he experiences football.

“I get excited every time game just in case it maybe my last. I don’t take anything for granted.”

Asking for help

After ten years of running Tassie Football Central for free, Matthew recently asked for voluntary support.

“To be honest, I hated doing it.”

The site has given away more than five thousand dollars in prize money over the years, funded by Matthew and sponsors.

“I like to provide the best coverage possible. I started doing live video match reports. People asked for better lighting and sound, so I spent seven hundred and fifty dollars to make it happen.”

The subscription remains voluntary.

“If I receive nothing, that’s fine. But twenty-seven people have taken it up so far, and it all helps.”

“I am also very grateful to the sponsors who support the site. Without them, a lot of the coverage and awards simply wouldn’t be possible.”

Loneliness and identity

When football is quiet, Matthew’s world narrows.

“I live alone so sometimes it would be great to have a partner to bounce off when it’s been a hard day.”

He is honest about how he sees himself.

“I suppose I am just a guy. Nothing exciting about me.”

What grounds him is simple.

“I do love my sport and spending time with my kids.”

Football helps him on the hardest days.

“A reason to leave home and get out amongst people.”

Mental health and cost

Matthew has been open about mental health challenges.

“It’s no secret I have mental health issues. Football plays a huge role in keeping me mentally well.”

His advice to others is practical.

“When it’s dark, reach out for help. That can be tough with the stigma, but it’s important. Talk to a friend or support services, but either way seek help.”

There has also been a cost.

“For a long time I was never invited to season launches, end of year dinners or included on the media list.”

“That was why I started my own awards,” he says. “Most people would have walked away after that.”

That exclusion mattered.

“As a person I am human.”

He kept going anyway.

“I paid for awards, paid for people to do blogs, covered everything myself. There’s a lot people don’t know.”

At times, it took everything he had.

“I’ll be honest, sometimes I just broke down in tears. But I was always there to fight the next battle for the clubs.”

Things have changed in recent years.

“The last two years the relationship with Football Tasmania has turned around. We don’t agree on everything, but I am included now and treated with respect. That has meant a lot.”

Why he keeps turning up

Matthew is clear about motivation.

“Anyone who does anything for legacy or recognition is doing it for the wrong reason.”

What drives him is simple.

“The people in the game. Supporters, players. It’s important to me to keep them in the loop.”

When asked what he would miss most if Tassie Football Central stopped tomorrow, his answer isn’t about reach or influence.

“I’d miss the people. Going to football and listening to football people is fantastic.”

And when asked about stories that matter most, he doesn’t hesitate.

“Somerset in the Northern Women’s Championship. I had covered them for five years and they never won a game. This season they won their first game. That was my favourite story of 2025.”

Matthew does not seek recognition, nor does he expect to be remembered. That may be true in the formal sense. But every weekend, across grounds and touchlines and group chats around Tasmania, his presence is already felt. Not loudly. Not perfectly. Simply, consistently. And sometimes that is enough.

Matthew reviewed this piece prior to publication and approved it as written.

About the author
I’m Victoria Morton. I’ve spent 20 years in Tasmanian football as a volunteer, club leader and advocate.

I’m writing a personal record of what I’ve seen, what I’ve learned and what Tasmania’s football community lives every week.

👉 Read more about me here: About Victoria

If I Were CEO

This is a daydream, not an application.
I am not settling scores.
I am simply imagining what football leadership could look like if it were grounded in lived experience and genuine care for the game.

I would be present

I would go to games.
Not just finals or showcase events, but ordinary weekends. Junior grounds. Women’s matches. Regional football.

I would show my face.
Stand on the fence. Talk to parents, volunteers, coaches.

You cannot understand football from reports alone.
You understand it by being there.

I would change the relationship

The relationship between a governing body and its clubs should not feel like master and servant.

I would work in partnership with clubs and associations.
Listen first. Collaborate. Support.

Football Tasmania exists because clubs and associations exist, not the other way around.

I would give clubs and associations certainty

Junior football is the breeding ground for all football.
It always has been.

I would give associations the care they deserve. Not try to take them over, but work alongside them. Ask what they need. Understand their pressures. Discuss how Football Tasmania can assist.

Strong associations create strong clubs.
Strong clubs create strong competitions.

I would be decisive, even when it is uncomfortable

I would make decisions that strengthen competitions. Some would be unpopular. That is part of leadership.

What we cannot keep doing is endlessly changing structures. Constant review creates instability. Clubs plan in good faith, then have the ground shift beneath them again.

Certainty matters.
Stability matters.

I would stop outsourcing football knowledge

I would not hire consultants.

Tasmania is full of people with deep football knowledge. People who have coached, administered, volunteered and led clubs for decades. People who understand the terrain, the constraints and the culture.

We already have the brains.
We simply need to trust them.

I would strengthen clubs, not compete with them

Clubs do the work cheaply, on a volunteer basis, week after week, year after year.

Development should be supported at club level, not outsourced to competing programs. The role of Football Tasmania should be to enable clubs, not undermine them.

Help with workload.
Help with facilities.
Help with coach development.

Do not compete with the very organisations holding the game together.

I would return Football Tasmania to basics

Competitions.
Coach education.
Promoting the game.

That includes recognising that junior and youth football exists. I would include it visibly in Football Tasmania’s communications and social media. It is not peripheral. It is the foundation.

I would focus on practical support

Football does not function without the basics.

Goals.
Nets.
Equipment.

Providing the tools of the game should never be an afterthought.

Child safeguarding would be non-negotiable

If football is not fun and children are not safe, what is the point of anything else?

Child safeguarding would be the number one priority. Not just as a policy document but as a lived commitment, properly resourced, supported and enforced.

I would be a strong government liaison

I would advocate for football properly.
With councils. With government. With funding bodies.

I would understand the football landscape well enough to speak for it honestly and forcefully and to translate that reality clearly to decision makers.

I would be a genuine conduit between members and the Board

In most cases, the only way clubs and associations can speak to the Board is through the CEO.

That makes the role critical.

I would see it as my responsibility to ensure members are genuinely heard, not filtered, softened, or reshaped for convenience. The Board deserves to understand what is actually happening on the ground, even when that feedback is uncomfortable.

Being a conduit is not about protecting the organisation from its members.
It is about ensuring the organisation remains accountable to them.

I would advocate strongly for clubs and associations in Board discussions and just as strongly communicate Board realities back to the football community, honestly and clearly.

Trust is built when people believe their concerns travel intact.

I would lift the bar on governance

Transparency matters.
Clarity matters.
Trust matters.

Good governance is not a burden. It is what allows people to stay involved without burning out or becoming cynical.

I would be honest about conflicts of interest

Tasmania is a small football community.
Conflicts of interest cannot be eliminated and pretending otherwise is unhelpful.

People wear multiple hats. They always have.

The answer is not denial.
The answer is transparency.

Interests should be declared clearly and without embarrassment. Where necessary, people should absent themselves from decisions. Then the work continues.

What damages trust is not the existence of conflicts but the failure to acknowledge them.

Good governance in a small state means being realistic, not performative.

I would communicate early, not perfectly

I would talk to clubs early, even when all the answers were not yet clear.

Football people understand uncertainty. What they struggle with is silence. Waiting for perfectly polished announcements often does more damage than sharing honest, incomplete information and bringing people along.

I would actively protect volunteers from burnout

Every new requirement, every late change, every additional report costs someone time. Usually on a Sunday night.

I would design systems with unpaid people in mind. Reduce duplication. Avoid mid-season changes. Treat volunteer time as the precious resource it is.

I would slow the cycle of constant reform

Football in Tasmania lurches from review to review, restructure to restructure.

Sometimes the strongest leadership decision is to stop changing things and let the game breathe. Stability allows clubs, associations and volunteers to plan, recover, and build properly.

I would understand the difference between equality and equity

Treating everyone the same is not the same as treating everyone fairly.

Junior football, regional football, women’s football and senior competitions all need different forms of support. One-size-fits-all policy might look neat on paper but it rarely works on the ground.

I would measure success differently

I would not measure success by how many programs Football Tasmania runs, how many reviews are commissioned or how much activity is visible at head office.

I would measure success by whether clubs feel supported, volunteers stay involved, competitions are stable and children keep playing the game.

I would mentor, not just manage

Leadership is not only about administration. It is about stewardship.

I would actively mentor emerging administrators, support people stepping into difficult volunteer roles and pass on knowledge deliberately, rather than letting experience disappear when people burn out or walk away.

And yes, I would care

I care about football.
I love the game.

Caring is not a weakness in leadership. It is the reason people stay when things are hard.

The bigger picture

What I am describing is not innovation.
It is not radical reform.

It is leadership shaped by time spent inside the system, by mistakes made, by responsibility carried and by a deep affection for the game.

It is what football leadership looks like when the goal is not control, but care.

About the author
I’m Victoria Morton. I’ve spent 20 years in Tasmanian football as a volunteer, club leader and advocate.

I’m writing a personal record of what I’ve seen, what I’ve learned and what Tasmania’s football community lives every week.

👉 Read more about me here: About Victoria

Alex MacDonald - A Football Life

Alex, back row, 2nd from left - 1957 Edinburgh Primary School League Champions, School Board Cup Champions, Inspectors Cup Champions

Some football stories are about trophies, titles, and moments.
Others are about belonging.

Alex MacDonald’s story is the latter.

From a childhood shaped by displacement, to football as refuge and identity, to a life rebuilt through the game in Tasmania, Alex’s journey reminds us that football does not just develop players, it shapes lives.

This is his story, told in his own words.

Early Years: Football as Belonging

Football has shaped my life in ways I could never have imagined.

My earliest memories go back to 1951, as a six-year-old chasing a ball through the streets of Craigmillar in Edinburgh. Like every kid, I dreamed I was playing for Scotland. Life was cramped, three families living in a three-bedroom tenement, but to me it was full and alive. We slept four to a bed under army greatcoats and I thought nothing of it. Life felt good.

At seven, everything changed. My parents sent me to live with relatives in England while they waited to be allocated a new house. I felt abandoned, though I could not name it then. I still remember being put on a train at Waverley Station with a note pinned to my coat and a box of food.

I ended up in Anlaby, Yorkshire. Quiet, unfamiliar, and strange. School was hard. I sounded different. I was teased. Football became my way in.

When I scored a hat trick for the school team, everything shifted. Suddenly I belonged. That was the first time I understood what football could do.

Bill Sinclair and the Power of Coaching

When I returned to Scotland, I faced the same ridicule, my accent had changed again. Once more, football rescued me.

My teacher at Fernieside Primary, Bill Sinclair, changed my life. He ran football the right way, skills first, repetition, discipline, patience. We trained relentlessly, often without playing games. We learned to use both feet. He soaked leather balls overnight so we learned control under difficulty.

Over time, his methods worked. Our under-nine team became the “big team”. At twelve, I was named captain, the last name read out at assembly.

That season we went undefeated. Even the newspapers noticed. Scotland captain John Greig and Rangers player Ralph Brand presented our medals.

