The Wrong Ball
Social Media Image doing the rounds
A promotional image is doing the rounds on social media.
It shows a Women’s Asian Cup shirt for Australia 2026.
And tucked under the player’s arm is an AFL Sherrin.
Not a round football.
A Sherrin.
I do not know yet which retailer or agency produced the image. That matters for accuracy. But it is not really the point.
Because this tiny mistake tells a very familiar story.
The Asian Cup is coming
The Women’s Asian Cup is coming to Australia very soon.
One of the biggest football tournaments our country has hosted. Asian champions. The Matildas. Packed stadiums. Girls watching heroes.
It should be a moment of pride for football everywhere, including Tasmania.
Instead, in an image meant to promote the tournament, someone reached for the wrong ball.
And not one of them noticed.
Australian football commentators noticed immediately.
Adam Peacock wrote, with clear sarcasm,
“This is clever stuff from KMart. Football Asian Cup and AFL Asian Cup all in one photo. Genius.”
Simon Hill wrote,
“Another little eg of how football in Oz is never allowed to enjoy its moment in the sun. I can’t think of another place on this planet that would make this mistake… if indeed it is a mistake.”
When respected voices like Peacock and Hill react like that, you know this is not one person being cranky. It is a pattern.
Football in Tasmania is growing fast
Football Tasmania’s own figures show participation rising strongly, with more than forty thousand Tasmanians now involved in football in some form, and women and girls one of the fastest growing parts of the game.
In the Central Region Junior Football Association alone there are about 3,750 junior players every weekend.
That is thousands of families on sidelines. Hundreds of volunteers lining pitches, opening sheds, washing shirts, driving children across town in the rain.
Girls’ teams that did not exist five years ago now have waiting lists. Schools are asking for programs. Clubs are full.
Football is not niche.
Football is not small.
Football is not invisible.
Yet we still get the wrong ball in a photo.
One Tasmanian moment
Last winter at a junior match a little girl came off the field muddy and freezing, pink shin pads showing through her socks. She asked her mum if she could watch the Matildas when they got home.
That is the audience for the Asian Cup.
That child deserves to see her sport recognised properly.
Prestige spending versus participation spending
In Tasmania football serves tens of thousands of players on municipal grounds.
We line pitches with volunteer labour. We share changerooms. We apply for lighting upgrades in small grants so girls can train safely.
At the same time, enormous public investment flows into AFL infrastructure and elite venues.
This is not about AFL. It is about how public money chooses winners.
Participation is broad.
Investment is narrow.
And when a Women’s Asian Cup promotion shows an AFL ball instead of a football, it is the same reflex. The same hierarchy. The same assumption about which sport matters.
Visibility shapes everything
When football is not seen properly, it becomes easier to ignore when grounds are underfunded, when lights are delayed, when rectangular stadiums are dismissed, when volunteers carry the load.
Facilities matter.
Funding matters.
Media coverage matters.
Visibility matters too.
It is all part of the same pattern.
Who is visible.
Who is assumed.
Who is invisible.
You know I call this the politics of the urinal. Political blokes choosing their favourite sport to support.
What should happen
If you are an agency, a retailer, a federation, or a journalist, check your imagery.
Ask a football person before publishing.
Use the right fucking ball.
It is a small act of respect that tells girls their sport matters.
The line to remember
When Australia cannot even hold the right ball in a photograph promoting a football tournament, we should stop pretending football is treated equally.
In Tasmania football fills parks every weekend, yet still borrows space in budgets.
That is the story behind the wrong ball.
A School Mum Who Said Yes
Photo credit - Nikki Long
Elise Mee, President Ulverstone SC
Ulverstone, before Elise
Ulverstone Soccer Club turns 65 this year.
Many people in the South will not know much about them but on the North West Coast the club has been part of community life for generations.
Football in Ulverstone was being played as early as 1913, long before the modern club was formed. The official Ulverstone Soccer Club began in 1961, built by families who wanted football for their children and a place to gather on winter Saturdays.
The club grew slowly.
Through volunteers. Through school teams. Through brothers who played, then coached, then watched their children play. Through people who stayed.
They won a State Championship in 1986. They took Northern Premierships in 1994 and 1995. Players came and went. Generations passed through the Ulverstone Showgrounds.
Now, 65 years later, Ulverstone is stepping into the NPL.
And the President leading them there began as a school soccer mum.
Where football began
For Elise Mee, football started with family.
