Governance + Politics
Vale Glen Roland
Thanks to South East for the photo. A perfect photo of Glen.
For Glen Roland, a Big Man with an Even Bigger Heart
Some news stops you in your tracks.
The sudden passing of Glen Roland, President of South East United Football Club, is one of those moments.
A young man taken far too soon.
A man with a family who adored him.
A football person, through and through.
And a club leader who carried more than most people will ever see.
Today, my heart is with the South East United community and most of all with Glen’s family, his loved ones and the people who will now have to work out how the world continues without him.
Because the truth is, when you lose someone like Glen, it is never just the loss of one person.
It is the loss of a whole centre of gravity.
Football is not just a game
This is one of the reasons I write.
Because from the outside, football clubs can look like something simple.
A weekend hobby.
A bit of sport.
Eleven players, a referee, some goals, a few cheers.
But anyone who has lived inside a club knows the truth.
A football club is a community.
A football club is belonging.
A football club is family.
A football club is the thing that holds people together when life is hard.
And sometimes, heartbreakingly, it is the thing that people pour themselves into right up until the end.
Glen was more than a President
South East United has shared the sad news of Glen’s passing, and their words were true.
Glen was far more than a President.
He was one of those club leaders who doesn’t just “hold the position”.
He holds the whole club.
The organising.
The worrying.
The meetings.
The emails.
The quiet planning nobody sees.
The constant pressure.
The responsibility.
And still, he showed up.
A leader driven by love
I spoke with Glen not that long ago.
And what I saw was not ego.
Not status.
Not politics.
I saw love.
He loved his club.
He loved his people.
He cared deeply about what South East United could become and what it could offer the players and families who belong there.
He was ambitious too.
He wanted South East to grow, to be taken seriously, to earn its place.
He was worried about licensing and whether the club would be granted the opportunity to step up.
That matters.
Because licensing is not just paperwork.
It is not just systems and boxes and policies.
For clubs like South East United, licensing is the difference between being told “you are welcome” or being told “you do not belong here”.
And Glen cared because he knew what that outcome would mean to his people.
That was Glen.
Ambitious, driven, determined.
But underneath it all, motivated by love.
The hidden work of volunteer presidents
Volunteer club presidents don’t get applause.
They don’t get press conferences.
They don’t get an annual wage.
What they get is the late-night phone calls.
The complaints.
The constant stress.
The weight of being the person everyone expects to fix everything.
They carry the club on their shoulders and then go home and try to be a parent, a partner, a son, a friend.
They do it out of duty and out of care.
And when that kind of person is suddenly gone, it leaves a hole that is hard to describe.
Because they weren’t just a name on a committee list.
They were the engine.
Vale Glen
It is a terribly sad day.
Glen Rowlands was a big man with an even bigger heart.
He mattered to South East United.
He mattered to Tasmanian football.
And he mattered, most of all, to his family.
To Glen’s loved ones, I am so sorry.
There are no words that can meet a loss like this, but please know that the football community feels it with you.
And to South East United, I know your grief will be deep, because your gratitude will be deep too.
Rest in peace Glen.
You will be greatly missed, but never forgotten.
Love from Ken and Victoria
Changerooms: Not a Luxury, Not Grand Designs
Letter to the Editor - The Mercury 21 January 2026
To the Editor,
The Mercury Newspaper
I write in response to the letter published in The Mercury this morning 21 January regarding the cost of upgrading changerooms at a community sporting ground.
In my view, it reflects a narrow understanding of what something as simple as a decent changeroom can mean to the people who use it.
It is not about luxury. It is about belonging.
It is about the quiet message a facility sends to every player, volunteer, coach, parent and referee who walks through the door: you are valued, you matter.
Why would we want our community spaces to send any other message?
For decades in Tasmania, community sport has been expected to “make do”. We have normalised inadequate infrastructure and learned to wear it like a badge of honour.
The truth is, we weren’t tougher. We were simply underprovided for and we got used to it.
A changeroom is not just a concrete box with a light bulb.
It is a public community space. And like any public space, it should meet modern expectations of safety, accessibility and dignity.
That matters for everyone, but especially for women and girls.
We cannot keep saying we want to grow female participation in sport while expecting women’s teams to change in outdated facilities with poor privacy, poor lighting, poor security and little regard for basic comfort.
Many people have no idea how often women and girls have been expected to change in toilets, in cars, or arrive already changed because facilities simply aren’t fit for purpose.
In 2026, sporting facilities must also support child safety and appropriate supervision, not create risk through outdated layouts, poor lighting, and inadequate design.
The same applies to volunteers.
Community sport runs on the backs of volunteers who arrive early, stay late, clean up, lock up, pick up rubbish, comfort children, manage conflict, wash bibs and organise equipment.
The least we can do is provide environments that reflect respect for their time and effort.
And for those who scoff at the cost, I would ask: what do people believe modern public buildings cost?
Construction costs have risen sharply. Compliance requirements are higher. Accessibility standards are non-negotiable. Materials must be durable, vandal resistant, safe and fit for year-round use.
This is not a “Grand Designs” fantasy.
It is what it costs to build properly, once, instead of cheaply, twice.
We rarely see this level of outrage when money is spent on projects that don’t touch community life nearly as directly.
There is also a particular Tasmanian habit of mocking improvement, as though wanting decent public facilities is somehow a character flaw.
Sport is one of the last spaces where Tasmanians still gather across generations, incomes, suburbs and backgrounds.
It gives children routine and belonging.
It builds community identity.
It strengthens wellbeing.
It provides connection, not just competition.
If governments and councils are serious about health, participation and community cohesion, then sport cannot continue to operate out of facilities built for another era, alongside attitudes that suggest we should simply be grateful for whatever we are given.
We should not be mocking changeroom upgrades.
We should be asking why community sport has been expected to tolerate neglect for so long.
Yours sincerely,
Victoria Morton
Hobart
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
Stop Telling Football to be Grateful: Follow up- This is What ‘Apply for Grants’ Looks Like
Photo: Kingborough Lions United Facebook Page
A quick follow-up to Part 3
After publishing Stop Telling Football to be Grateful, Part 3: OMG the Money! I want to add a short follow-up.
Not to re-run the stadium debate.
Not to pick fights.
Simply to add a real-world example that landed this week that perfectly illustrates what I mean when I talk about Tasmania’s funding culture.
Sherburd Park is getting an upgrade (and that is good news)
The Tasmanian Premier, Jeremy Rockliff, announced funding for new changerooms at Sherburd Park in Blackmans Bay.
I want to say this upfront.
This is good news.
Sherburd Park has been a poor facility for a long time. I have visited it many times over the years. Anyone who has spent a wet winter afternoon there understands exactly why this upgrade is needed.
Modern, inclusive changerooms are not “nice to have”.
They are basic sporting dignity, especially for women and girls.
So yes, I’m pleased to see this happening.
What the funding actually looks like
Sherburd Park’s upgrade has been funded through the Tasmanian Government’s Active Tasmania – Active Infrastructure Grants Program.
The funding for Sherburd Park is:
$463,575 in grant funding
with the Premier stating the total co-funded investment is more than $925,000
because it is being matched by Kingborough Council
That co-contribution matters.
Because when people read “government grant”, they often imagine money simply arriving.
But that is not how it works.
A small pool, spread thin
This year’s Active Infrastructure grant pool was $5 million, split across 30 projects.
That is the entire pot.
Statewide.
Across every sport.
Across every region.
And that works out to an average of around $166,000 per project.
It is not hard to see why so many clubs have ageing toilets, unsafe changerooms, no lighting, poor storage and worn-out surfaces.
Not because clubs aren’t trying.
Because the infrastructure need massively exceeds the money available.
The hidden reality: grants require capacity (and cash)
Behind every successful grant announcement is a huge amount of work.
Quotes. Designs. Budgets. Risk documentation. Support letters. Planning. Reporting.
Need isn’t enough. Clubs and councils also need capacity.
And in community sport, capacity usually means volunteer hours.
Capacity is not evenly distributed across Tasmania.
These grants also come with requirements that quietly shape who can even compete.
The program guidelines allow grants in the range of $25,000 to $500,000 and require a minimum 20% co-contribution.
So clubs don’t just need.
They need money.
They need people.
They need time.
This is the point that never makes it into the press releases.
Football people are not just running teams.
They are writing grant applications at night.
They are chasing quotes between work and children.
They are doing governance paperwork so kids can train under a light that actually works.
And what clubs are chasing isn’t glamorous
This matters too.
Most clubs are not applying for luxury items.
They are applying for the unsexy basics:
lights
toilets
changerooms
drainage
storage
safe access
warm, dry spaces where players can get changed with dignity
The things that make weekend sport possible.
Full disclosure
Full disclosure, South Hobart Football Club applied for lighting funding in this same round and was unsuccessful.
That isn’t a complaint.
It’s simply reality.
This program is competitive because the need is enormous and the pool is limited.
The point (and why this follows Part 3)
Sherburd Park getting an upgrade is not the story.
The story is what it reveals.
A funding culture built on scarcity.