Looking back now, Bill Sinclair did far more than teach football. He gave a struggling child resilience, confidence, and belonging. I owe him more than I can ever say.

The Lost Years and a Chance Conversation

From fifteen to twenty-one, I think of my football as my lost years.

I was apprenticed in insulation and sheet metal, travelling constantly between power stations across Scotland and England. Football became fragmented. I trained wherever I landed, carrying a letter from my club asking permission to join sessions. Games were rare, but I trained with good players and coaches, and I enjoyed it more than I realised at the time.

As my apprenticeship ended, I played a friendly match back home. Afterwards, a man in the bar said a few young players were heading to Australia under the ten-pound immigration scheme.

“You’re good enough,” he said.
“Think of it as a two-year football holiday.”

Six weeks later, I was on a plane.

Australia, Tasmania, and Finding Home

I landed in Melbourne in 1967 and hated it. Football wasn’t even a thought. I just wanted to work, save, and go home.

Three months later, work took me to Hobart, and everything changed.

Hobart felt like home almost immediately. Football found me again through a chance pub conversation. One training session with Hobart Caledonian was all it took. I signed, and my Tasmanian football life began.

The Callies were a wonderful club, serious about football, strong socially, and welcoming. The standard surprised me. Hobart football was technically strong, driven by immigrant communities who valued skill and craft.

After two seasons, a representative match up north introduced me to Glenda, the love of my life.

Devonport City and Reinvention

Work took me to Devonport, where I trained with Devonport City during the week and travelled south on weekends. The club felt ambitious, energetic, and alive. Eventually, President Gordon Rimmer squared things off with Callies, and I signed.

That decision led to fifteen years with Devonport City.

The club had vision. Bingo funded facilities. Officials worked tirelessly. Trainers and physios were as good as any in the state. On the field, we were initially mid-table, but off it the club surged forward.

Personally, I found success, best and fairest awards, Sports Writers’ Awards, and rediscovered skills Bill Sinclair had instilled years earlier.

The turning point came with the arrival of Bob Oates, a professional from England. Hierarchies disappeared. I was moved from attack into central defence.

At first, I thought it was a demotion.

It wasn’t.

I thrived. I could read the game, organise, and lead. Devonport City arrived as a force, and I found my place.

The Final Years and What Football Gave Me

In the 1980s, statewide competition arrived. Devonport embraced it again, signing Steve Darby from Liverpool. His standards were high. We didn’t always have the quality to meet them, but I loved working under him and won another best and fairest.

By then, life was changing. We had a young family, land, and a house to build.

One day, walking off the pitch at Valley Road, I knew.

That was it.

I was 36.

Looking Back

I didn’t do too badly. Two state league best and fairests. Two Sports Writers’ Awards. Over thirty medals, including the very first ones I received at twelve years old.

But the greatest prize football gave me was Glenda.

Fifty years on, she’s still beside me.

Football shaped my life, in every sense.

— Interview edited and presented by Victoria Morton

Hostile Away Games

The folklore

Hostile away games are part of football folklore.

Across the world, they are spoken about with a mix of dread and affection. The noise. The edge. The feeling that you are very clearly not welcome here. Sometimes it tips over the line. Mostly, it sits right in that delicious space called banter.

Recently, we were at Wolverhampton Wanderers when the home crowd was in full voice until Brighton & Hove Albion scored. As the stadium fell quiet, the 5,000-odd travelling Brighton supporters immediately filled the silence with a chant that landed perfectly.

“Are we in a library?”

It was sharp, funny, and timed to perfection. Football theatre at its best.

English banter, experienced together

On our first football tour to England, we went to a Black Country derby between West Bromwich Albion and Wolves at The Hawthorns. Fierce rivals.

We were there with Tasmanian players and their families. Parents, siblings, coaches, all of us sharing something that felt far bigger than the ninety minutes.

Wolves went three nil down, much to the delight of the home supporters. As the scoreline settled, the Wolves away fans decided they had seen enough and began to leave in numbers.

That was when the stadium responded.

Thirty-five thousand Albion fans, in unison, began chanting,
“we see you sneaking out”.

It was brutal. It was funny. And it was unforgettable.

No steward intervention. No announcements. Just collective wit doing what football crowds do best.

Those moments stay with you, especially when you experience them together.

Sitting among the faithful

On another tour, we sat amongst Newcastle United supporters at an away match at Leicester City. Again, we were there with Tasmanian players and their families, not as tourists but as guests stepping into someone else’s football world.

The language was blue. Very blue.

Flares were let off under the stadium in the bar area. The singing rolled on, relentless and joyful. The accents were thick enough that at one point we genuinely had to ask for a translation.

The Newcastle fans loved it.

They thought it was wonderful that a group of Australians were sitting amongst them, joining in, learning the songs, and embracing, even if only for a few hours, their religion.

Newcastle United.

The young players we were escorting thought it was the greatest thing they had ever experienced. Not because it was safe or polished, but because it was alive.

They talked about it for days.

That is football culture. It teaches you resilience, perspective and how to sit in discomfort without fear.

Designed discomfort

That discomfort does not stop at the stands.

Overseas, the difference between home and away dressing rooms is deliberate. It is part of the psychological battle, and everyone understands it.

At Anfield, the away dressing room is smaller, tighter, less comfortable and noticeably less welcoming. It is not subtle. It is not apologetic. It is a clear signal that you are not at home.

We saw this first-hand on tour.

Yet when clubs host UEFA Champions League matches, the expectations change. Away teams must be accommodated properly. Facilities must meet minimum standards. Hostility still exists, but it is regulated and transparent.

We saw that contrast clearly at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. Changerooms similar but different for home and away.

Even Manchester City are expanding seating at Etihad Stadium to meet Champions League hosting standards and with that comes the need to upgrade away facilities as well.

The message is consistent.

Discomfort is allowed. Obstruction is not.

Fan versus President

There is a distinct difference between being at a game as a fan and being at a game as a President, with a team involved.

When you are a fan, hostility feels impersonal. It washes over you. It belongs to the spectacle.

When you are there representing a club, knowing who you are, who you represent and who you are about to play, the intent feels different. Actions land differently. You are no longer anonymous. You are part of the contest before the whistle even blows.

That distinction matters when I reflect on my experiences in Tasmanian football.

Quiet hostility

The hostility I have encountered here has not come from chanting crowds.

It has come in quieter, more procedural ways.

Whiteboards in changerooms covered with advertising material so a coach cannot run a team talk.

Music deliberately blasted at full volume into changerooms to drown out instructions.

Being made to feel unwelcome at the gate before even stepping inside the venue.

And once, at KGV Football Park, being confronted by a very hostile dog and an even more hostile owner, who was clearly unhappy with the scoreline and chose intimidation over words.

These moments felt less like atmosphere and more like strategy.

None of them involved chanting.

None of them were spontaneous.

They were quiet assertions of power. Subtle reminders of who controlled the space and who did not.

Where the line sits

That is the part of hostile away games we rarely talk about.

The difference between noise and manipulation.

Between supporter-driven atmosphere and institutional pettiness.

Football thrives on emotion. It always has. Away days should feel uncomfortable. They should test you. They should remind you that this is not your home.

But there is a line.

When discomfort becomes deliberate obstruction, when hostility is designed not to motivate supporters but to undermine participation, the culture starts to rot.

The irony is that young players notice all of this.

They notice the chants and laugh.

They notice the tension and learn from it.

And they notice the petty stuff too, even when adults pretend they do not.

Hostile away games are not the problem.

How we choose to express power within them is.

Winning So You Can Say You Won

This post follows on from Hope Economics - Winning That Loses Money, where I explored why Australian men’s football clubs continue to spend heavily in competitions that offer little structural reward. Those pieces looked at hope, ambition and belief as drivers of behaviour.

Here, I want to contrast that system with a different model, using the Premier League as a reference point, to show how regulation can create a different but equally distorting, outcome.

Different rules. Different pressures.
The same question underneath. What actually changes when you win?

Financial Fair Play is often described as a mechanism to stop the richest club or owner from simply buying the league.

That is the neat version.

The reality is more uncomfortable.

What Financial Fair Play was meant to do

Financial Fair Play was introduced to stop clubs destroying themselves in pursuit of success. To prevent reckless spending, mounting debt and eventual collapse once a benefactor walked away.

It was designed as a safety rail.

At its core, it is about sustainability, not equality.

And on that narrow measure, it has largely worked.

What it actually does

Financial Fair Play does not cap wealth. It legitimises it.

Spending is tied to revenue. Revenue is tied to history, scale and global reach. If you already have those things, you are permitted to spend more. If you do not, your ambition is constrained by design.

Success becomes path dependent.

The clubs that were big remain big. The clubs trying to break in are told to grow organically, slowly, and within limits that rarely allow disruption.

The rich do not stop winning.
They simply win within a regulated framework built around their advantage.

Order without mobility

This creates a different distortion to the one we see in Australia.

In Australian men’s football, clubs often overspend chasing success that does not reliably change their position. While promotion and relegation exists in parts of the NPL system, its leverage is uneven. Movement is frequently mediated by licensing, infrastructure and financial criteria that can blunt consequence. Promotion often increases costs faster than it increases opportunity, while relegation is regularly softened by restructures, exemptions, or strategic intervention.

Movement exists. Consequence is diluted.

In Tasmania, that dilution is felt most acutely. Winning a league often delivers a trophy, a sense of pride and the right to say you were the best that year. What it rarely delivers is a materially different future. The cost base remains. The obligations remain. The pathway does not expand in proportion to the achievement.

Winning becomes an end in itself.

The shared failure

Both systems fail in the same place.

In Australia, winning does not consistently unlock opportunity.
In England, winning does not redistribute power.

In both cases, football people respond rationally to irrational structures. They spend emotionally, politically, or defensively because the system offers no clean, proportional reward for success.

Rules alone do not create fairness.

Structure does.

Until winning actually alters a club’s future, whether through promotion, relegation, or genuine economic leverage, football will keep producing distorted behaviour. Either clubs will spend chasing outcomes that do not exist, or they will be locked out of outcomes they can never reach.

Different leagues.
Different rules.
The same uncomfortable truth.

When the Australia Cup first arrived

August 2014

I was at this match.

It was the inaugural year of what was then the FFA Cup, now known as the Australia Cup. At the time, we were still working out what it meant. A national knockout competition. A genuine round of 32. A brief sense that Tasmania was no longer quite so far from the centre.

As Joe Gorman wrote in his piece for The Guardian at the time, “I’m here for the football… it’s at these local games where you find the most wonderful of football anoraks.”
That line has stayed with me, because it describes the people who carried nights like this long before anyone else was paying attention.

We were there because we had won the Lakoseljac Cup. That alone felt significant. It placed us into the round of 32 of a brand-new national competition, one that continues today and is now embedded in the Australian football calendar.