Two of her three brothers played for Ulverstone and North West representative teams from a young age. Later she stood on the sideline herself, as a school soccer mum.
She never imagined she would be President.
“Absolutely not.”
But during the years coaching her son Zac in juniors and youth, she saw parts of the club that needed work.
Instead of whinging, she got involved, to make a difference for their kids.
That is how most club leaders begin.
Family football
Her husband Jarrod and her son Zac are part of the journey.
“All of the above at times,” she says when asked if her family are proud, exhausted, supportive.
Jarrod and Elise share a common purpose, helping players reach their dreams and feel safe and supported along their journey. Even when there is soccer six days a week, she says she is very supported by the whole family.
There is one rule if she can manage it.
At least one night, no soccer talk.
The work behind the title
Working a full-time job and the role she has with the club takes the majority of her time.
“This past year including the off season has been next level,” she says.
She is grateful to work alongside incredible people, and she leans on Jarrod, Zac, Vice President Sam and other committee members when the role feels heavy.
There have been days that tested her.
But the positives outweigh the negatives.
If someone thinks being President is sitting in the grandstand, her answer is simple.
“Spend a week in my shoes.”
Quiet leadership
Elise did not even realise she was the only female President in the NPL competition until it was pointed out.
“I had no idea. I was honoured to join you.”
When asked about misogyny, subtle or overt, she answered calmly.
“Yes. Give them space to say what they need and I respond in a positive manner that upholds the values of our Club. Respect grows by also giving respect.”
No fuss.
Just values lived quietly.
Stepping into the NPL
The season has not yet started, and the in-between moment feels busy and exciting.
“Crazy busy, exciting, sleepless nights making sure we have covered all aspects and have an action plan in place.”
What excites her most is giving Ulverstone and its players the opportunity at the highest level.
“Putting Ulverstone on the map.”
Ulverstone’s move into the State League NPL comes with the expansion to ten teams.
There will be a North West derby with Devonport, a proper coastal rivalry and longer road trips for southern clubs who will now see a little more of the North West highway.
Exciting times for the coastal town, and a proud moment for a club turning 65.
What keeps her awake?
“Where do I start. Notes in my phone get a work out.”
Every President understands that list of worries.
Funding is one of the hardest parts of leading a regional club, though she says Ulverstone has been well supported by Council and sponsors who make a positive difference.
Culture first
Safeguarding and club culture have been strong themes under her leadership.
“I strongly believe that every person that steps into our Club has the right to feel safe, included, treated with respect and have a positive experience. We want to be the positive in someone’s world.”
When asked what decision she is most proud of, even if people would not notice, she struggles to choose.
“There is so much that has grown over the past three years. Our club culture from school soccer right through to the NPL team.”
That is the quiet work that holds clubs together.
The first NPL match
When Ulverstone walks out for its first NPL match, Elise hopes she will be standing at the players’ race.
“With sooo much pride in our club journey. Then I’d like to have a wine, calm the nerves and cheer the boys on.”
Not in the boardroom.
At the race.
Where volunteers stand.
Ten years from now
She does not want praise.
“I hope people look back and loved being part of what we have created, a home away from home. Also, she encouraged me, she knew my name, she cared.”
That is the measure of leadership in community football.
Belonging.
A quiet truth
I do not know how many Presidents meetings Elise has already sat through.
What I do know is how rare it still is to see women in those chairs.
It matters that she is there.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just by being present, carrying the story of her club.
That is how football changes.
The Golden Arches, Gratitude and Clarity
Sponsors, signage, and trust in Tasmanian football
Tasmanian football needs sponsors.
There is no argument about that.
McDonald’s choosing to invest in Tasmanian football is a positive signal for the game and we are grateful for it. Sponsors keep competitions running and show confidence in the sport.
But gratitude and clarity should go together.
Too often in Tasmanian football, clarity is missing.
Naming Rights Sponsorship 101
When a company becomes the naming rights sponsor of a league, the competition carries their name.
In return, the sponsor pays money to the league organiser and receives branding, signage at grounds, media exposure and association with the competition.
That money normally goes to the league body, not automatically to clubs.
Clubs do not expect confidential contract details. They simply want to understand how sponsorship supports football on the ground.
Understanding that structure helps explain why clubs ask questions.
What sponsorship looks like from a club fence
When a league sponsor arrives, clubs are asked to act.
Hang signs on fences.
Wear logos.