A system where clubs are expected to compete for crumbs, carry the admin burden and then be grateful for whatever they can scrape together.
It’s worth saying this clearly, before anyone turns this into the wrong argument.
Football did receive one major grant in this round and Sherburd Park deserves it.
But one successful project doesn’t change the structural reality.
Even in a round where football receives a large grant, the total statewide pool is still only $5 million.
So this is not about football trying to get everything.
It’s about a system where community life, community sport and participation are placed inside a permanent scarcity model.
And scarcity produces predictable outcomes.
Most clubs miss out.
Many committees spend months preparing applications that don’t succeed.
And the infrastructure backlog stays right where it is.
Why this matters in the AFL context
This is why Part 3 mattered.
Football is told to apply for grants.
Football is told to share.
Football is told to co-contribute.
Football is told to be grateful.
AFL doesn’t live inside that same system.
AFL gets structural investment as certainty.
Locked in money.
Large scale money.
Not “if you’re lucky”. Not “if your volunteer committee can write a perfect application”. Not “if you can raise the co-contribution”.
That is the difference.
Football is managed through scarcity.
AFL is funded through certainty.
This isn’t just football (and that matters)
One of my neighbours is heavily involved in the arts.
And they made the same point.
The arts are scrimping too.
Grants. Applications. Co-contributions. Volunteers. Small pools spread thinly across massive need.
It is the same pattern.
Community sport scrimps. The arts scrimp. Councils scrimp. Volunteers fill the gaps.
And the message is always the same:
There isn’t enough money.
But what people are really experiencing is this:
There isn’t enough money for community life.
The real question
If Tasmania is serious about participation, wellbeing, inclusion and active communities, then we need to stop pretending a small competitive grant pool is a solution.
Grants help.
But they do not fix the structural problem.
They manage it.
And they normalise scarcity.
Football people aren’t ungrateful.
They are exhausted.
They are doing the maths.
And they are done being told to clap politely while their sport is squeezed into whatever space and whatever scraps are left over.
Sources / References
Active Tasmania – Active Infrastructure Grants Program (2024–25 successful applicants list)
Premier’s media release / announcement re Sherburd Park funding
Kingborough Lions United Football Club Facebook post
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
Don’t Swear, It’s Not Ladylike. For Fuck Sake.
You are probably wondering why I have become so noisy.
Why I have become so busy in the advocacy space.
Why I keep writing.
Why I keep speaking.
Why I keep turning up.
Why I don’t just let it go, move on, step back, enjoy the quiet life.
Some people will say I am outspoken.
Some will say I am loud.
Some will say I am difficult.
Some will say I make everything about myself.
I’ve heard it all before.
But what I am doing now is not new.
The truth is, I have always had opinions.
I have always had strong instincts about fairness.
I have always noticed who holds power, who gets listened to, who gets dismissed and who gets told to be grateful.
The difference is that now I am saying it out loud.
And that shift did not happen overnight.
It took a lifetime.
This post is not directly about football.
But it is absolutely connected to football, because sport reflects culture and football reflects culture as loudly as anything.
If you want to understand why women hesitate before speaking in meetings, why they soften every sentence, why they apologise before disagreeing, why they get labelled “emotional” or “difficult”, here is one version of that story.
Mine.
I was taught to be quiet
When I was a girl, I was told to be quiet.
Not because I had done something wrong.
Not because I was being rude.
Because I “didn’t know what I was talking about”.
It’s amazing how early girls learn that speaking is risky.
That having an opinion is something you should earn.
That the safest thing to be is pleasant and silent.
I learnt it early.
And I learnt it well.
What school trained into me
At school you had to put your hand up to speak.
Even that simple rule teaches something deeper.
You don’t speak when you think of something.
You speak when you are permitted.
You wait.
You consider whether it’s worth it.
You measure whether the room will approve.
I went to boarding school.
We were made to go to chapel.
And you had to be quiet.
Quiet was not just behaviour.
It was virtue.
Quiet meant good.
Quiet meant obedient.
Quiet meant acceptable.
The kind of quiet that keeps the peace
I got married young.
Actually, more than once.
I got married young.
Actually, more than once.
And in those marriages (not Ken, he is my wonderful number 3) I stayed quiet for the sake of happiness and peace.
Not my own.
That sounds noble when you say it like that.
But it’s not.
It’s not peace if one person is always swallowing their own thoughts.
It’s not happiness if you are constantly managing yourself so the atmosphere stays calm.
It’s compliance.
It’s self-erasure dressed up as maturity.
It’s the quiet women do to survive.
“You’re loud.” “You’re outspoken.”
All my life I was told I was loud.
Or outspoken.
As if that was a character flaw.
As if it was a warning.
As if my job was to soften, not to speak.
I look back now and realise something.
“Loud” is rarely about volume.
It’s about permission.
Women are “loud” when we stop whispering.
Women are “outspoken” when we stop editing ourselves to keep everyone comfortable.
The careful years
When I became President of South Hobart Football Club, I had to be careful.
Careful not to bring the game into disrepute.
Careful not to say the wrong thing.
Careful not to upset someone important.
Careful not to ruffle feathers.
Careful not to offend a politician who might one day decide to give us money.
Careful.
Careful.
Careful.
If you’ve ever sat in leadership as a woman, you know this feeling.
You can feel the invisible line.
Speak too plainly and you’re “unprofessional”.
Speak too strongly and you’re “emotional”.
Speak too often and you’re “dominating”.
Speak at the wrong time and you’re “difficult”.
So you learn to manage yourself.
You learn to read the room.
You learn to phrase truth like a question.
You learn to use the polite voice.
And you become very, very good at it.
I was good at it.
Weaponising speech
At a Football Tasmania AGM I was told it was all about me.
Not my points.
Not the substance.
Not what I was raising.
Me.
That line is designed to do one thing.
Shut you up.
It’s a tactic.
A way to turn advocacy into ego.
To make the person speaking the problem, instead of what they are saying.
To embarrass you in public and warn others not to align themselves with you.
It is not a rebuttal.
It is not leadership.
It is speech used as a weapon.
And I have seen that tactic used on women over and over.
Not just in football.
In meetings, in organisations, in families.
You keep speaking and instead of engaging with the issue, someone says you’re “making it about yourself”.
It is a cheap line.
It works because it creates doubt.
And doubt is often enough to silence a woman who has spent her entire life trying to stay acceptable.
The fear underneath
I was afraid to speak.
Afraid to have an opinion that seemed loud.
Afraid that speaking up would backfire.
Afraid of the consequences.
Afraid of being disliked.
Afraid of being “that woman”.
I let myself be pushed around.
I heard versions of the same message over and over.
You better not do that.
It might backfire.
What will people think?
Maybe just let it go.
Maybe don’t stir things up.
And because I was trained to seek approval, I listened.
What happens when you get older
And then something happens.
You get older.
And you stop caring.
Not in a sad way.
Not in a defeated way.
In a free way.
You stop caring if your clothes aren’t perfect.
You stop caring if you carry too much weight.
You stop caring if you say the wrong thing.
You stop caring if someone thinks you’re too much.
You stop living your life like a performance for other people’s comfort.
You stop shrinking.
You stop apologising.
You stop editing.
You stop asking permission.
And at some point, you look back at all the years you spent trying to be “good”, trying to be “nice”, trying to be “ladylike”, trying to be quiet and acceptable and palatable and manageable, and you just think:
Fuck me.
I am not available for silence anymore
This is not just my story.
It’s a story many women will recognise.
Women who were raised to be good.
To be polite.
To be modest.
To not make it about themselves.
To keep the peace.
To smooth things over.
To be grateful.
And if they ever stepped out of that role, they were called loud.
Outspoken.
Hard work.
Too intense.
Too much.
But “too much” is often just what a woman looks like when she’s finally living in full size.
I’m not interested in being quiet anymore.
Not for comfort.
Not for permission.
Not for approval.
Not for peace that only exists when I swallow myself.
I have opinions.
I have earned them.
I have lived them.
And I will say them.
Football taught me many things.
One of them is this:
Silence protects power.
Stop Telling Football to be Grateful, Part 3: OMG the Money!
Artists impression of the Macquarie Point Stadium - show me the money
Follow the money (and what Tasmania funds and what it doesn’t)
Before I get into the figures, I want to clarify something.
When I say “the Government is funding AFL”, I’m not talking about some separate, mysterious pot of money that has nothing to do with ordinary Tasmanians.
Government money is not magic money.
It’s not someone else’s money.
It is our money.
It comes from taxpayers, ratepayers, workers, business owners, parents, volunteers, clubs, communities, everyone.
Sometimes people talk about “government” as if it is a completely separate entity, floating above society, handing out favours.
But it’s not separate.
It’s us.
So when millions of public dollars go into AFL facilities, AFL programs, AFL pathways and AFL priorities, that is not “AFL getting funding”.
That is Tasmania choosing, through its elected representatives, to direct our shared money into that code.
And if you are a football person, and you pay tax and you coach and you volunteer and you fundraise and you run a canteen and you pay club fees, then you are allowed to ask:
Why does one sport receive structural investment as a certainty, while another sport is told to share space and be grateful?