I remember being terribly nervous, mostly about the game itself. The occasion, the stage, the sense that this night mattered more than most. Mark being in goal added another layer to it, of course, but it wasn’t the source of the nerves. It was everything wrapped around the match that made it feel heavy.

Our regular goalkeeper, Kane Pierce, had been sent off the week before for bad language. We fought like mad to see if we could get him cleared. We argued the case. We appealed. But to no avail. Rules were rules, and Kane was out.

He was devastated. But we had no choice. The reserve goalkeeper stepped in and did a wonderful job, as people so often have to do in Tasmanian football.

One of the most memorable parts of that first Australia Cup experience had very little to do with what happened on the pitch.

The administrative and organisational workload was on another level. As a volunteer-run amateur club, we were suddenly required to operate at something approaching a professional standard. The volume of paperwork was daunting. Compliance, documentation, deadlines, processes we had never encountered before at that level.

Frances, our club secretary, carried the bulk of that work. She spent hours and hours making sure every box was ticked and every i dotted.

As Frances said to me at the time, “The workload was enormous and completely new for us, but we weren’t doing it in isolation. Mal was terrific to deal with, and John was very supportive. That made a big difference when you’re trying to meet standards you’ve never been held to before.”

In hindsight, it was formative. We built a strong working relationship with Mal Impiombato, who was our direct FFA contact throughout the process, and were well supported by the FFT CEO at the time, John Boulos. That first experience quietly set us up for our next two Australia Cup appearances and later for the yet-to-be-commenced Australian Championship, which brought similar levels of compliance and administrative load.

Those hours don’t make the highlights reel, but they are part of the story.

We couldn’t play at home either. We don’t have lights at our ground. We didn’t then, and we still don’t. The Australia Cup is played mid-week to fit within the national football calendar, so the match had to be moved. We played at KGV Park, a ground we knew well from league football, but one that felt different under lights, with that added sense of occasion.

Mark Moncur went in goal that night. He is now a board member and life member of the club, but on that evening he was simply someone stepping up when needed. He wore Kane’s white goalkeeper kit, which was very much not what he would have chosen himself. That detail has stayed with me. You wear what is available. You do what needs to be done.

There was also a familiar dread. The curse of penalties seemed to hang over us in the Australia Cup, even if it hadn’t yet fully announced itself that night. It would surface again in later years, most memorably against Sydney United 58. Once penalties enter your club’s story, they never really leave it. God, I hate penalties.

What strikes me now is this. What Kane was sent off for in 2014 would not even be a bookable offence in 2026. The rules of the game have changed. The interpretations have changed. The moment, though, remains fixed in time.

Later in his article, Gorman wrote that “cold weather, hot food and passionate support make for a memorable evening.”
That line captures it perfectly. Even in defeat, those nights mattered. They still do.

You can read the full article here:
https://www.theguardian.com/football/blog/2014/aug/06/ffa-cup-shines-its-light-on-tasmanias-proud-football-tradition

Reading it now, years later, I feel the nerves again. I also feel how quickly the light moves on. The competition endures. The pride endures. The questions about infrastructure, compliance, and what follows the moment have endured too.

Hope Economics

Why clubs keep betting on seasons that don’t add up

There comes a point, after enough years in football, where you stop asking whether something is possible and start asking whether it is probable.

I find myself there more often now.

Not because I’ve lost belief in football, but because I’ve watched too many clubs, run by good people, make decisions that only make sense if you believe that this season will be the one that breaks the pattern.

This post is about men’s football.
I’ll write about the women’s game separately, because it deserves its own lens.

This is not about ambition.
It’s about hope.

And how hope, in men’s football, becomes an economic model.

A quick explainer

At the top level of men’s state football sits the NPL, the highest tier available in Tasmania. Clubs don’t simply enter it. They are licensed to participate.

That licence comes with financial cost, administrative workload and ongoing compliance obligations. It assumes organisational depth, volunteer capacity and the ability to absorb risk.

Entry itself is expensive.

Holding a licence, meeting compliance standards, staffing match days, maintaining facilities, and delivering what is expected at the top tier requires significant resources before a ball is kicked. Add player payments on top and clubs are committing large sums of money and time with no guarantee of return.

This is not incidental.
It is foundational.

Winning the league does not cover the cost of entry.
Prize money is shared, limited and symbolic.

Which leads to the obvious question.

Why do clubs still pour money into it?

What I’ve seen, up close

Over the years, I’ve watched men’s clubs move in and out of the top tier.

Some lost a benefactor and could not replace that support.
Some merged because the numbers no longer stacked up.
Some simply ran out of people willing to carry the load.

Others chose to stay where they were. Not because they lacked pride but because they understood their limits. They knew what they could staff, fund and sustain.

I’ve seen boards change and priorities shift.
I’ve seen ambitious seasons followed by quiet resets.
I’ve seen clubs chase one last push and clubs choose to step back before the push broke them.

None of it was simple. None of it was clean.

What struck me, over time, was how often the same logic appeared underneath very different decisions.

Hope that the next season would unlock something.
Hope that success would stabilise the club.
Hope that the strain would ease once a target was reached.

Sometimes it did.
Often, it didn’t.

Hope as a business case

Most clubs don’t enter a season expecting to lose money.

They tell themselves
a good Cup run might offset costs
success might attract a major sponsor
crowds might lift
visibility might unlock something bigger
next year will be different

This is not delusion.
It’s hope.

But when hope becomes the justification for repeated financial risk, it stops being optimism and starts becoming an economic strategy.

A fragile one.

Spending to stand still

One of the quiet truths of elite men’s football is that spending is often not about moving forward.

It’s about not slipping back.

Clubs pay players to
hold position
protect reputation
avoid being read as declining
stay serious in the eyes of others

This is not reckless. It’s defensive.

But defensive spending is still spending and it rarely builds anything durable underneath.

When finishing first or last changes very little

There is another question that sits underneath all of this and it’s one I keep coming back to.

In a system without promotion and relegation, what does it actually mean to finish first or last?

You don’t go up.
You don’t go down.
The licence remains.
The costs remain.
The obligations remain.

So the stakes become symbolic rather than structural.

I’ve long been an advocate for promotion and relegation, not because it’s dramatic, but because it gives meaning to position. It creates consequence. It rewards sustainability as much as ambition.

Without it, winning becomes a statement rather than a step.

And that’s where the economics become harder to justify.

If finishing first doesn’t materially change your future and finishing last doesn’t force a reset, then the question naturally follows.

Why are we spending so much?

Is it for progress, or is it for pride?
Is it for pathway, or is it for proof?
Is it to build something, or simply to say we won?

None of those answers are inherently wrong.

But when the cost of chasing that answer includes financial strain, volunteer exhaustion and long-term fragility, it’s fair to ask whether the reward matches the risk.

Hope thrives in systems where consequence is blurred.

Promotion and relegation doesn’t remove hope.
It sharpens it.

The short-term season problem

An eighteen-game season sharpens this dynamic.

With limited matches
pressure on results increases
patience decreases
rotation narrows
depth becomes harder to manage

Paying players feels like insurance against a short runway.

But insurance only works if the risk is occasional, not structural.

The invisible subsidy

Here’s the part that rarely gets named.

Most clubs are not gambling with spare cash.
They are gambling with unpaid labour.

Every dollar spent on player payments usually requires
more administration
more fundraising
more compliance work
more emotional load carried by fewer people

The financial loss is visible.
The human cost is quieter.

And it accumulates.

Why walking away feels impossible

For some clubs, stepping back is unthinkable.

Not because the numbers don’t make sense, but because identity is tied to status.

Being top tier becomes who the club is, rather than where it happens to play.

So the question becomes
How do we stay here?
Not
What does this cost us?

Hope fills the gap where strategy should sit.

Two doors that keep the hope alive

There are genuine prizes on offer in men’s football.

One is open to everyone.

The Lakoseljac Cup allows any club, at any level, to make a run, to test itself, to dream.

The other is narrower.

Win the league and you earn scheduled games against interstate opposition in the Australian Championship.

Benchmarking.
Visibility.
Proof.

Those opportunities are real. They matter.

But they are also rare.

And rare outcomes are a dangerous foundation for regular spending.

When hope crowds out honesty

Hope is not the problem.

Football needs hope.

The problem is when hope replaces honest conversations about
sustainability
volunteer capacity
financial exposure
long-term purpose

When clubs feel they must keep rolling the dice simply to be taken seriously, something has gone wrong in the system.

A quieter definition of ambition

After many years watching seasons come and go, I’ve come to believe this.

Ambition is not how much you spend.
It’s how long you last.

It’s whether the club still recognises itself after leadership changes, after a bad season, after the noise fades.

Hope belongs in football.
I’m less convinced it belongs in the balance sheet.

The question underneath it all

I often wonder whether the biggest gamble in football isn’t losing matches.

It’s continuing to bet on seasons that don’t add up, because we’re afraid to imagine a different way of being ambitious.

Hope is powerful.
But hope, on its own, is not a business model.

And perhaps the bravest decision a club can make is not chasing the next breakthrough, but choosing a future it can actually sustain.

He was our Kenneth

Ken at Aston Villa

Part One: Copley

Copley, 1947

He was born Kenneth Morton on 19 May 1947.
No middle name.

At home, Eddie and Edna called him Kenneth. Outside the house, particularly in the North East of England, he was Kenny.

He was our Kenneth.

Copley was small. One road through the village. Farmhouses set back off the lane. From the very top to the very bottom, barely a kilometre. Quiet enough that you noticed sound when it arrived.

When Ken talks about it now, he says it reminds him of All Creatures Great and Small. That same sense of countryside calm, of people knowing one another, of space to roam.

Sundays were special. Copley Sunday meant picnics, family together and football on any bit of grass that would allow it. Cousins were there. Neville and John Chapman. Neville would later play for Middlesbrough, but back then he was just older, fitter, someone to chase in the summer holidays.

Copley felt safe. Friendly. A farming community where people said hello, where they noticed if you didn’t have your ball with you. There were only one or two shops at first, a Co-op later. A handful of council houses. Not many children. Five-a-side or six-a-side at most. If the ball went over a wall, nobody complained.

Ken was an only child. Well looked after. Well cared for.

He was born in a terraced house, two or three in a row of five. There was a yard and across the driveway a patch of grass. Enough space to juggle, to practise, to wear the ground down. To have a kick without troubling anyone.

Eddie was a busy man. He ran a garage and helped the local farmers. Edna was kind and loving. Like most households of the time, it was disciplined and structured, but Ken never got into trouble. He was always playing football.

Their first house had a backyard. Over the lane was an allotment. That became another place to play. When they later moved to Copley Lane, there was a hot bath ready when he came home muddy and tired. Boots left at the back door. Football was never discouraged. It was simply part of life.

Ken remembers Auntie Effie and Auntie Gwenie, his aunties by marriage. Gwenie was a Sunderland supporter, so football talk and football history were always around. His dad was friendly with Gordon Coe, president of Evenwood Town Football Club. At the time, the club was bringing players in from the army barracks and Eddie spent a lot of time driving and picking them up. Football, again, was just there. Woven in.