Post on social media.
Give up prime sponsor space.
Those big signs on fences are real value. Every metre matters to small local businesses who support clubs year after year.
So clubs quite reasonably ask a simple question.
What does this sponsorship actually do for football?
Not in theory. In practice.
A small story from South Hobart Oval - D’Arcy Street
At South Hobart Oval, volunteers put up a large league sponsor sign. Heavily cable tied to the fence. Permission sought and approved by Council.
Within twenty-four hours it disappeared.
Council cameras showed nothing. It happened in the dark.
For a few days the theories about where it had gone became a running joke. Someone suggested it had become a twenty-metre McDonald’s water slide in someone’s back garden. That theory won.
The humour faded when the club was asked to pay for a replacement sign. Eight hundred dollars, from memory.
No explanation. No discussion. Just an invoice.
Resentment 101.
Not because the sponsor was at fault. Because communication was missing.
Questions that never quite get answered
In Presidents meetings over the years, the simple question has been asked.
How much does the McDonald’s sponsorship provide financially?
Not to pry into confidential detail. Just to understand the scale of support coming into Tasmanian football.
The question was never really answered.
Deflection was the choice de rigueur.
Move to another agenda item. Talk about how grateful we should be. Change the subject.
And in that moment, trust slips a little.
Because members of a federation should be able to understand how sponsorship of their competitions works.
Transparency does not weaken relationships.
It strengthens them.
What clubs mean by “helping football”
When clubs ask how sponsorship money helps football, they do not mean funding more central programs run without clubs.
That is where resentment begins.
Clubs are the members of the federation. They run teams, line fields, recruit volunteers and find local sponsors.
Support that helps them run teams, pay referees, fund coaching courses, or reduce travel costs in a big state feels like partnership.
Funding programs that clubs are not involved in, or quietly competing against, feels like distance.
Clubs do not expect everything.
But they do expect to be part of the solution.
Sponsors deserve clarity too
Most sponsors genuinely want to help football.
Clear reporting would help them as much as clubs.
A simple annual summary could explain what sponsorship funded, referee support, livestream production, junior development, fee reductions, or facilities.
Then clubs could say proudly what the sponsor achieved.
Transparency protects sponsors as much as clubs.
Tasmanian football is small
People talk.
When decisions are not explained, rumours fill the gap.
Not because anyone is dishonest.
Because no one has taken the time to communicate clearly.
Community football runs on trust.
Trust grows from clarity.
A simple request
When leagues sign sponsorship agreements, share the basics.
What is the value of the deal?
What does it fund?
How does it help clubs and the players of the state?
What reporting will members see?
Not confidential details.
Just clarity.
Because big signs on fences are easy.
Building trust takes conversation.
Gratitude and clarity
McDonald’s investing in Tasmanian football is a good thing.
Sponsors keeping leagues alive is a good thing.
But gratitude does not mean silence.
It means partnership.
And partnership works best when everyone understands how the game is supported.
That is all clubs are asking.
Clarity.
Continue Reading
If this piece resonated, you might also like these reflections on Tasmanian football life.
• Who Football Chooses to Honour
Thank you for reading and for caring about football in Tasmania.
Why James Johnson Changed Jobs - Canada Soccer - Part Two
Photo credit - Getty Images
From Federation CEO to Commercial Architect
Why that job change matters.
In the last post I explained Canada’s football structure.
This second piece is about something that caught my eye.
The head of Canada’s commercial football company used to run Football Australia.
Why would someone move from a federation job into a commercial role?
It sounds like an inside-football story that only governance nerds would care about.
But it tells us something about how football is changing.
Who is James Johnson?
James Johnson is an Australian football administrator whose career has mostly been on the governance and commercial side of the game.
Before moving to Canada he was chief executive of Football Australia, the national federation responsible for the Socceroos, Matildas and the national competitions framework.
Earlier in his career he worked with FIFA and with the Asian Football Confederation on development and governance programs. He also held roles connected to club football networks such as City Football Group.
So his background sits across international football bodies, federation leadership and commercial football structures.
His career has been in administration.
That mix makes his move easier to understand.
Two very different jobs
Running a National federation means managing the game.
Running a commercial platform means growing its value.
Federations oversee national teams, rules, licensing and relationships across the sport. It is essential work, but it moves slowly and is shaped by history and competing interests.
Commercial platforms deal in media rights, sponsorships, streaming audiences and investors. They can move quickly if audiences grow.