That isn’t bitterness.
That’s civic literacy.
Participation (so we’re talking facts, not opinions)
Football is often treated like the noisy code that should just calm down.
But football is not small.
Football Tasmania’s published participation summary (using Football Australia reporting) states Tasmania has 31,278 football participants, including 14,552 outdoor football participants.
AFL Tasmania reporting in 2024 put total registered participation at 21,002.
Participation data is never perfect, and categories are never identical across sports, but the point is obvious.
Football is a major participation sport.
AFL is a major sport too.
But in Tasmania, only one of them is treated like it deserves serious public investment.
What the Tasmanian Government gives football (soccer)
This is the number that should stop everyone mid-sentence.
A Tasmanian Parliament Question on Notice response states the Tasmanian Government provided Football Tasmania $1.85 million from 2022–23 to 2025–26. (afl.com.au)
That’s roughly $462,500 per year (averaged across four financial years).
If you break that down using Football Tasmania’s total participation figure:
31,278 participants.
That works out to about:
$14.80 per football participant per year
That is what the baseline public investment looks like for the biggest participation sport in Tasmania.
And the rest is made up by:
volunteer labour
fees
fundraising
canteens
raffles
parents topping up what the system refuses to provide
What the Tasmanian Government gives AFL (before we even talk about a stadium)
The Tasmanian Government’s funding commitment for the AFL licence has been reported as $12 million per year for 12 years (a total of $144 million). (ABC)
That is:
$12,000,000 per year
for 12 years
locked in
Now break it down against the AFL participation figure (21,002):
That’s approximately:
$571 per AFL participant per year (afl.com.au)
So, on a straight annual comparison:
Football baseline: ~$462,500 per year (afl.com.au)
AFL licence funding: $12,000,000 per year (ABC)
That is roughly 26 times higher, every year.
Not over the long run.
Every year.
AFL’s High Performance Centre (another major public spend)
AFL funding does not stop at the licence.
Reporting has stated a $105 million cap on State funding for the AFL High Performance Centre. (ABC)
In other words, AFL gets:
direct annual licence funding
plus a purpose-built high performance facility
And football gets told to share ovals and apply for a grant.
AFL infrastructure across Tasmania (the statewide pattern)
This isn’t just about Hobart.
The AFL infrastructure investment pattern exists across Tasmania.
York Park / UTAS Stadium (Launceston)
The redevelopment of York Park has been widely reported as a $130 million upgrade, consisting of $65 million from the Australian Government and $65 million from the Tasmanian Government. (ABC)
Dial Park (Penguin)
The Tasmanian Government committed $25 million (2024–2026) for infrastructure upgrades at the Dial Regional Sports Complex in Penguin (Dial Park). (Central Coast Council)
Again, not a competitive grant.
Not “if you’re lucky”.
A structural public funding decision.
And then there’s the stadium
Macquarie Point is now being discussed publicly as a $1.13 billion stadium project.
I’m not going to re-run the stadium debate here.
But the point is unavoidable:
Tasmania can mobilise a billion-dollar project for one sport.
But football people still can’t get basic rectangular field access, lighting and changerooms that respect women and girls.
The costs don’t stop at construction
There’s another point people keep missing.
These big projects aren’t a one-off cheque.
They come with ongoing costs.
ABC reporting has pointed to the stadium having substantial operating and lifecycle cost implications, with safeguards calling for information to be released on ongoing subsidy and lifecycle costs after contractor selection. (ABC)
So this isn’t just money spent.
It’s money committed.
The totals (this is what “be grateful” looks like)
Here’s the part people hate seeing written down.
If we set the stadium aside for a moment, AFL-linked government funding and upgrades include:
AFL licence funding: $144 million (ABC)
AFL High Performance Centre (State cap/commitment): $105 million (ABC)
York Park upgrade: $130 million (ABC)
Dial Park upgrade: $25 million (Central Coast Council)
That’s $404 million in AFL-linked public funding and infrastructure, before the stadium.
And if Macquarie Point proceeds at $1.13 billion, the scale becomes something else entirely.
So when football people are told to be grateful, this is what they are being asked to accept:
AFL gets hundreds of millions (and potentially over a billion) while football fights for crumbs.
Dollars per participant (the comparison that hurts)
This is where it becomes impossible to pretend this is “equal treatment”.
Annual comparison (rough but revealing)
Football baseline public investment:
$462,500 per year for Football Tasmania (avg) (afl.com.au)
31,278 participants
= ~$14.80 per participant per year
AFL licence funding public investment:
$12,000,000 per year (ABC)
21,002 participants
= ~$571 per participant per year
That’s not a small gap.
That is a policy decision.
Twelve-year comparison (so no one can argue “short term”)
Over 12 years:
AFL: $144m / 21,002 ≈ $6,857 per participant over 12 years (ABC)
Football baseline: $1.85m over 4 years = ~$5.55m over 12 years
$5.55m / 31,278 ≈ $177 per participant over 12 years (afl.com.au)
Read that again.
Over the same time period:
AFL: $6,857 per participant
Football: $177 per participant
And that’s still before HPC, York Park, Dial Park, or the stadium.
The grant myth (the rigged part nobody admits)
This is where football people start to feel like they’re going mad.
Because yes, football can apply for grants.
But so can AFL.
So AFL gets:
direct government funding at scale
elite facilities and upgrades as a default
and then still competes for the same grant pools community sport is forced to fight over
Football gets:
a tiny baseline allocation (afl.com.au)
the same competitive grant pools
minus the spare volunteers and spare time required to survive constant applications just to stand still
That is not an even playing field.
That is stacking advantage on advantage.
Why this matters (and why I’m done being polite about it)
This is not an anti-AFL post.
People can love AFL.
People can play AFL.
People can attend AFL matches.
The issue is not AFL existing.
The issue is Tasmania’s funding culture, where prestige sport receives investment as a certainty…
…and participation sport is treated like a problem to manage.
Football people aren’t ungrateful.
They are exhausted.
They are doing the maths.
And they are done being told to clap politely while their sport is squeezed into whatever space is left over.
Stop telling football to be grateful.
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
Sources / Bibliography
Tasmanian Parliament, Question on Notice: Government funding provided to Football Tasmania (2022–23 to 2025–26), total $1.85m (afl.com.au)
Football Tasmania participation summary (Football Australia reporting): 31,278 participants (incl. outdoor, futsal, schools)
AFL Tasmania participation figure: 21,002 registered participants (2024 reporting)
ABC News (19 Sept 2022): Tasmanian Govt increased AFL licence funding offer to $144m over 12 years (ABC)
AFL.com.au (Nov 2022): In-principle agreement notes Tas Govt commitment includes $12m/year over 12 years (and HPC funding) (afl.com.au)
ABC News (3 Dec 2025): Stadium bill safeguards include $105m cap on state HPC funding; lifecycle/ongoing subsidy info (ABC)
AFL.com.au (13 Aug 2025): State contributing $105m to high performance centre (afl.com.au)
ABC News (28 Apr 2023): York Park upgrade includes $65m federal + $65m Tasmanian Govt (= $130m total) (ABC)
Central Coast Council (14 Mar 2025): Tas Govt committed $25m (2024–2026) for Dial Park upgrades (Central Coast Council)
Tasmanian Infrastructure: Dial Park major project info (Infrastructure Tasmania)
Macquarie Point stadium cost publicly reported as $1.13b
Stop Telling Football to be Grateful - Part 2 - Who Heard Us, and Who Didn’t
Who replied, who didn’t, and what that revealed
Before the Upper House vote on the Macquarie Point stadium, I wrote to every Member of the Legislative Council.
Not as a politician.
Not as an activist.
Not as part of a pro-stadium or anti-stadium machine.
I wrote as a football person.
A grassroots football person. A volunteer. A parent. A club president. A junior association president. Someone who represents thousands of families who spend their weekends doing what Tasmania always claims to value.
Showing up. Pitching in. Holding the line.
In Part 1, I said this wasn’t about the stadium.
That is still true.
This series is about what the stadium debate exposed.
Because once you strip away the politics, the press conferences and the slogans, one message kept coming through loud and clear to Tasmanian football people.
You are expected to stay quiet.
And if you do speak up, you’re expected to do it politely.
And if you keep going, you’re told you should be grateful.
Part 2 is about correspondence.
Who replied. Who didn’t. And what was revealed in the silence.
Who I wrote to
I wrote to every Member of the Legislative Council, regardless of party.
Football families don’t live in one electorate or vote in neat little blocks.
We are everywhere.
We are the sport that fills the weekends, fills the grounds, fills the car parks, fills the volunteer rosters and still somehow gets treated like we should wait our turn.
Who replied (and how)
This is the list, as accurately as I can make it from my inbox.