One of Ken’s earliest football memories has never left him.

He would have been eight or younger, at a match between Evenwood and Bishop Auckland. The legendary Bob Hardisty was carrying the ball out of defence when Ken ran under the wooden barrier and took it cleanly off him.

He didn’t get into trouble. The Evenwood crowd applauded. Bishop Auckland supporters were less impressed, the tackle stopping the start of an attack. Hardisty looked shocked, then smiled. Ken remembers him coming over afterwards and shaking his hand.

He doesn’t think his dad was with him that day. He thinks he was on his own.

Football never arrived in Ken’s life. It was always there.

Other boys went to the beck, the stream that ran nearby, or into the woods. Ken went with the ball. Always with the ball. He can’t remember getting his first one, only that he always had one.

After school was his favourite time of day. Three o’clock. Dribbling in and out of the white lines painted on the road home, then straight up to the recreation ground. He walked to school every day, ball under his arm, even though there was a bus.

Breakfast was simple. Cornflakes. His favourite meal was beans on toast. Still is.

Winters could be harsh. Snow covered the roads. His dad would clear them with the plough, and Ken would jog behind it on the way to school. If the driveway was blocked, it was cleared so he could have a kick. Weather rarely stopped him.

He wore sandshoes most days, boots for football. They weren’t brilliant. Wet Saturdays were just Saturdays in the North of England. The sound of the ball on stone walls was a dull thud. His mother always knew where he was.

If he couldn’t get out, he read. Football annuals. Football cards. Licking his fingers to turn the pages while waiting for the chance to play again.

Television was black and white. Match of the Day on Saturday nights showed him new things. Different goals. Players running with the ball. Diving headers. The next day he would be out practising what he’d seen, alone if necessary, becoming Tom Finney or Stanley Matthews in his own mind.

He was good at other sports. Decent at cricket. A strong tennis player. A very good athlete. He won the 100, 200 and 400 yards at school. But none of it competed with football.

While other boys his age played in the woods, Ken, six or seven years old, played football with older boys at the rec. He was always challenged. Losing taught him resilience. When something went wrong, he worked harder. Got the ball out and battered it against the wall until it felt right again.

He didn’t talk much on the pitch. He let his football do the talking. He wasn’t a bragger. He was loved in the village. People noticed him without making a fuss.

He was never lonely. There was always a ball.

Looking back now, he says football was everything to him.

“If I look at it now,” he says, “it was like a marriage.”

When asked where home feels like now, he says it’s where we live today. But when we watch English television and he sees a village, a lane, a patch of countryside, he still says, smiling, just like Copley.

Copley gave him space.
Family gave him security.
Football gave him direction.

This is where the story begins.

Why Football Isn’t Covered

A media and ownership explainer

Remembering a different paper

I remember a time when football appeared more often in the local paper.

Not just finals.
Not just opening rounds.
Ordinary weekends, with local results and familiar names.

That memory isn’t nostalgia.
It reflects a different media structure.

When The Mercury was locally owned

For much of its history, The Mercury was owned and operated locally by Davies Brothers. Editorial decisions were made in Hobart, by people who lived in the community the paper served. Local sport mattered because local life mattered. Football sat naturally alongside cricket, bowls, racing and school sport as part of the weekly rhythm.

People like Walter Pless, a teacher by profession and a long-time football writer by passion, contributed regular football coverage over many years. His work reflected what actually happened across Tasmanian grounds each weekend and was widely respected within the football community.

The ownership shift

That structure began to change in the 1980s.

Ownership shifted first to the Herald and Weekly Times, and later into the News Corp Australia stable. This was not a moral turning point. It was a structural one.

National ownership brought economies of scale, syndicated content and different priorities. Editorial focus increasingly aligned with sports that carried national commercial value and broadcast relevance. Coverage flowed towards codes that delivered audience, advertising and subscription return across multiple platforms.

Newspapers and broadcast working together

This is where the link between newspapers and broadcasting matters.

For many years, News Corp newspapers and Foxtel sat within the same commercial ecosystem. Newspapers didn’t just report on sport. They promoted broadcasts, previewed matches, amplified commentary and reinforced which sports were worth watching on television. Coverage and promotion worked in the same direction.

This didn’t require instruction or pressure.
The incentives were already aligned.

Sports like the Australian Football League and elite cricket are not just games. They are media products. Regular coverage supports broadcast value, drives subscriptions and keeps audiences engaged between matches. It is efficient, repeatable content.

Why football sits outside that system

Football, particularly local and community football, sits outside that ecosystem.

It is fragmented.
It spans multiple competitions and age groups.
It is played across dozens of grounds at overlapping times.
It produces participation at scale, but little broadcast leverage.

From a production perspective, it is difficult and expensive content for a shrinking newsroom.

An OTT and broadcast rights perspective

I studied OTT platforms and broadcast rights as part of my AFC coursework. In football-first countries, domestic football anchors the entire media economy. Broadcast platforms exist because football drives subscriptions. Coverage follows naturally.

Australia is different.

We have multiple football codes competing for attention. Legacy media aligned early with some and not others. Those alignments hardened over time.

Legacy influence is the momentum of past decisions. Once a sport dominates coverage for long enough, it begins to feel normal, expected, and permanent. That dominance is reinforced by habit, advertising relationships and audience expectation.

Football arrived late to that system and never fully integrated into the commercial media model.

That does not make football small.
It makes it inconvenient.

But football does get coverage

It is worth saying that football does still receive coverage.

National competitions like the A-League are reported on. The Socceroos and Matildas receive attention, particularly during major tournaments. And football is never absent when there is a scandal, controversy or an opportunity to critique fan behaviour.

But this is not local coverage.

It is national, episodic and easily accessible online. It does little to reflect the weekly reality of football in Tasmania, where hundreds of games are played every weekend by juniors, women, men, referees, coaches and volunteers who rarely see themselves acknowledged.

Personally, I find myself less engaged with the A-League now than I once was. Too many years were spent hoping, pushing and waiting for Tasmania to be meaningfully included. The absence of consistent local coverage also means fewer eyeballs on screens, fewer subscriptions and less perceived value added to broadcast rights. In that context, it is hard to ignore the uncomfortable possibility that this very invisibility is part of the reason Tasmania may never be seen as commercially viable for inclusion.

That distance has changed how I consume the game, but it hasn’t changed how deeply football exists here.

A changing broadcast landscape

More recently, Foxtel moved into new ownership under DAZN, a global streaming platform focused on efficiency, scale and return on investment rather than tradition or cultural legacy. Expensive domestic rights are now assessed through a different commercial lens.

What that means long-term remains to be seen. Ownership changes do not guarantee change. But they do loosen assumptions that once felt fixed.

Not ideology, but structure

I am not a fan of Rupert Murdoch or the political influence his media has exerted over decades. But this is not an argument about ideology. It is an explanation of how ownership, commercial alignment and broadcast strategy shape what is visible and what quietly disappears.

Football did not stop happening.
It stopped being seen.

How football adapted

So football adapted.

At many clubs, media and communications have become near full-time roles. Content is produced to keep sponsors engaged, promote attendance, document participation and tell stories that would otherwise go untold. Websites, social media, newsletters, photography and video now sit alongside coaching and administration.

This is not self-promotion.
It is survival.

A small personal ritual

I still subscribe to The Mercury.

Partly out of habit.
Partly out of loyalty to local journalism.
And partly, if I am honest, just in case.

Most days I skim straight to the back. I flick through the last pages, not really reading, just checking. Looking for a scoreline. A name. A photograph that suggests football has slipped back in.

It rarely has.

That small ritual probably says more than any media analysis. Coverage doesn’t just inform. It trains expectation. And over time, even those of us deeply involved in the game stop expecting to be seen.

Why this matters

This is not a plea for more coverage.
It is a 101 explanation of why coverage looks the way it does.

And perhaps a reminder that what is not reported still matters, still exists and still deserves to be remembered.

Goodbye 2025. Welcome 2026

One of Nikki’s fab photos

I want to write this down in case I forget.

Not the events, they are easy enough to list but the texture of the year. How it felt to live inside it.

2025 was a big year for me.

Stepping away

I stepped away from the Presidency of South Hobart Football Club after seventeen years. That sentence still lands heavily. Not because I regret the decision but because it marked the end of a long season of responsibility. The kind that seeps into your thinking and stays there long after the meetings end.

I am still learning who I am in football without a badge or a title attached.

Ken stepped back too, giving up senior coaching roles after more than fifty years in football. Watching someone who has shaped his entire adult life around the game feel a little lost has been confronting. There is grief in that, even when the decision is right.

We are learning, together, what it means to still belong without being central.

Max left for Melbourne, chasing opportunity and growth in his coaching. That was a proud moment and a tender one. You don’t spend decades building something as a family without feeling the pull when one of you needs to step beyond it.

I am glad he went. I miss him too.

The joy alongside it

The trips away this year were genuinely fun. Nikki came with us and at one point Ken said he felt like he was travelling with two wives. He was constantly fussed over, checked on and looked after.

It became a running joke but there was something quietly lovely in it too.

Those trips were for Australian Championship games, Wollongong, Marconi and Heidelberg. It was fabulous to see other clubs competing in the NPL system and to experience the level they operate at.

The gap is not huge. The football certainly isn’t. The money, perhaps, is.

Those shared moments, away from home, reminded me how much joy still sits alongside responsibility.

Building and sustaining

Ned continued to do an outstanding job as Academy Director, providing consistency, structure and calm leadership. He has been trusted by players, parents and coaches alike and the Academy numbers this year reflect that.

Parents are choosing organisation, professionalism, certainty and child safety for their children and they are prepared to pay for it. That tells its own story about where community football is heading.

Pete Edwards joined South Hobart Football Club and Morton’s Soccer School later in the year, after what he described as the longest interview process he had ever experienced for a coaching role.

His arrival added depth and energy to the program and complemented the foundations already in place.

On the field, the club competed in the Australian Championships. We travelled to watch them play. We hosted powerhouse clubs at home. We welcomed South Melbourne to KGV in the Australia Cup after winning the Lakoseljac Cup.

There were moments when I stood back and simply took it in.

Not pride exactly. Something quieter. A sense of perspective.

Nick won a third Best Player award this year. Three in a row. Watching that level of consistency, professionalism and resilience never gets old. He goes about his football with standards that don’t waver.

He also fielded offers from clubs in Tasmania and interstate. Recognition like that doesn’t happen in isolation. It is earned over time, through work, behaviour and care for the game.

The work and the weight

I also want to acknowledge the Board of South Hobart Football Club. Working alongside them this year has been one of the quiet strengths of 2025.

They love the game as deeply as I do and they carry that love with resilience and care.

Over the past two years we worked relentlessly on our bid for inclusion in the Australian Championships as a foundation member. The volume of work was immense. There were knockbacks, moments of limited support and long stretches where it felt like we were carrying the weight alone.