Right now, football’s biggest financial growth is coming from media rights and digital distribution.
So when an executive moves from a federation to a commercial company, it usually reflects where they believe the future leverage of football sits.
Not better. Not worse.
Just where the momentum is.
Why Canada is attractive
Canada is hosting World Cup matches in 2026.
Its domestic league is young.
Participation is growing.
Its commercial company is bundling rights, building a streaming audience and looking for investors.
For an executive who wants to build something new, that is an opportunity.
At a federation you inherit history.
At a commercial platform you can design the future.
That helps explain the move.
Why this matters beyond Canada
Most Tasmanian football people are not thinking about media rights deals in North America.
We are thinking about referees on Sunday mornings and wet grounds in winter.
But big structural decisions still reach us.
When football money is bundled into commercial platforms, federations change how they operate.
Leagues change how they are funded.
Communication becomes more important, not less.
And when communication is poor, trust disappears quickly.
Not because people are bad.
Because systems become complicated and no one explains them clearly.
Why governance still matters
Commercial growth is not a bad thing.
Football needs sponsors, broadcasters and investment.
But whenever money is centralised, simple questions must be answered.
Who owns the deals?
How is revenue shared?
What does the wider game receive?
When answers are clear, people support the system.
When they are not, rumours fill the gap.
And small football communities feel ignored.
Why even nerdy stories matter
Most readers will not follow Canadian media rights negotiations.
That is fine.
But understanding how football structures work helps us ask better questions here.
It helps us see patterns instead of personalities.
And it reminds us that even small football communities live inside a global system.
The game is local.
But its structure is global.
What comes next
In the next post I will look at sponsorship transparency and why clear communication matters when leagues bring in corporate partners.
Because gratitude and clarity should always go together.
Continue Reading
If this piece resonated, you might also like these reflections on football governance and community life.
• When Running a Club Becomes a Second Job
Thank you for reading and for caring about football in Tasmania.
Why Canada Matters Right Now - Part One
Why Canada Matters Right Now
A simple guide to their football model
I have been reading about developments in Canadian football and at first it seemed distant from Tasmania.
But two things made me look more closely.
Canada is co-hosting the next World Cup.
And the chief executive of their commercial football company is James Johnson, who used to run Football Australia.
So this is not abstract.
It is part of the same global conversation about how football is funded and governed.
Before forming opinions, we need to understand the structure.
The key organisation
Much of the business side of football in Canada is handled by a company called
Canadian Soccer Media and Entertainment.
It works alongside Canada Soccer and the Canadian Premier League.
It also licenses content to the streaming service OneSoccer.
So one commercial hub sells media rights, sponsorships, and marketing for large parts of Canadian football.
Instead of many small deals, they bundle them together.
Think of it as the shopfront for Canadian football.
When and why this company was created
The commercial arm was created around 2018 as part of launching the Canadian Premier League and finding long-term funding for professional football in Canada.
Canada wanted a stable domestic league.
Bundling rights into one company was seen as a way to attract broadcasters, sponsors and investors.
That structure is now being expanded.
What rights does this company control?
The commercial company does more than sell league sponsorships.
It handles commercial activity for national teams and the Canadian Premier League.
It has agreements connected to competitions run by Confederation of North, Central America and Caribbean Association Football (CONCACAF) and content deals involving leagues such as the Bundesliga and the National Women's Soccer League all feeding into OneSoccer.
So it is not just a sponsorship agency.
It is a media rights hub.
That scale is what attracts investors.
Why they want investors now
Canada is hosting World Cup matches in 2026.
Participation in football is growing strongly.
The domestic league is still young.
So the company wants capital to:
• expand the Canadian Premier League
• buy more media rights
• grow its marketing arm
• build a larger streaming audience
That timing explains why a commercial structure like this becomes important.
Does Canada have promotion and relegation?
No, not at the top level.
The Canadian Premier League is a closed league of eight clubs.
There is no automatic promotion into it from lower leagues.
Below it are provincial semi-professional competitions but they are not connected to the CPL by pro-rel.
Canada is a huge country with very long travel distances.
Stability is important for investors and clubs.
So structurally Canada is closer to Australia than to England.
Canada’s clubs in Major League Soccer
Canada also has three clubs playing in Major League Soccer
• Toronto FC
• Vancouver Whitecaps FC
• CF Montréal
These clubs compete in the Canadian domestic cup, the
Canadian Championship, against CPL teams.