Thoughtful reply
Megan Webb (Independent), reply received
Rebecca Thomas (Independent), reply received
Ruth Forrest (Independent), reply received
Michael Gaffney (Independent), reply received
Dean Harriss (Independent), reply received
Reply received (Minister)
Nick Duigan (Liberal), reply received
Acknowledgement only, or triage reply
Rosemary Armitage (Independent), acknowledgement only
Joanne Palmer (Liberal), acknowledgement only
Tania Rattray (Independent), electorate priority or office triage response
Cassy O’Connor (Greens), acknowledgement only
No reply received
Luke Edmonds (Labor), no reply
Craig Farrell (Labor), no reply
Casey Hiscutt (Liberal), no reply
Sarah Lovell (Labor), no reply
Kerry Vincent (Liberal), no reply
That’s the pattern.
Not “all bad”. Not “all good”.
But a pattern.
And when you represent thousands of families who already feel invisible in decision-making, patterns matter.
The “thousands of emails” factor
I also want to acknowledge something else, because fairness matters.
Several MPs said they received thousands of emails about the stadium. One MLC told me directly they had received over 3,000 pieces of correspondence. Another office advised that because of the volume, they prioritised replies only to people who live inside their electorate.
I understand that workload pressure is real.
But it is also revealing.
Because football families don’t stop mattering at electorate boundaries. And when a grassroots sport representing tens of thousands of Tasmanians is raising a structural fairness issue, “sorry, too many emails” is not an answer.
It might be an explanation.
But it is not an answer.
The line that made my blood boil
Only one response raised the point that football has already received grants.
It wasn’t framed as a reprimand, but it carried the same implication.
That football should accept what it gets and move on.
That is exactly the culture I’m pushing back against.
You’ve received grants already.
You’ve had funding.
You’ve gotten something.
In other words.
Stop complaining. Be grateful.
That is the culture I’m calling out.
Because “you’ve received grants” is not an argument.
It is a silencing tactic.
It’s the logic you would use on a community group running a bake sale, not the largest participation sport in Tasmania.
It turns football into a charity case and casts its volunteers as ungrateful whenever they insist on fairness.
Grants are not fairness
Let’s be very clear.
Grants are not the same thing as equitable investment.
Grants are not policy.
Grants are not planning.
Grants are not infrastructure strategy.
Grants are not long-term development.
Grants are not fairness.
Grants are often what governments do when they want to look supportive without making structural commitments, and when they want community sport to keep scraping and scrambling, competing with each other for crumbs.
And football families are sick of it.
We are sick of being told we’re “lucky” to receive a one-off grant while other sports receive major, sustained, strategic investment built into the long-term planning of the State.
We are sick of being told we should smile and say thank you.
That’s not respect.
That’s containment.
This is not personal
I want to say something clearly here.
This series is not about attacking individuals.
Some people replied thoughtfully. Some engaged properly. Some clearly tried to balance competing priorities.
And I respect that.
I also want to be clear about this.
I do not want to work against people who have supported football or genuinely engaged with the issue. Tasmania is too small for scorched earth politics. Good governance requires honest relationships.
But honest relationships also require honest truths.
And one honest truth is this.
Football people are repeatedly treated like we should accept whatever we are given, quietly.
The silence is also a message
The no-replies matter.
Not because every MP is obliged to agree with me.
Not because I’m entitled to personal attention.
But because football families were polite, factual, and measured.
We raised participation numbers.
We raised fairness and equity.
We raised infrastructure shortages.
And still, many were met with silence.
That silence reinforces exactly what football families already feel.
We are seen as background noise.
We are not seen as a priority.
We are expected to keep functioning anyway.
And the reason we keep functioning is not because the system supports us.
It’s because volunteers do.
A fair go
Tasmania loves a few phrases.
“A fair go.”
“Pub test.”
“Common sense.”
So let’s apply that here.
If the biggest participation sport in the State is still short of basic rectangular facilities, still overcrowded, still squeezed, still sharing, still training in the dark, still fighting for ground space, still treated like it should be grateful for scraps.
Does that pass the pub test?
Does that feel like a fair go?
What happens next
In Part 3, I’m moving away from correspondence and into the numbers.
Because this argument is not emotional.
It is measurable.
Participation.
Facilities.
Infrastructure.
Public spending.
And the opportunity cost paid by every other sport, every weekend, in mud, darkness and over-crowded rosters.
Football is not asking for special treatment.
Football is asking for what every other code would demand in our position.
A fair reflection of our size, our load and our contribution to Tasmanian community life.
Part 3 is where the numbers begin.
And once you see them, it becomes harder to pretend this is just football people “whingeing again”.
Stop Telling Football to Be Grateful - Part 1.
Before the Upper House vote on the Macquarie Point stadium, I wrote to every Member of the Legislative Council.
Not as a politician.
Not as an activist.
Not as part of a pro- or anti-stadium machine.
I wrote as a football person.
A grassroots football person. A volunteer. A parent. A club president. A junior association president. Someone who has watched thousands of Tasmanian kids pull on boots every weekend and has also watched those same kids train on paddocks that would embarrass us if they were in any other state.
I wrote because I’m tired of football (soccer) being treated like a side issue.
And I wrote because I knew what was coming.
The vote has now passed.
The legislation is done.
The stadium will proceed.
But this blog isn’t about the stadium.
This blog is about what happened around it.
What was revealed during it.
And what Tasmanian football families are expected to accept, quietly, politely, gratefully.
What I wrote about
My message was simple.
Football is Tasmania’s most played team sport.
We are not asking for billions.
We are asking for fairness.
Funding should reflect participation and community impact.
Not tradition.
Not political convenience.
Not which code has the biggest lobby.
And certainly not some vague promise that football will “benefit later” if we just stay patient.
We’ve been patient for decades.
Who replied
Some did reply.
Some did not.
Some replied thoughtfully, and I genuinely appreciate that. Not because it made me feel better, but because it showed respect for the people I represent.
A few replies stood out because they exposed the pattern.
One MLC asked if he could refer to my email in Parliament
That was Michael Gaffney (MLC, Mersey).
He wrote to me before the debate and asked if I was comfortable for him to reference my email in his speech.
That matters.
Because it means the message landed.
It means football’s argument was heard.
And it means that, at least for some, the issue wasn’t dismissed as emotional noise.
I want to be clear about something.
This series is not about attacking individuals.
But here’s the part that made me see red.
More than one response - explicitly or implicitly - carried the same message:
You’ve received funding already.
You’ve had grants.
You’ve gotten something.
In other words:
Stop complaining. Be grateful.
That is the culture I am calling out.
Because “you’ve received grants” is not an argument.
It’s a silencing tactic.
It’s a way of turning community sport into a child at the grown-ups table, being told to stop making noise because someone slid them a biscuit earlier.
Football is not asking to be treated like a charity case.
Football is asking to be treated like a mainstream sport.
Stop telling football to be grateful
If football is the sport with the largest participation footprint in Tasmania, why are we still begging for rectangles?
Why do we still have clubs sharing the same tired facilities year after year while huge public investments are made elsewhere?
Why are we still told to “apply for grants” like that is the answer?
Grants are not policy.
Grants are not planning.
Grants are not equity.
Grants are often what governments use when they want to look supportive without making any structural commitments.
And football families are sick of it.
A note on the ugliness
I also want to say this clearly.
The abuse directed at MPs during this whole debate has been ugly and unacceptable. I know at least one MP has locked their Facebook profile because of the backlash.
That is not leadership.
That is not civic debate.
That is not Tasmania at its best.
You can oppose a decision without tearing people to shreds.
Why this is my first blog series
I am writing this as the first blog in a series because there is too much to say in a single post.
The deeper you go into sporting investment in Tasmania, the more uncomfortable the numbers become.
Not feelings.
Not vibes.
Not “football people whingeing again”.
Numbers.
Participation.
Facilities.
Infrastructure.
Public spend.
And the opportunity cost paid by every other sport, every weekend, in mud and darkness and overcrowding.
Football is not asking for special treatment.
Football is asking for what every other code would demand in our position:
A fair reflection of our size, our load, and our contribution to Tasmanian community life.
In the next post, I’m going to move from correspondence to facts.
Because this argument is not emotional.
It is measurable.
And it is long overdue.
Marina Brkic, Glenorchy Knights FC: Mud, Bonfires and Making it Happen
Photo credit: Lisa Creese
This Football Faces interview was originally done in 2022.
In football, two years can feel like ten. Coaches move on. Committees turn over. Programs change names. Roles evolve. People take a step back, or step up.
So yes, a few details in this interview may have shifted since it was first written. But the story underneath it hasn’t changed, a life spent in the game, a club carried by volunteers, and that familiar combination of mud, bonfires, chips, and doing whatever needs doing.
That’s why I’m republishing it now.
Marina Brkic, Glenorchy Knights FC: Mud, Bonfires, and Making It Happen
There are football people you notice because they are loud.
And there are football people you notice because they are everywhere, doing everything, holding everything together, usually without a fuss.
Marina Brkic is one of those people.
A Glenorchy Knights stalwart. A long-time player. A club official. A coach. A team manager. A social media machine. A youth team driver. A volunteer. A mother of three football boys.
Still playing herself, and loving it.
When I look back over the last couple of decades of Tasmanian football, faces like Marina’s are the ones that stand out. Not because they chase attention, but because they are always there, still doing the work.
This interview was done a couple of years ago, but it still rings true. It’s the kind of story that belongs on the record.