We can pretend that being knocked back is fine.
We can rally, regroup and carry on.
But the truth is, it wears you down.

There was a familiar feeling too. The here we go again sense of coming close, of almost making it, of being asked to prove ourselves one more time. It exposed divisions in the game that are hard to ignore.

And yet, through all of it, the Board remained engaged, principled and committed. That kind of resilience doesn’t happen by accident. It is earned, collectively, over time.

There was, however, one issue this year that cut deeply. It wasn’t a football issue, but it affected everything. It gnawed away at me and triggered a constant sense of unfairness, of asking, over and over, why is this happening to my club?

It tested my mental resilience in ways I didn’t expect and at times it was genuinely damaging.

Ten years of criticism and blame will do that to a person. Ten years of having to justify your existence, to answer every complaint directed at you.

Continuing as I was became unsustainable.

I’m not ready to name it yet, but I carry it with me into 2026 with clearer boundaries than before.

Scale and momentum

Both South Hobart and CRJFA continue to face the daily challenge of fitting thousands of children onto too few grounds. It is a constant exercise in compromise, goodwill and logistics.

Football is thriving. Participation is strong. Demand keeps growing. The system around it strains to keep up.

I would be remiss not to mention the Hobart Cup. The biggest Junior and Youth tournament in Tasmania (of any sport) and one that still takes my breath away each year.

In 2025 we held our breath over the weather, as always, knowing how much rides on a few days in September. This year it held.

Record numbers entered.
Record numbers attended.
Grounds full from morning to night.
Kids everywhere.
Families everywhere.

It was a fabulous showcase of football and of what is possible when the game grows beyond what can realistically be run as a purely volunteer event.

There are signs of movement. A new building at D’Arcy Street. New lights at Wellesley. Projects that take years to materialise and even longer to advocate for.

They represent progress, even when it arrives slowly.

Looking ahead

Some of my favourite moments of the year are imagined ones, still forming. Sitting in the new clubhouse, hopefully in 2026, having a drink with Murray and looking out over a space shaped by decades of effort and belief.

I remain in awe of those who support the club financially and of those who turn up, quietly and consistently, to do the work that keeps football alive.

The people who make the whole thing function rarely ask to be noticed.

I have written a lot this year. To remember. To make sense of more than twenty years spent inside football, governance and community life.

Writing has become a way of choosing how I stay connected, without losing myself in the process.

As I move into 2026, I feel something I didn’t expect.

Optimism.

Not the glossy kind. Not optimism that ignores structural problems or hard truths. But a steadier sense that change is possible and that I can choose how close I stand to the fire.

So this is my goodbye to 2025.

A year of endings, shifts and recalibration.

And my welcome to 2026.

A year that feels open, lighter and full of possibility.

Football Faces Tasmania Peter Mies

Peter Mies at Launceston Juventus.
Photo: The Examiner.

I interviewed Peter Mies some time ago, never imagining I would one day be sharing his words after his passing.

Peter’s life in football spanned decades, continents, clubs, and generations. He played, coached, captained, administered, volunteered and supported the game in Tasmania for over sixty years. More than that, football was how he found belonging as a migrant, how he built lifelong friendships and how his family remained connected across three generations.

This interview is shared largely in Peter’s own words. I have resisted the urge to polish or rewrite them. What follows is not a tribute written about him but a record of how he spoke about the game he loved, the people who mattered most to him and the life football gave him.

What are your first football memories and did any particular person instil a love of football into you?

On the push bike early Saturday mornings in Holland, aged seven. Playing football in the snow. It did not matter what the weather, I just loved to play.

How long have you been involved in football and what roles have you played?

I have been involved for seventy-five years. I have been coach, captain, Tasmanian representative, president, life member. I am still Club Patron of Launceston Juventus, LCFC.

You name it. I have done it.

Tell us what football was like in Tasmania when you first got involved. Was it better, worse, different? How has it changed?

Many players were migrants that came from Europe. The standard was generally better, some teams were better for sure. The players are generally fitter now though.

Did you have role models or football heroes, or anti-heroes for that matter?

Didi, Garrincha, Pelé, Cruyff, Maradona, Messi.

How has football affected you and your family?

When I arrived in Tasmania as a migrant, it was great to have football here so that I could continue playing and continue my love of the game. It was a great way to meet new people and make new friends that also loved the beautiful game.

I have continued this love of the game in Tasmania for over sixty years in all capacities. I have been fortunate to be involved as a player and coach and to win every major trophy on offer in Tasmania.

Football has been a massive part of my family, going across three generations, starting with me and still going strong. I have been fortunate that my son Roger had a great career and I followed him very closely. I also have five grandchildren that have all played football and I have followed them all through their childhood.

Roger’s children, Noah and Ryan Mies, in Launceston, and my daughter Olga’s children, Sam, Zac and Olivia Leon, in Hobart.

I always went with Roger everywhere, including interstate to watch him play as a junior, and then through his senior career. I never missed a game.

I also went interstate to watch my grandsons Noah and Ryan play. I would be watching Noah and Ryan play every weekend in Launceston, and if I was not watching them, I would be in Hobart watching Sam, Zac and Olivia.

Noah, Newcastle Olympic, and Olivia, Clarence Zebras, are still playing. I watch Noah every week on TV on YouTube. I am still very black and white when I watch Launceston City play every week.

Football has given a lot back to me.

Which Tasmanians have affected your involvement in football, both on and off the field, and why?

The biggest influence on my football career has been my beautiful late wife, Christina. She stood by me in everything in life and supported me in every role I had in football.

Christina also became a very well-deserved life member of Launceston Juventus, LCFC, for the many years she ran the club canteen. I lost count.

She always made the hamburgers fresh by hand the night before, as well as organising everything for game day. She helped with any club activities and loved watching me, her son, and her grandchildren play.

She was a great supporter of Launceston Juventus, LCFC, and football in general. A true lady.

If you could make any changes to Tasmanian football, what would you do?

Some aspects of the administration of the game. With all the computers and the like these days, something that should be relatively simple, such as rostering, seems to throw up outcomes that do not make much sense.

The rostering seemed more straightforward when it was run by volunteers with a pen and paper.

Looking back on your football life, what do you think your legacy to the game in Tasmania might be?

I began an amazing family dynasty, where myself, my son Roger, and my grandson Noah are the only family in Tasmanian football history to have three consecutive generations play for Tasmania.

I have overseen the rise of Launceston Juventus as a football powerhouse in Tasmania and have been involved in winning every major trophy available in the state. We are the only club in the north of the state that have played in every year of the State League or NPL since the 1960s.

I have always been an advocate for improving the standard of football in Tasmania and was instrumental in bringing key import players to Tasmania, for example Peter Savill, Peter Sawdon and the Guest brothers. These players helped raise the standard of the game through their own playing quality, but also gave back to Tasmanian football and worked with local players and juniors so they could improve for the betterment of the game.

I am very proud to be the Club Patron at LCFC.

I always played the beautiful game with total passion and commitment, hard but fair. I have kept that philosophy in the way that I have lived my life.

In Football Nothing Has Happened Yet

Ken and I were watching football early one morning, coffee in hand, when the conversation drifted, as it often does, into goals.

When are they scored?
More in the first half or the second?

It is one of those simple questions that opens something bigger. Because almost immediately the familiar criticism surfaced, the one football always seems to carry.

“There aren’t enough goals.”

It is a comment most football people have heard countless times, usually from those more used to sports where the scoreboard is constantly ticking over.

Early mornings and plenty to watch

Perhaps it helps that we are watching a lot of football at the moment.

Early morning kick-offs suit us. The house is quiet. The day has not yet started. We can sit and watch properly.

Premier League.
AFCON.
The EFL Championship.

There have been plenty of goals, plenty of drama, and plenty of different game states to observe. And yet, even with all of that, it is not the number of goals that holds the attention. It is when they come and what they change.

The comparison problem

In Australia, football lives alongside sports like AFL, where a goal is worth six points and scores can climb quickly and dramatically.

There is movement on the scoreboard almost all the time.
Momentum is visible.
Reward feels constant.

Football does not work that way.

A typical match might finish 1–0, 1–1, or sometimes 0–0, and to some eyes that feels underwhelming. But that reaction often comes from measuring football against the wrong standard.

Football is not a high-scoring sport by design. It never has been.

Why low scores create tension, not boredom

In football, goals are rare. That is precisely why they matter.

A single goal can change everything.
A single mistake can decide a match.
A single moment can undo ninety minutes of discipline.

In a 0–0 game, nothing feels settled. Every attack carries possibility. Every defensive error feels dangerous. The longer the score stays level, the greater the tension becomes.

A 1–1 match can feel even tighter. Both teams know that one more goal may be decisive. Risk and restraint exist side by side, and every decision is weighed.

This is not emptiness.
It is suspense.

When goals are actually scored

When Ken and I went back to our original question, the answer was clear.

Across most leagues and competitions, more goals are scored in the second half than the first.

Just under half come before the break.
Just over half come after.

The final fifteen minutes of a match are consistently the most goal-heavy period of all.

This matters, because it explains why football often feels as though it is building rather than exploding early.

A quiet first half does not mean a dull match.
It often means the tension is still forming.

First half control, second half consequence

The first half in football is often cautious. Teams are organised, legs are fresh, mistakes are fewer. It is not unusual for a match to reach half-time scoreless. But this is not a failure of entertainment. It is the laying of foundations.

Most goals come later, when the game loosens and decisions become harder to execute perfectly.

Why the second half opens up

There are sensible reasons for this.

Fatigue begins to show.
Concentration slips.
Defensive structure becomes harder to maintain.

Game state matters too. Once a team is behind, they must take risks. Lines stretch. Spaces appear. Substitutions introduce fresh legs and new problems to solve.

Football rewards patience and punishes small errors. The longer the game goes, the harder perfection becomes.

Discipline still matters

How often have we seen it. A side that sits deep, absorbs pressure, defends for almost ninety minutes, and still finds a way to win.

Not by accident.
By discipline.

By holding shape when legs are heavy.
By saying no to the tempting pass forward.
By trusting teammates to do their job.

Those matches are often dismissed as negative or unattractive, but they are anything but. They are studies in concentration and restraint. They remind us that football is not just about attacking flair, but about collective resolve. Sometimes the most impressive thing a team does is refuse to break.

Where goals actually come from

Most goals are not scored from distance. They are not spectacular. They are not clean.

They come from inside the box.

From close range.
From cut-backs.
From second balls.
From moments when structure finally gives way.

Long-range goals live in the memory, but they are the exception. Football is designed around probability, not beauty. The closer you are to goal, the harder it is to defend perfectly.

This is why teams that sit deep can survive for so long. They are not just defending space. They are defending the most dangerous areas of the pitch. They are limiting probability.

When that discipline holds, the game remains tight. When it cracks, it often cracks suddenly.

Where VAR fits into all of this

This is where modern football complicates the conversation.