So Canada does not have one neat pyramid.
The Australia comparison
The A-League Men and A-League Women are also closed leagues.
They include New Zealand clubs such as
Wellington Phoenix FC
and
Auckland FC.
So Australia, like Canada, already runs a cross-border league structure.
Neither country looks like England.
Both are building football across huge geography with smaller football markets.
Not without controversy
The earlier commercial arrangement in Canada led to disputes with players over transparency and revenue sharing.
That is not unusual.
Any system that centralises money needs strong trust and clear communication.
Canada is still working through those questions.
Why this matters
Canada has created a company that bundles national team rights, league rights, and media content into one commercial platform.
Now it wants investors to buy into that platform.
That is a big structural choice.
It changes who holds power in football.
It raises questions about transparency, governance and how money flows through the game.
Those questions are not just Canadian.
They appear everywhere football is trying to grow.
Including here.
What comes next
In the next post I want to look at why an executive like James Johnson moved from a federation role into this commercial structure and what that tells us about where football’s power is heading.
Because understanding the model is only the first step.
Understanding who it serves is the next.
Continue Reading
If this piece resonated, you might also like these reflections on football governance and community life.
• Master and Servant – Paying to be Governed
Thank you for reading and for caring about football in Tasmania.
Lights Before Landmarks
Credit the Mercury Newspaper
The NPL and WSL Launch Should Be About Clubs
The NPL and WSL season launch is meant to be football’s day.
Clubs.
Players.
Coaches.
Referees.
Volunteers who line fields before work.
Instead, the headline that came out of the daytime launch was another push for a Home of Football.
I was not at the launch, but I spoke with people who were there and read the coverage carefully. I also understand journalists are limited by space. They report what they hear, and the headline reflects what was emphasised.
Launches show what we choose to celebrate.
Football Already Has Homes
Football in Tasmania already has homes.
winter-soaked Valley Road,
Riverside rain,
Ulverstone wind,
Clarence twilight training.
In CRJFA we schedule around 3,750 juniors every week.
Across Tasmania more than 40,000 people play.
Those players need simple things.
Lights.
Drainage.
Female changerooms.
Storage.
Safe parking.
A season launch should recognise that work first.
A Different Conversation Was Inserted
A Home of Football may be a worthy idea.
But it is not what clubs needed to hear at a competition launch.
That moment belongs to the teams stepping onto the field.
The WSL players building the women’s game.
The referees driving across town after work.
The volunteers keeping clubs alive.
When that moment becomes another infrastructure pitch, it tells us something about priorities.
One Central Facility Does Not Solve Participation
A Home of Football might include offices, classrooms, high-performance pitches, maybe an all-weather field.
That is useful.
But it does not create twenty suburban grounds.
It does not shorten travel for families.
It does not fix overbooked pitches.
Participation lives locally.
Questions the Article Should Have Answered
The article mentioned participation growth.
It mentioned a large funding request.
But it left out the details clubs need.
How many extra junior matches will this facility allow?
How many community hours per week are guaranteed?
How many new local pitches will be funded alongside it?
How will regional clubs access the facility?
What is the cost per player compared with upgrading community grounds?
What are the ongoing operating costs?
And how does this plan address the shortage of female changerooms across the state?
These are not negative questions. They are practical ones.
Infrastructure decisions shape football for decades. They should be grounded in the lived reality of clubs.
Consultation Matters
Football Tasmania is a member-based organisation.
Its members are clubs and associations.
Before a project of this scale moves forward, it is reasonable to ask what consultation has taken place.
Have clubs been asked about priorities?
Have junior associations been consulted about ground shortages?
Have regional clubs been asked how they would use a central facility?
Have options been shared, with costs and trade-offs explained?
Good decisions come from listening.
Football’s real strength is its members.
The Women’s Game Deserves More Than Words
Women and girls’ football is the fastest growing part of the game.
We celebrate that, as we should.
But many teams still share changerooms.
Many train late because grounds are full.
Many travel long distances for suitable facilities.
Any infrastructure plan should start there.
Not with offices, but with spaces where girls belong.
Why Timing Matters
This was an NPL and WSL launch.
A day meant to celebrate clubs and competitions.
When that moment becomes a pitch for a central facility, it suggests we are looking upward when we should be looking outward.
Toward muddy boots.
Toward crowded schedules.
Toward shared changerooms.