First football memories
Marina’s first football memories are not polished, glamorous, or Instagram-friendly.
They’re real Tasmanian football memories.
Doing the scoreboard at KGV with her sister, paid in the most authentic grassroots currency possible, a packet of chips and a drink.
Standing in the mud next to the bonfire while the games rolled on.
If you’ve been around long enough, you can smell that sentence.
That’s football.
Not elite. Not high performance. Not “pathways”.
Just people, cold hands, smoke in your hair and a community built around the game.
A life in football
Marina doesn’t just say she’s been around football forever.
She has.
Her dad took her to watch Croatia-Glenorchy from early on. The game was in her bones before she could properly name it.
She’s been involved for most of her life, playing for 30 years, starting with Raiders and DOSA, but with most of that time spent with Glenorchy Knights. That sort of loyalty is not as common as it once was and it matters.
Along the way she has also taken on the roles that clubs rely on:
Coach.
Team manager.
Committee member across various roles for 20+ years.
And now she’s club secretary, part of the executive, manages social media, manages a youth team, and “many other things” (which is volunteer code for too many things).
And as if that wasn’t enough, she has three boys who all play at the club, too.
This is what football looks like when you live it properly.
What Tasmania’s football used to feel like
One of the striking things Marina remembers is senior men’s football crowds.
Big crowds.
That atmosphere has faded in many places and I think most of us can admit it. We can debate why, we can blame a dozen things, but the shift is real.
Marina also points out something important about female football, girls her age simply were not encouraged to play. She was a late starter because of that cultural barrier.
And yet she’s spent years doing the opposite for the next generation.
She has pushed female football at her club and beyond it. She speaks with real pride about seeing lots of girls playing now in junior and youth teams and she notes that the quality and support for female football has improved.
That’s not an abstract achievement.
That’s a direct outcome of people like Marina doing hard work over a long time.
Heroes, anti-heroes, and what actually matters
Marina doesn’t go looking for celebrity football heroes.
She values something different, and it’s a quiet lesson in what club culture is built on.
Hard-working.
Reliable.
Club loyal.
Respectful.
She’s met plenty of those people along the way, and that’s what she appreciates.
No drama.
No ego.
No hype.
Just the people you can count on.
The ones who make football happen.
Football and family: the reality
People underestimate how much football takes from a family when someone becomes deeply involved in running a club.
Not playing.
Running it.
Marina is honest about that.
She talks about the impact on personal time. The work. The load. The constant demands. The unspoken expectation that you will simply keep doing it.
But she also says what makes it worth it.
Her whole family loves the game.
There are lows, but the highs are shared, and those shared highs are the reward that keeps you going.
I also loved her line about being supported to play herself. Especially when her children were young, it’s not easy. Someone has to hold the home, manage the logistics, make it possible.
Because women in football are often expected to sacrifice the playing part first.
Marina didn’t.
And that matters.
If she could change Tasmanian football
This answer should be printed and pinned to a wall in every governance meeting.
Marina’s view is shaped by time on the ground as a club official. She’s not theorising. She’s speaking from the trenches.
She says the demands on clubs have increased significantly and are about to increase further.
That’s the warning line.
And she makes it clear, any change that makes football easier for clubs, mostly run by volunteers with day jobs, would be welcomed.
Then she gets practical.
Not ideological. Not fluffy.
Rostering.
She points out that teams playing in different locations stretches club resources. It impacts the matchday experience. It chips away at club culture.
So she calls for something simple and sensible, consistent rostering of teams together.
It’s the kind of idea that doesn’t make for a glossy strategy document, but makes an immediate difference to actual volunteers.
That’s the kind of thinking Tasmanian football needs more of.
Her legacy
Marina doesn’t claim a grand legacy.
She says something much more accurate.
All clubs have committed and hard-working people that make it happen.
Her legacy is that she’s one of those people.
And then she finishes with humour, saying she would have liked to have scored more goals over the years, “no legacy there lol!”
That made me laugh because it’s exactly the kind of line football people write when they’ve been through enough seasons to know what really matters.
Legacy is not medals.
Legacy is being there, doing the work, shaping the culture, and helping the club survive and thrive across generations.
That is what Marina has done.
And she’s still doing it.
FOMO Isn’t Development: The Small State Pathway Problem
In a big state, a pathway program can be an option.
In a small state, it becomes a verdict.
And that is the beginning of the problem.
Tasmanian football has spent years living in the tension between club football and Federation programs. The tension isn’t personal. It’s structural.
In a small state, there isn’t enough “air in the room” for competing priorities, competing calendars and competing identities.
We don’t have the scale.
So the minute a Federation program expands, club football feels the pressure.
Not because clubs fear standards.
But because clubs fear becoming second best in the system they built.
Big States and Small States Are Not the Same
A one-size-fits-all pathway model doesn’t work in Australian football.
Not because small states lack ambition, or talent.
But because small states don’t have scale.
In Victoria and New South Wales, a pathway program sits inside a crowded ecosystem. There are huge player pools, many clubs, multiple development environments and multiple chances to be seen.
In Tasmania, the ecosystem is tight.
When one program is elevated, everything else is pushed down.
In a big state, missing one camp is inconvenient.
In a small state, missing one camp feels like a risk.
And that changes everything.
FOMO Is Not Development
One of the most damaging effects of small-state pathways is the pressure it places on children and families.
Kids should not have to live in a permanent state of football anxiety.
They should not have to agonise over every decision, wondering:
Will I be overlooked if I don’t go?
Will I be seen as not committed?
Will I fall behind?
Will I be quietly crossed off a list?
That isn’t high performance.
That is fear, pressure, and FOMO dressed up as opportunity.
It can quietly drain the joy out of football, and joy matters, because joy is what makes children return.
The Communication Gap Is Where Trust Breaks
The relationship between Federations and clubs in small states is fragile. It needs care, respect and communication.
Clubs plan training. Coaches volunteer their time. Parents organise work and family life around sessions.
Then suddenly a pathway event appears.
Not always with meaningful notice. Not always with coordination. Not always with a shared calendar that respects club environments.
Club coaches turn up to training and discover half their players are missing.
It doesn’t feel like partnership.
It feels like clubs are expected to comply.
Small-state football cannot survive on assumptions. It needs genuine two-way communication and planning that treats clubs as part of the solution, not an afterthought.
Clubs Aren’t Even Kept in the Loop
As a club President, I was often asked by parents simple, reasonable questions.
When are the TSP trials?
When are the Academy sessions?
What do we need to do to be considered?
And I would have to answer honestly.
I had no idea.
Not because I wasn’t paying attention and not because the club didn’t care. I didn’t know because Football Tasmania did not share that information with clubs.
That is not a minor communication gap.
That is a relationship gap.
It forces clubs into an awkward position, standing in front of families with no information about a program that is clearly influencing selection and opportunity.
It makes clubs look uninformed.
Worse, it makes clubs look irrelevant.
And in a small state, that matters.
Secrecy Creates Suspicion
Football Tasmania may be trying to improve communication now and if they are, that is welcome.
But when key information is kept quiet, the message it sends is not neutral.
It tells clubs that this information is not for them.
It makes it feel secretive, like something clubs shouldn’t know about, just in case clubs tell kids:
Don’t bother.
It’s a waste of time.
That may not be the intent, but it becomes the perception.
And perception shapes trust.
Acronyms Come and Go, Clubs Remain
Then there’s the churn.
We had SAP licensing requirements and then SAP disappeared.
So what will be next?
What will be the next acronym?
What will be the next “must do” program?
And when it vanishes, what happens to the kids, the parents and the clubs that rearranged everything around it?
This constant cycle of programs and terminology might look like progress from the outside.
But from inside a small-state football ecosystem, it often feels like instability.
Clubs need clarity, consistency and partnership, not the next vanishing pathway.
If Clubs Feel Second Best, The Whole System Weakens
Clubs are not the lower tier.
Clubs are the foundation.
Clubs are where habits are built, confidence is built, resilience is built, belonging is built and love of the game is built.
In small states, weekly club football is not separate from development.
It is development.
So when clubs feel like the second-best option, the culture deteriorates.
And once you lose culture, you don’t build it back by running another camp.
Do These Programs Actually Improve Results?
This is the question nobody likes being asked.
When I first came to football, the process was simple.
A coach would pick their squad. They would train together in the six weeks leading into National Championships, then they would go away and play.
It wasn’t perfect.
But clubs weren’t constantly inconvenienced.
Kids weren’t forced into a permanent cycle of fear of missing out.
Families weren’t juggling endless competing commitments.
And the results?
From where I stand, the results were similar.
So the question is fair, and it is unavoidable.
Do the current Football Tasmania programs lead to better results at National Championships than the method used back then?
If the answer is no, or even “not much”, then the next question matters even more.
If outcomes are broadly similar, why is the cost to clubs so much higher?
The Spreadsheet Would Tell the Truth
If we really want to understand why big states dominate national championships, we should put the politics aside and open Excel.
Make a spreadsheet.
One column is the number of registered players in each state.
The next column is national championship performance.
The pattern will not be surprising.
Bigger states have bigger talent pools. More depth. More competition. More specialist coaching environments.