The introduction of VAR has led many to feel that football now has even fewer goals, particularly because of marginal offside decisions. Lines drawn so tightly that a shoulder, a knee, or yes, the nose of an attacker appears to cancel out the moment entirely.

Statistically, VAR has not reduced the total number of goals. In some competitions, goals have even increased slightly, largely because more penalties are awarded.

But numbers are not really what people are reacting to.

What VAR changed was how goals are experienced.

A goal used to be instinctive.
Now it is provisional.

The pause.
The wait.
The freeze-frame.
The lines.

When goals are already rare, taking one away, even correctly, feels enormous. Football is a low-scoring game built on flow and emotion. It was never designed to be judged frame by frame.

For a time, VAR chased absolute precision, and in doing so offended football’s sense of fairness. Most competitions have since softened that approach, quietly acknowledging that being technically right is not always the same as being true to the game.

Understanding football on its own terms

Football is often criticised for not offering constant reward, but that criticism misunderstands its nature.

The drama is not in accumulation.
It is in consequence.

Goals arrive less often, but when they do, they carry weight. They reshape the match, the crowd, and sometimes the season.

Perhaps that is why so many of us find ourselves leaning forward in the final stages of a game, even when the score is low. Especially when the score is low.

Because in football, nothing has happened yet.

Master and Servant - paying to be Governed

There is an uncomfortable dynamic at the heart of football governance that we rarely name.

Clubs fund the system.
Governing bodies are paid to run it.
Volunteers deliver it.

Somewhere in that arrangement, roles blur.

We pay to be governed yet often feel unheard. Governing bodies are tasked with serving the game yet must exercise authority. Volunteers carry the workload, yet resist being directed. Everyone feels the tension, even if we lack the language for it.

With some distance from formal roles, and more time to reflect, the patterns have become harder to ignore.

That tension sits uneasily between two ideas.
Master and servant.

Paying to be governed

Football clubs do not sit outside the governance system. They fund it.

Affiliation fees.
Levies.
Licensing costs.
Compliance charges.

Money flows upwards. Clubs pay to participate. They pay to be regulated. They pay to be governed.

It is not unreasonable that payment creates expectation. When clubs contribute financially, they expect to be listened to. They expect decisions to reflect lived reality. They expect the burden to be understood.

This is not entitlement. It is a natural consequence of funding a system from below.

Authority and responsibility

Governing bodies, in turn, carry responsibility for the whole game. They are required to make decisions that apply broadly and consistently. They must balance competing interests. They must say no. They must absorb dissatisfaction.

They cannot please everyone. They are paid because someone has to hold that line.

This is where the relationship becomes strained.

Clubs experience decisions as distant or imposed. Governing bodies experience feedback as constant pressure. Both feel misunderstood.

Neither position is entirely comfortable.

The volunteer shield

Over the years I have heard the phrase many times.

You can’t tell me what to do, I’m a volunteer.

It is often said with conviction, sometimes with frustration, and sometimes with pride. Volunteering is a badge of honour. It signals contribution, generosity and commitment. It carries moral weight.

In many ways, it deserves respect.

But football no longer operates in a space where that statement is entirely true.

Volunteers are subject to rules, standards and decisions made elsewhere. Safeguarding frameworks, licensing criteria, governance requirements and compliance obligations apply regardless of whether a role is paid or unpaid.

Governing bodies can, in fact, tell volunteers what to do.

That reality sits uncomfortably alongside the deeply held belief that volunteering should come with autonomy.

Where it breaks down

This contradiction sits at the centre of much of the frustration in football.

Clubs pay to be governed, and expect to be heard.
Governing bodies are paid to govern, and must exercise authority.
Volunteers deliver the system, and resist being directed.

Each position makes sense on its own. Together, they create friction.

Money changes expectations. Volunteering creates resistance to control. Authority exists without ownership. Responsibility exists without power.

No one feels fully served.

Voice and being heard

Much of the tension plays out around voice.

Who gets to speak.
How they speak.
And whether speaking results in change.

AGMs, emails, committees and formal consultation processes provide opportunities to speak. They do not always provide the experience of being heard.

Being allowed to contribute feedback is not the same as shaping outcomes. When decisions are made elsewhere, or when consultation feels procedural, frustration grows.

The role of the CEO

In practice, the CEO often becomes the central figure in this dynamic.

Over many years as a club President, I dealt with a number of CEOs. Some listened well. Some did not. The difference mattered.

When the relationship worked, the role was manageable, even when issues were complex or decisions were difficult. When it didn’t, the role became significantly harder.

That is not because a President expects agreement. Disagreement is part of governance. It is because, when issues arise, the CEO is often the first and sometimes the only point of contact for clubs trying to navigate the system.

When you are a club President and problems emerge, who do you speak to within the governing body? Who helps interpret decisions, provide context, or offer advice when written rules do not neatly fit lived reality?

Boards are removed by design. Committees meet periodically. Formal processes are slow. The CEO becomes the conduit, the interpreter, the sounding board and sometimes the shock absorber.

In a small football state, this role carries particular weight. There are fewer layers, fewer alternative pathways and fewer places to go. When that central relationship functions well, tension can be absorbed. When it does not, frustration escalates quickly.

This is not about personality or popularity. Most people in these roles are trying to do the right thing. But in a small system, leadership style amplifies existing tension rather than containing it.

The cost of ambiguity

Football sits in an awkward space.

It is funded from below.
Delivered by volunteers.
Governed by paid professionals.

Roles overlap. Expectations collide.

Clubs feel like customers and subjects at the same time. Governing bodies feel like servants and masters at the same time.

This ambiguity is not accidental. It is structural. And it carries a cost.

Frustration.
Burnout.
Disengagement.
Mistrust.

It also leaves people carrying tension that is not theirs to resolve, long after meetings end and emails are sent.

For me, that sense of helplessness and the accumulation of frustration over many years, eventually became a factor in stepping away from formal leadership roles. Not because I stopped caring, but because carrying unresolved tension for too long comes at a personal cost.

None of these are caused by bad intent. They arise when systems outgrow the assumptions they were built on.

An unresolved tension

This is not an argument for less governance, or for unpaid administrators to carry more authority. It is not a call for blame.

It is an attempt to name a paradox.

Football asks clubs to fund the system, governing bodies to control it and volunteers to deliver it. Each role carries expectation. Each carries pressure.

Perhaps the real difficulty is not deciding who is master and who is servant, but acknowledging that the system asks all three to live with that ambiguity, every day.

When Football Outgrew the Volunteer Model

I was prompted to write this after sharing a recent Football Faces interview with Cathy James. She made a simple observation in passing, that football clubs now operate much like small businesses. It landed because it rang true.

It also explained a tension many of us feel but struggle to articulate.

For a long time, football clubs were spoken about as community organisations.
Run by volunteers.
Low cost.
Flexible.

That description once fitted.
It no longer does.

Modern football clubs now operate somewhere between amateur sport and professional enterprise. Expectations have shifted, quietly but decisively, while the structures beneath them have not.

Professional expectations, volunteer labour

Players expect to be paid.
Coaches expect to be paid.
Support staff expect allowances.

Families expect quality programs, safe environments, clear pathways and professional communication. Leagues expect compliance, reporting, licensing and consistency. Sponsors expect professionalism.

At the same time, boards remain unpaid. Canteens are staffed by volunteers. Administration is done after hours. The same six or eight people carry most of the load, year after year.

The tension is obvious.
It is also unsustainable.

Football clubs as small businesses

Whether we like the label or not, most football clubs now operate as small businesses.

They manage substantial budgets.
They pay wages and allowances.
They hire facilities.
They purchase equipment.
They insure people, assets and activities.
They manage risk.
They communicate, market and brand themselves.

Many clubs are registered for GST. They submit BAS statements to the ATO. They maintain financial records and manage cash flow. These are not optional tasks. They are legal obligations.

Clubs also apply for competitive grants, often to fund infrastructure, equipment or participation programs. Grant writing is skilled, time-consuming work. It involves compliance, reporting and acquittals and it carries real consequences if done poorly. This work is largely invisible and almost always unpaid.

Safeguarding and compliance

Child safeguarding alone has transformed how clubs operate, and rightly so.

Clubs are responsible for child safety frameworks, working with vulnerable people checks, education, reporting obligations and compliance. These are critical protections. They take time, care and administrative effort. They are not optional, and they are not light-touch responsibilities.

This work matters deeply. It also adds to the professional load carried by clubs that are still largely powered by volunteers.

Governance and responsibility

Boards are not symbolic. They carry legal and financial responsibility. Decisions have consequences. Compliance matters.

Many clubs are independently audited. Audits cost money but they provide assurance and transparency for boards, members and the wider community. They are part of operating responsibly.

This level of responsibility is one reason board positions are increasingly difficult to fill. It is not apathy. It is caution. People understand, instinctively, that being on a board carries weight, risk and expectation.

Trying to solve the volunteer problem

I remember many conversations over the years around a board table, asking the same question.

How do we tackle the lack of volunteers?

One suggestion was to ask families to staff the canteen once a season, shared across a team. On the surface, it seemed reasonable. Spread the load. Keep costs down. Maintain the volunteer model.

The response was mixed.

Some said they simply did not have the time.
Some said they would rather contribute financially instead.
Some felt it was unfair if everyone did not participate equally.
Some were willing. Some were not.

There was no solution that felt both fair and workable.

When consensus could not be reached, clubs returned to the only mechanism they reliably have.

Registration fees increased.

Bottom-up funding

Football is largely funded from the bottom up.

There are no major broadcast deals filtering down to community clubs. No television windfalls quietly underwriting participation. Football competes with AFL, NRL and cricket for broadcast money and commercial attention and it does so from a weaker position.

As a result, money flows upwards, not downwards.

Clubs pay affiliation fees.
They pay levies.
They pay licensing costs.
They pay to be governed.

Very little flows back.

NPL clubs, in particular, sit in an uncomfortable twilight zone. They are expected to operate like small businesses, with professional standards, paid staff and significant compliance obligations, yet because they are sporting clubs they are often ineligible for small business grants and support. They carry the costs of professionalism without access to the systems designed to support it.

This is not a complaint. It is a structural reality. But it matters when football is criticised for its cost without acknowledging how the game is actually funded.

The shrinking volunteer pool

The volunteer model has also collided with social change.

Two-income households are now the norm. Women work. Evenings are full. The cost of living is higher than ever. Time is scarce.

The old assumptions, mums in the canteen, dads on the committee, no longer reflect how families live. Yet clubs are still expected to function as though that labour will simply appear.

It doesn’t.

Football is expensive

Football is often accused of being expensive. That criticism is not always wrong, but it is rarely placed in context.

Benchmarks are higher than ever. Safety standards, coaching qualifications, facilities, insurance, compliance, communication and expectations have all risen. Clubs are expected to deliver professional experiences while charging community prices.

When volunteer labour cannot be guaranteed and funding does not flow down, costs do not disappear.

They shift.