They will almost always produce stronger squads, because they are drawing from a larger pool.
This is not an insult to small states.
It is the mathematics of scale.
Which leads to an honest question.
If a small state cannot out-number the big states, why are we pretending it can out-program them?
Small States Improve By Multiplication, Not Extraction
This is the heart of it.
In small states, the most powerful development tool is not selection.
It is coaching.
One expert coach can mentor ten club coaches.
Those ten coaches can improve hundreds of children.
That is the multiplier effect.
And it exposes a flaw in the current way we think about “development”.
If we funnel time, energy and resources into centralised programs for a small group of selected players, we might improve those players.
But we do not lift the system.
We do not lift the clubs.
And clubs are where most children will spend most of their football lives.
Imagine If That Funding Went Back Into Clubs
Imagine if the funds spent administering and delivering repeated pathway programming were redirected into club support.
Not symbolic support.
Real support.
Support that makes clubs better at what they do every week.
Support that invests in the people doing the work.
Support that reduces volunteer load rather than adding to it.
For example:
embedded technical mentoring for club coaches
subsidised coaching licences
structured curriculum support
coach education delivered inside clubs
practical planning and administration support
coordinated calendars that respect club training environments
That is how you lift a small state.
Not by creating parallel programs that compete for the same children.
Football Tasmania’s Most Important Job
In a small state, the Federation’s job is not to become the biggest and most important provider.
It is to strengthen the clubs who carry the game.
That is not glamorous.
It doesn’t always photograph well.
But it is the only strategy that works.
Because small states don’t have room for competing pathways.
They have room for one ecosystem.
And the clubs are not an optional extra in that ecosystem.
They are the system.
Women’s Football: “But No One Comes to Watch”
This week Professional Footballers Australia (PFA) released a 39-page document titled Ready for Takeoff.
It’s a long document.
But the message is simple.
Australian women’s football is at a Rubicon moment again and the A-League Women needs to relaunch as a fully professional competition, using the upcoming Women’s Asian Cup as the springboard.
Not someday.
Not slowly.
Now.
The paper makes one key argument that applies far beyond the A-League.
Progress is itself the product.
Women’s football will not grow through slogans or marketing.
It will grow when the sport embodies the advancement of women athletes.
That means standards.
And if that feels relevant nationally, it should feel even more relevant here in Tasmania.
Because in local football, standards aren’t theoretical.
They show up in the smallest details.
And they shape the whole experience.
Progress is not a vibe
There is a habit in sport of treating women’s football as something that can be marketed into importance.
A new logo.
A new campaign.
A few nice words.
But women’s football audiences can smell tokenism immediately.
Progress is not a vibe.
Progress is practical.
Progress looks like:
the same training opportunities
the same access to facilities
the same seriousness in matchday presentation
coaching standards that are not negotiable
a league structure that matches the words “elite competition”
You cannot market your way out of low standards.
“But no one comes to watch”
I remember being in a Presidents meeting years ago discussing the idea of charging a gate for women’s football.
Someone said it casually, as if it was a final truth.
As if crowd numbers were the test women’s football had to pass before it deserved standards.
I didn’t see that as the point then.
I don’t see it as the point now.
Because in women’s football, crowds are not the starting point.
Standards are.
Crowds don’t come first
If you want people to treat something like a serious product, you have to treat it like a serious product first.
Women’s football doesn’t grow because someone waited patiently for the crowd numbers to justify investment.
It grows because leadership decided the product was worth backing.
This is the loop women’s football keeps getting trapped in.
Women’s football won’t draw crowds until it looks serious.
But it won’t be treated as serious until it draws crowds.
Standards are the circuit breaker.
The gate is not just money
At South Hobart, we charge a gate for women’s games.
Some people argue they shouldn’t have to pay.
They say they’ve never had to pay before.
But what that really reveals is this.
Women’s football has never been valued properly before.
A gate is not just a fundraiser.
It is a signal of value.
A gate says:
This match matters.
This competition matters.
This is elite sport in this state.
Set the standard.
Raise the bar.
Celebrate the product.
The quiet hypocrisy
There are people who sneak in before we are even set up, just so they don’t have to pay.
They will talk about supporting the women’s game.
Then they won’t hand over $12 at the gate.
To me, that is totally pathetic.
Not because the club needs their $12.
But because it exposes what they really believe women’s football is worth.
If you can’t pay $12 to watch women athletes competing at the top level of the state game, then your support is performance, not principle.
Classification drives standards
This conversation connects directly to one of the most important issues in Tasmanian women’s football.
Women have not always been classified and treated the same as men.
Here is the truth.
If the women are not classified as NPL, they are not treated as NPL.
Classification is not symbolic.
It is a lever.
It creates:
minimum standards
compliance expectations
resourcing decisions
matchday requirements
seriousness in delivery
When standards are optional, women’s football becomes optional.
And optional always means last.
Women’s football cannot grow on leftovers
In community football, inequality rarely arrives as policy.
It arrives as default.
It shows up in hundreds of small decisions.
Later training times.
Smaller spaces.
No full-sized goals.
Facilities that are “good enough”.
Then months later, someone asks why more people aren’t watching.
That isn’t analysis.
That is sabotage.
Local football is nuanced
Sometimes inequity is not malicious.
Sometimes it is simply invisible.
I remember complaints coming to me as President that could have been fixed instantly if someone had spoken earlier.
No full-sized goals.
No access to a full field.
Sorted.
Often with one conversation.
But sometimes those concerns arrive months later.
And by then, you’re not fixing a problem.
You’re repairing trust.
Silence becomes a survival strategy for many women.
But silence is expensive.
Why FT hesitates to call it NPL
Calling the women’s competition NPL is not just a label change.
It changes everything.
NPL triggers standards.
Standards trigger consequences.
Once you attach the NPL badge, you are promising minimum expectations around facilities, training access, coaching quality, and matchday professionalism.
That means compliance.
And compliance means enforcement.
Enforcement means saying no.
Some clubs would not meet the standards.
So the governing body has to choose.
Lift standards and enforce them.
Or keep standards negotiable.
Negotiable standards allow everyone to say they support women’s football without ever having to prove it.
That is the blunt truth.
A fair note on volunteers
Volunteer clubs are stretched.
People are tired.
Raising standards does increase workload.
That is real.
But this is exactly why the governing body has to return to basics.
Not by charging clubs more each year.
But by actually helping them lift standards.
Practical support.
Clear templates.
Shared services.
A governing body that serves, not just administers and invoices.
“The way it has always been” is not an argument
This is the most common defence in football.
Someone challenges the standard.
The reply is tradition.
But tradition is not a reason.
It is a habit.
And women’s football has spent decades on the wrong end of convenience.
If Tasmanian football wants women’s football to grow, it must be built through standards.
Not excuses.
Progress is the product
The PFA paper is national.
But its logic applies everywhere.
Progress does not happen because we post the right graphic.
Progress happens when we act like women’s football matters.
On the field.
Off the field.
In facilities.
In standards.
In classification.
Women’s football is already good enough.
What’s missing is the will.
When the Pathway Breaks
I woke up this morning to the kind of football news that lands like a thud.
Not a result.
Not a rumour.
Not a coaching change.
Administration.
The Central Coast Mariners academy has been placed into liquidation.
Western United has been fighting for its survival.
Two clubs in the A-League system, both shaking at once.
And the story most people will tell is the business story.
Debt.
Governance.
Ownership.
Stability.
Sustainability.
But that isn’t where my mind goes first.
My mind goes to the children.
My mind goes to the parents.
Because they are the ones who live inside the dream.
And when the dream collapses, it doesn’t collapse gently.
The pointy end of the pyramid
Australian football is a pyramid.
Grassroots at the base.
Clubs and associations holding up the middle.
NPL and state leagues building the structure.
And at the top, the A-League.
That pointy end is the dream.
It is the finish line kids can picture.
It is the summit parents cling to when they are driving in the dark to training, packing lunches, paying fees and watching their child give everything.
Academies exist because the dream exists.
They are the bridge between hope and reality.
They are the part of the pyramid that tells children: this could be you.
And for the families who are inside A-League academies, it stops being a concept.
It becomes their life.
Tasmania sits outside the summit
And to be clear, Tasmania doesn’t even have an A-League team.
We are not part of that top layer and realistically won’t be.
So for Tasmanian kids, the pyramid is not just narrow at the top — it is also distant.
The “pointy end” sits across Bass Strait.
It exists in a different weekly ecosystem of eyeballs, metrics and opportunity, where scouts watch, data accumulates and pathways are visible in real time.
Here, we build our football in the margins.
We produce talent and we lose talent.
We ask families to commit and then, if a child is good enough, we often ask them to leave.
That’s the Tasmanian truth.
And it makes the instability at the top of the pyramid even harder to stomach, because the dream already asks more of our kids than it asks of most.
What A-League academy life actually looks like
A-League academy football is not “extra training”.
It is a lifestyle.
It is early mornings, long commutes, gym programs, recovery sessions, injury management, physio, school juggling, fatigue.
It is families rearranging work rosters.
It is holidays planned around football calendars.
It is birthday parties missed.
It is the quiet intensity of teenagers trying to behave like professionals.
And most of all, it is belief.
Belief that it is worth it.
Belief that the system is real.
Belief that the pathway is stable.
Because families don’t commit like this if they think the pyramid can simply fall down.
A note on where I sit in this
I write this fully aware of my own position in the system.
Morton’s Soccer School provides the coaching program for South Hobart and we charge fees, because coaching, grounds, equipment and administration all have real costs.
But philosophy matters.
Our role is not to sell professional dreams to children.
Our role is to help kids love football, train in a quality environment and stay in the game for decades, whatever level they eventually reach.
When the adults fail, the kids pay
Here is the part that is hardest to sit with.
The people running the top of the pyramid are adults.
They make adult decisions.
They take adult risks.
They build business models, chase licences, sign deals, borrow money, spend money.
But the ones exposed when it collapses are not the adults.
It’s the kids.
The academy kid who has built their identity around being “on the pathway”.
The teenager whose confidence rises and falls with selection.
The quiet hard worker who is not the star but is hanging on.
The goalkeeper who knows there are only two positions on the team, and one mistake can erase them.
The parents who have poured years into this.
Time.
Money.
Energy.
Hope.
And then it’s gone.
Not because of performance.
Not because of injury.
Not because they weren’t good enough.
Because the adults above them couldn’t keep the structure standing.
That is a different kind of heartbreak.
I’ve heard what this sounds like from the inside
I know a little about this because my son, Max, has coached in both the Melbourne City and Western United academy systems.
I have heard his stories.
I have listened to the pain and indecision from players who genuinely don’t know what to do.
Because the choices they face aren’t normal football choices.
They are career gambles.
Stay at Western United and risk missing another opportunity somewhere else, but hang on to the professional dream.
Or step back into NPL, find stability, even get paid to play football… but maybe miss the one opportunity that matters.
The one trial.
The one contract.
The one moment when a coach sees you and thinks: yes.
That is the cruelty of it.
Young players are forced to gamble with their own futures.
Not because of their attitude.
Not because they aren’t good enough.
But because the adults above them have built a system where the dream can collapse without warning.
And these are teenagers trying to make adult decisions with no safe answer.
The scramble for 2026
This is the reality nobody says out loud.
Season 2026 is now a scramble.
Families will be chasing alternatives.
Players will be looking for placements.
Parents will be sending messages, making calls, searching for opportunities.
And it won’t be neat.
Because there are only so many spots.
Only so many squads.
Only so many coaches.
Only so many programs.
And when A-League academy players flood into the market, the impact doesn’t stop with them.
It ripples outward.
Kids already in NPL teams may be pushed down.
Some may be pushed out.
Some will lose minutes.
Some will lose confidence.
Some will quietly quit.
Not because they hate football.
But because football has stopped loving them back.
This is what people miss when they talk about “pathway reform”.
It isn’t just the academy kids who get hurt.
It’s every kid underneath them too.
It makes me relieved we don’t have an A-League team and this can’t happen in Tasmania.
The pathway becomes pressure
A-League academies are supposed to develop players.
But at times they also create something else.
Pressure.
Adult pressure, applied to children.
Selection.
De-selection.
Rankings.
Benchmarking.
Constant comparison.
A belief that the next session matters more than joy.
A belief that a child’s value is measurable, sortable, replaceable.
And now, with clubs collapsing and academies destabilised, the pressure becomes heavier.
Because the pathway no longer feels hard.
It feels unsafe.
It feels like the ground can move beneath you even when you are doing everything right.
That is not sport.
That is stress.
These are children
This is where I keep coming back to the simplest truth.
These are children.
Football should be fun.
Not easy.
Not soft.
Not without disappointment.
But fun.
Because fun is what keeps people in the game for decades.
Fun is what creates lifelong players.
Fun is what builds adults who still love football at 30, 40, 50, 60.
And if football is not fun, if football becomes something children dread, something that makes them anxious, something that makes them feel disposable, then we are doing it wrong.
Because children do not have the emotional armour of adults.
They carry their failures differently.
They internalise rejection.
They confuse de-selection with worth.
They mistake a club collapse for personal collapse.
This is why instability at the top is not just a “professional football issue”.
It is a wellbeing issue.
It creates sad children.
And sad children don’t become better players.
They just become children who stop loving the game.
If the pyramid shakes, everyone shakes
When professional clubs wobble, the effect doesn’t stop at the top.
It moves down.
And down.
And down.
It touches every layer.
That is why this matters, even if you have never set foot inside an A-League academy.
Because every junior club, every community ground, every parent who hopes, every kid who dreams, is part of the same pyramid.
And the pyramid is only as strong as its top.
Right now, the top is shaking.
And the ones standing underneath it are the kids.
Football, Before Anything Else
Before I write more about governance, I want to remember why I love this game and why it is more important than meetings, policies or power.
Because football is not a document.
Football is not a spreadsheet.
Football is not an email chain.
Football is laughter.
It’s the kind of nerves that make you hide in the changerooms, not because you don’t belong, but because you care so much it’s almost unbearable. It’s the nerves that make you find something practical to do, like taking photos, just to keep yourself steady.
Sometimes the best way to cope with the moment is to give your hands a job so your heart can calm down.
Football is the most dramatic emotional training ground you can imagine.
Winning at the last minute.
Conceding at the last minute.
Turning up expecting to lose because everyone has tipped you to lose, then somehow, unbelievably, you win.
Pride and relief and disbelief all at once.
It’s hugging friends at full time.
It’s receiving messages you never expected, the kind that remind you people noticed and people care.
The Purest Bits
Football is also the small, ridiculous, beautiful things.
Five-year-olds running the wrong way and kicking a goal into the opposition’s net, then celebrating like they’ve just won the World Cup.
No embarrassment.
No self-consciousness.
Just pure delight.
Football is wet grounds and muddy boots and the smell of dirty socks in the car after a long weekend away. It’s the gear bag sitting in the back a day too long.
It’s excited chatter.
The banter.
The noise.
The endless energy.
It’s the food at games and the small moment of giving myself permission to just eat the hot chips. Not because it’s healthy. Not because I’ve “earned” them. Just because football weekends are long and joy is allowed.
Football is a sunset at Launceston City on those 4:45pm kick-offs, when the light goes gold and the game feels bigger than the scoreboard.
It’s stepping onto the fabulous surface at Lightwood Park and thinking, this is what football should feel like.
The Things Only Football People Understand
Football is checking Tassie Football Central because you just have to know what is going on at other grounds.
Not because you’re nosy.
Because you’re invested.
Because football is a living ecosystem and you can’t help caring about it.
Football is Brian welcoming me with, “What news?”
Not hello.
Not small talk.
Just straight into it.
Because in football, you don’t just attend the game.
You live it.
Football is Clare making sure everyone is decked out in merch.
Wearing our colours.
Looking like a club.
Football is Darrin volunteering, and somewhere along the way becoming a friend for life.
Football is going to Valley Road and bringing home three points when it is so damn difficult to do.
Football is also the generosity of other clubs.
The food for the opposition.
The kind words offered after.
The moment where you remember that underneath the competition, football people understand each other.
Football Is Identity
At some point, football stops being something you do.
It becomes part of who you are.
You don’t just go to games.
You plan your weekends around fixtures without even thinking.
You know which grounds are windy and which ones are cold.
You carry the game with you all week.
Football becomes a second language.
And one day you realise you don’t even know how you would live without it.
Not because you can’t.
Because you don’t want to.
Football Is Pride (And Time)
Football is pride in your club.
Pride in your team.
Pride in the kids you’ve watched grow up from tiny uniforms into young adults who can handle pressure, disappointment, responsibility.
Pride in my family too.
A family that has lived football properly, not as a hobby, but as a craft.
Advanced coaching qualifications.
Decades of learning.
Decades of teaching.
Decades of giving.
And then one day you look up and realise football has become generational.
Players you once coached are now bringing their own children to training.
Kids are turning up with the same surnames on their backs.
Old stories are repeating in new ways.
It makes me feel proud, and it makes me realise just how long I’ve loved this game.
Not just watched it.
Loved it.
Football Is Quiet Service
Football is also the work nobody sees.
It’s washing bibs.
Sorting balls.
Packing cones.
Unlocking sheds.
Chasing keys.
Borrowing equipment.
Marking lines.
Texting team managers at night.
Trying to solve problems before anyone else even realises there was one.
It’s volunteering for things you don’t actually want to do, because you know if you don’t do it, the whole thing falls over.
It’s being the person who holds the detail so others can just enjoy the game.
And most of the time nobody notices.
But clubs are built on this kind of quiet service.
This is what football is made of.
Football Is Women Carving Out Space
Football is watching girls fill the grounds.
Not being included.
Belonging.
Owning space.
Some chasing high performance.
Some just there for fun.
It doesn’t matter.
They’re there.
And every season it becomes more normal.
More expected.
More obvious.
Like it should have been all along.
Girls in club colours.
Girls with confidence.
Girls with swagger.
Girls who don’t ask permission.