How boards are really filled

When board vacancies arise, there is rarely a queue. Positions are filled through personal approaches. A tap on the shoulder. A familiar name.

This is often framed as exclusivity or power retention. More often, it is survival.

Clubs do not struggle to find people who care. They struggle to find people who can carry the responsibility, the workload and the time commitment without breaking.

The question we keep avoiding

If football clubs are already operating as small businesses, perhaps the real question is not why volunteers are disappearing, it is why we continue to design systems that rely on unpaid labour, while funding flows only one way?

How many games do top men’s teams actually play

And what Tasmania’s numbers quietly reveal

This post follows an earlier reflection on minutes, squad management and the lived reality inside short seasons. Together, they form part of an ongoing attempt to understand how the structures we build shape the football we end up with, not through blame or solutions but through observation.

After writing about minutes, squads, and the lived reality inside an eighteen-round season, I wanted to step back and look at something simpler.

How many league games senior men’s teams actually play.

Not best-case scenarios.
Not finals.
Not cup runs.

Just the base number of guaranteed competition matches a league provides.

When you line Tasmania up against the rest of Australia and then against the football world more broadly, the gap becomes hard to ignore.

Where Tasmania has been, and where 2026 sits

For many recent seasons, NPL Tasmania has been an eight-team competition playing a triple round robin.

That structure delivered 21 league matches per club and it became the accepted shape of a senior season in this state.

In 2026, that changes.

Football Tasmania has confirmed the men’s NPL will expand to ten teams but the regular season will reduce to eighteen rounds, followed by finals.

At the end of the season, the competition will contract back to eight teams, with the bottom two finishing clubs removed for 2027.

There has been no indication that promotion and relegation will operate beyond this one-off reset.

This matters, because what is being introduced is not long-term movement between tiers but a tightening of access combined with fewer guaranteed games.

How Tasmania compares to other small federations

It is often assumed that Tasmania’s shorter season simply reflects being a smaller federation.

The numbers do not support that.

In the 2025 season, senior men’s NPL competitions in other smaller or comparable federations played:

• South Australia: 22 league rounds

• Northern NSW: 22 league rounds

• Western Australia: 22 league rounds

Tasmania itself played 21 rounds in 2024 and 2025.

Even the smallest NPL federations, such as the ACT, have historically delivered around 21 league matches per season. The Northern Territory operates outside the NPL structure and is not a like-for-like comparison.

So this is not a case of Tasmania always operating at the low end.

In 2026, Tasmania will deliberately reduce its top tier to 18 league matches, placing it below every other NPL competition in the country, including federations facing similar logistical challenges.

Eighteen games in a national context

Across Australia, senior men’s NPL competitions typically provide:

• 26 league games in Victoria

• 30 league games in New South Wales

Same country.
Same national competition framework.
Very different assumptions about what constitutes a senior season.

Eighteen league games does not sit at the lower edge of a wide range.

It sits below it.

What the world considers normal

Internationally, the contrast sharpens further.

In most established football countries, top-tier league seasons are built around:

• 38 league matches in England, Spain, and Italy

• 34 league matches in Germany and France

That is the league alone.

Domestic cup competitions sit on top of that foundation. They do not replace it.

Players live in rhythm.
Week after week.
Enough repetition to absorb mistakes and recover form.

Even Australia’s professional tier operates on a larger base.

The A-League Men provides 26 regular-season matches before finals.

So when we describe the NPL as the highest level of senior football in Tasmania, it is worth being honest about the comparison.

Our top state league offers fewer guaranteed league matches than almost every comparable competition, nationally and internationally.

What a credible benchmark actually looks like

This is not about pretending Tasmania should mirror Europe.

But there is a reasonable middle ground.

Nationally, 22 to 26 league matches is already considered normal for senior NPL competitions. Internationally, anything under thirty is viewed as light.

Against that context, eighteen is not just conservative.

It is structurally limiting.

Decisions about competition length are often framed as unavoidable. In reality, they reflect choices about what level of strain the system is prepared to absorb.

If we are serious about development, retention and performance, the benchmark should at least sit within the national NPL range, not below it.

Quality opposition changes standards

This is not theoretical.

Having recently played NPL clubs such as Marconi Stallions, Wollongong Wolves and Heidelberg United, the difference in tempo, pressure and decision-making was evident.

These are clubs coming out of much larger league programs.

In 2025:

• Marconi and Wollongong Wolves each played 30 league matches in NPL NSW

• Heidelberg United played 22 league matches in NPL Victoria

State cup competitions then sit on top of that base:

• NSW clubs contest the Waratah Cup, typically adding several knockout matches depending on progression

• Victorian clubs contest the Dockerty Cup, where Heidelberg’s run to the final added six additional high-quality games

Tasmanian clubs, by contrast, are operating in a system that delivered 21 league matches in recent seasons, dropping to 18 in 2026, with the Lakoseljac Cup layered on top.

The difference is not talent.

It is exposure.

More league games mean more repetition under pressure, more consequences and more opportunities for standards to harden.

When players are regularly tested, standards rise.
When they are not, progress is slower.

What this gap means for Tasmanian football

The consequences are not abstract.

They show up when Tasmanian teams step into national tournaments.
They show up when players trial interstate.
They show up when coaches try to bridge the gap between strong training environments and elite match demands.

Players are not underprepared because they lack effort.

They are underexposed.

The ceiling for Tasmanian football is shaped less by talent than by how often that talent is tested under genuine pressure.

Cup competitions add games, but not certainty

Cup competitions matter.

Tasmanian clubs contest the Lakoseljac Cup.
Interstate NPL clubs contest the Waratah Cup (NSW) and Dockerty Cup (Vic).

But these are knockout competitions.

For some clubs, a cup run may add several matches.
For others, it may add one game and then elimination.

Cup football is unpredictable by design.

It cannot be relied upon to provide consistent match volume across a squad, across a season, or across a league.

At best, cups supplement a strong league calendar.

They do not replace one.

A long-standing alternative that never quite landed

For many years, while I was president of SHFC and with the continuous encouragement of Ken Morton as senior NPL coach, we advocated for a four-round season with eight teams.

A true double home-and-away, played twice.

Equal.
Predictable.
More games.

Four rounds would have delivered 28 league matches, while maintaining competitive balance.

The pushback was familiar.

Volunteer burnout.
Travel.
Ground access.
Capacity.

Those concerns are real.

But they now sit alongside another reality.

Clubs at this level increasingly operate as small businesses, managing compliance, facilities, staff, academies and year-round programs. (Plenty of material for a standalone blog post here)

Adaptation is already happening, whether we acknowledge it or not.

Football’s place in the sporting ecosystem matters

There is another layer to this.

In many countries, football is the dominant sport.

It shapes calendars, ground access, and scheduling priorities.

Australia is different.

Football here is one of many sports competing for finite resources. Grounds, volunteers, council priorities, media attention and funding are shared with codes that are historically dominant and deeply entrenched.

Football is often fitted into available windows rather than planned as the organising framework.

The outcome is predictable.

Shorter competitions.
Compromised calendars.
Reliance on workarounds.

This is not about ambition or size.

It is about alignment between what we call elite football and how we structure it.

What this follow-up is really saying

The first post was about minutes and people.

This one is about scale, quality, and intent.

Tasmania’s top men’s competition now sits:

• Below other small federations nationally

• Below the broader NPL standard

• Well below professional and international benchmarks

At the same time, access is being tightened and consequences increased.

Fewer guaranteed games.
Higher pressure.
Limited exposure to elite opposition.

If standards are to rise, the pathway is not mysterious.

More high-quality games produce better football.

The number of games a league schedules tells you exactly how serious it is about development, retention and performance.

And right now, eighteen does not say what we think it says.

Football Faces Tasmania - Cathy James

Cathy James

Cathy James has moved on from Kingborough Lions now, but she remains one of the truly inspirational volunteers we interviewed.

Hard-working, dedicated, and quietly effective, Cathy is the kind of person every club relies on and rarely celebrates. She did not see her contribution as anything special. She simply showed up, again and again, and did what needed to be done.

This interview captures Cathy’s story in her own words, and reflects the care, commitment, and generosity that underpin community football in Tasmania.

Tell us YOUR story about how you became involved in football and what you love about the game and the community:

My “Football Story” is not one of wanting to be a Matilda – there were no Matildas in the 1970s. It is not one of having a “football hero” and following their career. My involvement in Football is an accident.

Growing up in Oakville, a tiny town (it had a school and a fire station) on the outskirts of Sydney. The readily available team sport option for girls was Netball. And yet, funnily enough, Matilda, Courtney Nevin, went to the same Primary School and played for the Oakville Ravens – which just shows how rapidly things can change in the world of Football.

My first Football memory is: “thank goodness, a sport other than netball”. Arriving at High School I discovered there were other amazing sports – hockey, cricket, volleyball and soccer. Soccer as it was still know then, didn’t rate highly against the other football codes, Rugby Union and Rugby League, and it was only played by English and European immigrants. However, soccer could be played by girls. There was one InterSchool Tournament per year and while I wasn’t a shining star, I was committed.

My real involvement in football began when I wanted my kids to play team sport – I chose Football. It was a sport I had enjoyed and it is also a sport that anyone at any age can play – it’s running; there is limited throwing or catching. With 3 kids playing for Kenthurst Soccer Club I put the boots back on and that was 20 years ago. And, in the meantime, 2006 FIFA World Cup and all of Australia fell in love with Football and the Socceroos.

The thing about sport is it’s a bridge-builder. When you relocate, whether it’s across town or to a new state, you can join a sporting club and you’ve got something in common with people in the community. 15 years ago, the family moved to Tasmania, into the Kingborough region, joined Kingborough Lions United FC and never left – well that’s 4 of us. Even after all these years, I cannot convince my husband of the merits of the round ball game.

While the game of Football has many highs and lows being involved in a Club can support people through their highs and lows. While in my playing days, I have often been described as “uncoachable”, I have always given 100% effort, pretty much like now as a volunteer. And, dare I say it, my best game of Football was played a few days after my Dad died fully supported by my Football family.

Another thing about being involved in a Not-For-Profit Community Sporting Club is, that without volunteers and money they don’t thrive. I have a lot of a “can do” attitude and my daily mantra is “how can I make a difference today”. I have been a player, a team manager, the Club Secretary/Adminstrator/Registrar, Kiosk Manager. I have enjoyed all the benefits of being a player – coaching, equipment, playing strip, facilities, so for me it’s a natural progression to “give back”. Registration fees do not cover all the costs required if Clubs were to pay people to do all the activities it takes to get teams on the park and down here in Clubland there are plenty of inspirational people to keep you going.

At Kingborough I’ve been lucky to play with and work with some incredible people. There are families here that have had multiple generations come through and I’m sure there are other Clubs that have benefitted from the same thing. The list of people in Tasmanian Football that inspire me is endless. Bernie Siggins was an amazing “can do and will do” man and was a true inspiration to all players and volunteers at Kingborough Lions United FC. Brian & Jill Dale truly love and care for their Club and have put years of time and energy into it. I know each Club has role models like these and they don’t do it for the acknowledgement they “just do it”.

Football in Tasmania is rapidly changing. Community Clubs are having to comply with regulations – food business, RSA, workplace health & safety, and recently COVID-19.

Clubs are small businesses with massive interests in their communities. We currently have 2 Clubs vying for selection to be WWC 2023 Base Camps; we’re building towards having A-League and W-League teams. Football has massive participation across males & females. It is a great time to be involved in Football in Tasmania. And, it is a great time to be a Volunteer in Football in Tasmania.

Do you want to join the Board of Football Tasmania? Here is how

Governance is often dismissed as boring. Paperwork. Process. People in rooms talking in circles.
And sometimes, honestly, it is.

But governance is also where decisions are made, power is exercised and priorities are set. If you care about football, eventually you run into governance whether you want to or not. Understanding it is not about enjoying it. It is about knowing how the system you are part of actually works.

Who this is for

This post is for anyone who has ever said they are unhappy with the way football is governed in Tasmania and wondered what, realistically, they could do about it.

One option, often spoken about but rarely explained, is joining the Board.

So here is how that actually works.

Not in theory.
Not in whispers.
In practice.

Who actually elects the Board

The Board of Football Tasmania is not elected by the football public. There is no popular vote. Parents, players, coaches and volunteers do not vote directly for Board members.

The Board is elected by members.

A member is not an individual. A member is a recognised body, usually a club, a regional association or a formally recognised committee, acting through an authorised representative. That representative votes on behalf of their organisation.

Most individuals involved in football are not members in a governance sense. Their club or association is the member and it votes through a delegate.

This matters, because it means being well known or well liked is not enough. Support has to be built at an organisational level.

Getting nominated

If you want to be elected, you must first be nominated.

Nominations must be made formally. They require proposers and a seconder who are themselves members or directors. They must be submitted by a specified date and include statutory declarations about conflicts of interest and suitability.

This is not casual. It is designed to be deliberate.

How voting actually works, Borda Count explained

If more people nominate than there are positions available, an election is held at the AGM. Voting is done using a preferential system known as the Borda Count.

If that sounds abstract, it is actually quite familiar.

Most football clubs already use a version of this every week. After a match, coaches or designated club people award three votes, then two, then one, for best on ground. Those votes accumulate across the season and at the end, the player with the strongest overall contribution is recognised.

The Borda Count works the same way.

Members rank candidates in order of preference. First preference carries the most weight, then second, then third. Those preferences are converted into points and added up across all ballots. The candidate with the highest total is elected.

It rewards broad respect rather than narrow support. A candidate who is consistently rated second or third by many voters can outperform someone who is first for a few and last for many.

Who is eligible and who is not

Eligibility is where many people come unstuck.

The constitution excludes people who hold certain operational roles within football. This is not personal. It is structural. The intention is to separate governance from day-to-day administration.

In a small state, that exclusion matters. Many of the most experienced people in football hold multiple roles. To stand for the Board, choices have to be made. Some roles must be relinquished.

That is uncomfortable but it is also honest.

The narrow exception for the President

There is a narrow exception relating to the President role.

In simple terms, it allows someone who has already served on the Board but not yet as President, to extend their service for continuity. It does not override conflict rules or eligibility requirements.

It exists to avoid constant churn at the top, not to create a loophole.

Elected directors and appointed directors are not the same thing

It is important to understand that not all Board positions are elected.

The constitution allows the Board to appoint a limited number of directors. These are not community elections. They are internal appointments, usually justified on skills or experience grounds.

This pathway exists, but it is controlled by the Board and should not be confused with an election by members.

How many directors are elected, and how many are appointed

The constitution sets a clear limit on this and it is worth spelling out.

The Board of Football Tasmania can have a maximum of eight directors.

Of those, six must be elected by the members. That includes the President and five other directors.

Only two directors can be appointed by the Board.

This matters, because it means appointed directors can never form a majority. Appointment is designed to supplement the Board, not control it. Elections remain the primary source of authority and legitimacy.

In other words, on paper at least, the system prioritises member choice. If governance feels distant or unresponsive, that is not because the constitution removes power from members. It is because the member bodies who hold that power are not always engaged, informed, or active in using it.

A personal example, and why structure matters

I hold more than one role in Tasmanian football or at least I did.

At different times, I have been President of a club and President of a regional association. On paper, that can look like influence. In practice, governance does not work that way.

Votes at an AGM do not belong to people. They belong to organisations.

CRJFA has one vote.
South Hobart Football Club has one vote.

Each vote must be exercised by an authorised delegate. Even if one person holds multiple roles, they do not get multiple votes in the room. One person, one vote, even when wearing more than one hat.

That distinction matters.

It reinforces that governance power sits with structures, not personalities. It also explains why transparency around delegates, declarations and representation is important. The system is designed to prevent influence accumulating simply because someone is willing, or able, to hold multiple positions.

In a small football community, many of us do hold multiple roles. That makes clarity even more important, not less.

The responsibility of being on a Board

Before anyone puts their hand up, there is a harder question to ask.

Why do you want to join the Board?

Being on a Board is not just turning up to a two-hour meeting once a month. It carries legal, financial and ethical responsibility. Directors are responsible for the health of the organisation, not a single program, club or constituency.

It involves reading papers, understanding risk, making decisions with imperfect information and sometimes supporting outcomes you personally disagree with because they are in the organisation’s best interests.

Boards move slowly by design. Change through governance is incremental, procedural and often frustrating. It requires patience, judgement and the ability to see beyond immediate pressure.

Stepping into responsibility

There is a truth we rarely say out loud.

If you want change in football governance, responsibility does not sit with “them”. It sits with the member bodies who vote. If those bodies do not engage, do not ask questions or do not challenge constructively, the system simply reproduces itself.

I have written before about Football Tasmania Annual General Meetings that pass quietly. Reports are tabled. Motions are carried. No questions are asked. Everyone goes home.

Those moments matter more than we like to admit.

Silence at AGMs is not neutrality. It is consent. Governance does not drift by accident. It drifts because participation stops at attendance rather than engagement.

Understanding how to get elected is not about ambition.
It is about accountability.

If you are unhappy with governance in Tasmania, this is one of the legitimate ways to step into responsibility rather than stand outside it.

It is not easy.
It is not fast.
But it is how the system is designed to work.

Novice questions answered

Am I a member?
Usually no. In governance terms, your club or association is the member, not you as an individual.

Who actually votes?
Your club or association appoints a delegate. That delegate votes on its behalf.

When do elections happen?
Elections occur at the Annual General Meeting, when Board terms expire or vacancies arise.

What is the first step if I am interested?
Talk with your club or association about whether they understand and are prepared to engage in, governance.

Can I just nominate myself?
No. Nominations must be proposed and seconded and must meet eligibility and conflict requirements.

What is a Constitution, really, and why it matters that ours is hard to find

We use the word constitution a lot.

In football.
In governance.
In moments of frustration when people talk about boards, decisions, and power.

But we rarely stop to explain what a constitution actually is.

That matters more than most people realise.

Constitution 101

A constitution is the founding rulebook of an organisation.

It is the document that decides:

• who holds authority

• how decisions are made

• who gets a vote

• how leaders are chosen and removed

• what members can and cannot do

Everything else sits underneath it.

Policies.
Regulations.
By-laws.
Codes of conduct.

If there is a conflict, the constitution wins.

That is not theory.
That is how incorporated organisations work.

This document exists for members, clubs, volunteers, and anyone who wants to understand how football power actually works.

What “incorporated” actually means

Football Tasmania is an incorporated entity.

That means it exists as a legal body in its own right, separate from the individuals involved in it.

Incorporation allows organisations to:

• enter contracts

• employ staff

• hold insurance

• protect volunteers from personal liability

But there is a trade-off.

An incorporated body must operate according to its constitution.

Not by custom.
Not by habit.
Not by who has always been there.

By the document.

Why constitutions exist at all

Constitutions exist because of power.

Whenever groups grow beyond a handful of people, the same questions emerge.

Who decides.
On what authority.
According to which rules.

A constitution is meant to answer those questions before conflict arises.

It replaces personality with structure.
It limits arbitrary decision-making.
It creates predictability and accountability.

In sport, this matters deeply, because passion often runs ahead of process.

What a constitution does not do

A constitution does not run competitions.

It does not select teams.
It does not schedule fixtures.
It does not deal with day-to-day operations.

Those things sit with staff, regulations, and policies.

What the constitution does is decide who has the authority to do those things.

That distinction is critical, and often misunderstood.

Good practice, not perfection

Constitutions are not meant to change every year.

Good governance practice is not constant rewriting.

It is:

• periodic review

• updates when laws or structures change

• clarity about whether amendments have occurred

• transparency for members

Many constitutions last decades.

That alone is not a problem.

Uncertainty is the problem.

Members should be able to tell, without effort:

• which constitution is in force

• when it was adopted

• and where to find it

Why visibility is not a small thing

Because the constitution is foundational, it should be easy to locate.

Not buried.
Not obscured.
Not treated as insider knowledge.

This is not about website design.

It is about legitimacy.

You cannot engage meaningfully with a system you cannot see.

And you cannot hold a structure to account if you do not know how it is meant to work.

Whether intentional or not, difficulty of access has the same effect as opacity.

What a reasonable person would expect

A reasonable person, looking for the governing document of football in Tasmania, would expect to find it:

• under Governance

• under Official Documents

• or clearly within About Us

They would expect it to be clearly labelled and easy to identify as current.

That is not demanding.
That is standard practice.

What actually happens

In practice, the constitution is difficult to find.

It is not listed alongside regulations or official documents.

To locate it on the Football Tasmania website, you must:

• hover over Football Tasmania in the main menu

• click About Us

• scroll right down the page - almost to the bottom

• locate a small text link labelled “View our Constitution”

• open a PDF

When you do, you discover the document is dated October 2009.

It still refers to Football Federation Tasmania.

This is the document currently guiding football governance in Tasmania.

Why this should give us pause

This is not about blame.

It is about systems.

The constitution determines:

• how the Board is elected

• who gets a vote

• who is excluded

• how authority flows

• where accountability sits

When that document is hard to find, governance becomes abstract.

Abstract governance favours insiders.
Even when no one intends it to.

A challenge, not a complaint

If we want better governance conversations in football, we need better governance literacy.

That starts with making the constitution:

• visible

• clearly identified

• treated as the foundational document it is

Not hidden.
Not assumed.
Not reserved for those who already know where to look.

Clear systems invite engagement.
Opaque systems shut it down.

What comes next

Once you understand what a constitution is, the next question is unavoidable.

If you are unhappy with football governance, how do you actually influence it.

That requires understanding Board elections, voting rights, and eligibility.

That is a separate post.

And it is one we should probably be brave enough to read.

Governance only works when the rules are visible to the people governed by them.