That makes me happy.
Because once you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it.
This is what the future of football looks like.
Football Is Legacy
Football is the generosity of people who understand that clubs outlast all of us.
Tony Chaffey remembered the club in his will.
Such a generous thing to do.
Not for attention.
Not for applause.
Just because some people love football so deeply they want to protect what they helped build, even after they’re gone.
That stays with you.
Football Is Memory
Football is being able to laugh about how absolutely shit Manchester United are at the moment, while still remembering how glorious they were when Sir Alex was in charge.
That era wasn’t just winning.
It was identity.
It was standards.
It was belief.
And sometimes football is ridiculous in the best way.
Like when the underdog does you a favour and takes points off your nearest rival.
You don’t even pretend to be neutral.
You celebrate like it was your own win.
Football Is Big Days and Old Stories
Football is Launceston United and the brilliant Hudson Cup days.
Football is the Hobart Cup.
Not just as a tournament, but as an experience.
A weekend where thousands of children get to feel what it’s like to play in something bigger than their own weekly routine.
Rain, hail or shine.
It doesn’t matter.
They turn up anyway.
Umbrellas blowing inside out.
Freezing hands.
Freezing feet.
People huddled on the sidelines trying to look like they’re coping.
Volunteers who looked half-frozen but kept going anyway.
That weekend is exhausting.
It is also magic.
Football Is Chaos, Courage, and Characters
Football is red cards and big moments.
Jimmy James taking heart medication at Kingborough because we just have to win.
Goals scored from halfway.
The kind of goals that make everyone stop and look at each other like, did that just happen?
Football is Richard yelling “Carn Souf”.
Not in a polished, corporate way.
In the real way.
The way that sounds like home.
And football is 63 games undefeated.
Then finally breathing a sigh of relief when Eagles beat us.
Not because losing is good.
But because the weight of defending that record every week is finally gone.
You can breathe again.
Football is also John Boulos sitting at Mt Nelson with the League Winners trophy.
Not knowing whether to go South or East.
Kick-offs at the same time on the last day.
That moment where the whole season squeezes into ninety minutes, and everybody is waiting, and nobody wants to be the one who says it out loud, but everyone knows what is at stake.
Football is suspense.
It’s nerves you can barely contain.
It’s hope that feels reckless.
It’s people holding their breath together.
Football Is The After
Football is also what happens after.
The silence in the car.
The replaying of moments you can’t stop thinking about.
The anger that fades into perspective.
The sadness that sits quietly next to you on the drive home.
The win that doesn’t even feel real until later.
The tiredness.
The calm.
The reflection.
And sometimes the message that arrives that night, long after the crowd has gone.
Well done.
Proud of you.
Thank you.
Football doesn’t end at full time.
It follows you home.
Why This Matters
And this is the point.
When you’ve lived football like this, when you’ve watched it build children and friendships and belonging in real time, you stop being able to tolerate governance that treats the game like numbers on a spreadsheet.
Because football isn’t a product.
It’s people.
It’s volunteers and families and kids in muddy boots.
And if the people who sit above the game can’t see that, or won’t protect it, then it becomes the responsibility of those of us inside it to speak up.
This isn’t complaining for sport.
This is advocacy for the thing that deserves better.
Football is too important to be governed poorly.
So yes.
I’m going to talk about it.
Because I love this game.
Nick Di Giovanni: A Life in Football
Nick Di Giovanni - photo Nikki Long
I have known Nick Di Giovanni for the entirety of my time as a club president.
Over many years, we have sat across tables from each other in meetings, shared rooms where difficult decisions were discussed, and navigated the realities of leading football clubs in a small state. We have not been close friends, but we have always been respectful, direct, and able to engage honestly, even when football politics made things uncomfortable.
Nick is one of the longest-serving presidents in Tasmanian football. Through Hobart Juventus, the evolution into Hobart Zebras and the merger that formed Clarence Zebras, he has been a constant presence during a period of significant change in the game. His experience spans grassroots football, club mergers, infrastructure challenges and the increasing demands placed on volunteer leaders.
As part of my own written record of the past twenty years in football, it felt important to include Nick’s story. Not as commentary and not as analysis, but in his own words.
What follows is Nick Di Giovanni’s reflection on football, leadership and what it takes to sustain a club over decades in Tasmania.
A football beginning
Nick’s football journey began with Juventus.
His first game was with the Under 13s, coached by Franco Cortese, who stayed with the group through to Under 17s. It was a successful team that won multiple titles and included players such as Luciano Fabrizio, Bruce Pears, Darren Bacon, Leon Darko, Frank Genovesi, Alistaire Cochrane and the late Darren Wells.
All of them went on to play senior football at Juventus under the guidance of Ken Morton.
Nick also represented Tasmania as a goalkeeper from Under 13s through to Under 18s and was coached by Steve Darby and Barry Shacklady, both of whom he remembers as influential figures.
In 1985, Nick moved to Queensland to open Jupiter’s Casino, now known as The Star. While there, he continued playing with Merrimac, another Italian-based club on the Gold Coast.
Four years later, he returned to Hobart. Work commitments at Wrest Point made it difficult to train at the level required for senior football but he stayed involved, playing socially and remaining connected to the game.
From member to President
Like many of that era, Nick’s deeper involvement came through volunteering.
Football clubs were busy, social places and one role often led to another. Over time, that hands-on involvement grew into responsibility, and eventually into leadership.
Nick believes he has now been President for close to eighteen years.
He stepped into the role when long-serving Juventus President Michael Pace retired and no one else put their hand up. There was no defining moment, no dramatic call to action. The club was in a good place and simply needed someone to take on the role.
So he did.
What the role really involves
Being club President, Nick says, is a year-round commitment.
Day to day, it involves constant communication with players, coaches, councils, Football Tasmania, committee members, sponsors and parents. It never really stops. There is always someone wanting a friendly chat, some information, or occasionally voicing frustration.
What people often don’t see is the work behind the scenes, or the fact that the role doesn’t end when the last match is played in September.
When Clarence Zebras formed through the merger of two clubs, Nick expected both the difficult and the positive moments that would come with it. The work was hard, but he believes it was necessary and hopes it proves beneficial for football on the Eastern Shore in the long term.
The Home of Football
The idea of a Home of Football has been discussed for many years, and Clarence Zebras has often been mentioned in that conversation.
From Nick’s perspective, sharing a facility with Football Tasmania would not be a problem in principle. The venue is large enough, similar to KGV but on a larger scale.
He sees clear opportunities if such a project were to eventuate, including year-round astro pitches, new club rooms, improved playing facilities and a covered grandstand. Much of this infrastructure is currently lacking and the venue itself is tired, having seen little upkeep compared to facilities for other sporting codes.
Nick is clear, however, that the club’s identity would remain, regardless of any shared arrangement.
He is also realistic. From what he understands, discussions so far have been limited, and when councils and government are involved, progress is slow. In his view, the project is a long way from happening.
Personally, Nick doubts it will occur at Wentworth Park. Even if the significant funding required were found, he believes the timeline would be five to ten years at best.
Access remains a major challenge. Limited seasonal availability, high costs, and shared use with touch football make the venue difficult to sustain without significant volunteer effort and sponsor support.
Longevity and stepping away
Rumours about Nick stepping away from the presidency have circulated for years, and he confirms there is truth in them.
He now has family on the Gold Coast and has purchased a place there. For now, he remains President, but like many long-serving volunteers, he believes the time is approaching for new, younger faces to step forward and shape the club’s future.
What has kept him in the role for so long is simple. He has loved being involved.
But the role is changing. Increasing expectations from Football Australia, combined with work commitments, have made the presidency feel more like a full-time position.
When the time comes to step away, Nick expects it will be difficult. The club has been part of his life across multiple identities. Still, he is certain he will remain involved in some capacity, regardless of where he is living.
Meetings, mergers, and reality
Reflecting on years spent in Presidents’ meetings, Nick doesn’t point to any single pivotal moment. There were many sighs, many disagreements, and frequent moments where clubs and Football Tasmania found themselves at odds.
In the end, decisions were accepted. There was often little choice.
On the subject of mergers, Nick believes they are likely to become more common in Tasmania. With too many clubs, increasing administrative demands and volunteer fatigue, mergers may be the only path to long-term survival for many.
He is clear that for a merger to work, both clubs must contribute meaningfully and be prepared for a difficult beginning. Success depends on ongoing committees and volunteers maintaining the commitment over time.
Without change, Nick fears more clubs will retreat into social football only, fielding a few teams without junior or youth pathways.
He is particularly critical of national expectations that do not account for Tasmania’s population and resources. What is required of a state of 500,000 people mirrors expectations placed on much larger states and he believes that imbalance is unsustainable.
Final reflections
Nick says his greatest pride has been growing the club and seeing so many juniors and youth now playing football on the Eastern Shore.
What he wishes people understood better is that club leadership is a volunteer role, requiring countless hours of work each week, often with little reward and significant stress.
Despite everything, football still gives him joy.
The excitement of match day remains. So does the camaraderie and the lifelong friendships built through the game.
For Nick, that remains the greatest reward of all.
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
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.