Toward volunteers doing three jobs at once.
Clubs Are the Real Home of Football
The NPL and WSL exist because of clubs.
Because Riverside volunteers open sheds at dawn.
Because Ulverstone parents wash kits at midnight.
Because Clarence twilight training still goes ahead in the wind.
Because South Hobart juniors train under failing lights and still come back smiling.
Football does not need one grand home.
It needs fifty better ones.
Lights before landmarks.
Changerooms before conferences.
Community before prestige.
If this piece resonated, you might also like:
• A Headquarters for Football Tasmania, not a home for Football.
Thank you for caring about football in Tasmania.
Walter Pless and the Memory of Football
Photo taken with love by Nikki Long
A life spent watching, writing and loving football in Tasmania
Why this interview matters
When I asked Walter Pless if I could interview him, he seemed surprised. Almost embarrassed. As though he were not quite worthy of an interview.
That humility says everything.
Because anyone who has stood on Tasmanian touchlines for the last forty years knows what Walter has done. He recorded our game when few others did. He turned up week after week, in wind, cold mornings and long afternoons, driving from ground to ground so the story of football in this state would not be lost.
He never chased recognition. He just kept turning up.
Player. Coach. Teacher. Writer. Photographer. Volunteer historian.
Walter is known across Tasmania as “Mr Football”.
In 2022 he was inducted into the Football Australia Hall of Fame, one of only a handful of Tasmanians ever to receive that honour.
People like Walter rarely think of themselves as important. They just do the work.
This interview is a small attempt to say thank you and to record his story in his own words.
Childhood in Austria
Walter was born in Lambach, Austria, to Croatian refugee parents.
“I remember the snow in winter and having skis and a sled. We lived in a small village in Upper Austria and I remember travelling to famous cities like Salzburg with Dad, who was a truck driver.”
Football arrived early.
“My dad took me to local games in Austria when I was only three years old. The ground was beside the River Traun and the ball would often end up in the river and have to be fished out. That’s where my uncle broke my nose with a kick. Years later I had surgery on it in Australia but it didn’t really help.”
Soon after, his family migrated.
A new country. A new language. But the same game.
Finding football in Tasmania
Walter arrived in Australia aged five.
“I started school in Grade 1 a few days after we arrived. It was a traumatic experience for me because I didn’t speak a word of English.”
But football was waiting again.
“In Tasmania, my dad would take me with him to games at South Hobart. There were three First Division games every Saturday and that’s how I came to love the game. There were some very good teams and players and the old grandstand was packed.”
Football was family life.
“My father would always take me to games and all my uncles also attended matches. They were players for a while and eventually they also became referees and coaches.”
At school, football was not always available.
“I played Aussie Rules at primary school because there was no soccer team. I didn’t start playing football until second-year high school when we finally got a team.”
Small details that tell a bigger story about football in Tasmania then.
Family, teaching, and Izumi
Teaching became his profession, and he loved it.
“It was wonderful to be able to help kids to learn and you developed a sense of empathy for people. I also coached school football teams.”
Later, through a colleague teaching in Japan and a police exchange programme while Walter was working with Tasmania Police, he met Izumi.
“I was introduced to Izumi when I went to Japan and that’s how we met. We were married in Japan and in Australia.”
She supported his football life.
“Although she doesn’t follow football, she has always supported my love of the game. We used to attend J-League games in Japan and that was a wonderful experience.”
Family mattered deeply.
“My extended family are also precious to me. I have a son and daughter and five grandchildren. I’ve coached three of these grandkids and those three play football at NPL, Championship and Women’s Super League levels now. My two nephews also played football.”
Football ran through generations.
The other passions that shaped him
Walter was never only a football man.
He loved photography, especially ships and aircraft. He travelled on voyages aboard American warships and wrote accounts of those journeys that were published in newspapers and magazines.
He wrote fiction, with short stories published in Australia and the United Kingdom.
He wrote theoretical articles on junior football for education journals, trying to improve coaching and development.
These were the habits of a teacher and observer, and they shaped the depth of his football writing.
Playing days
Walter played for Croatia-Glenorchy, Caledonian, Metro, Rapid and University, spending most seasons with Rapid.
At seventeen he played in the United States for the University of Akron in Ohio and won a tri-state indoor tournament.
He describes himself honestly.
“I was a good reserve team player. My glasses held me back. As soon as a coach sees a player wearing glasses, subconsciously the seeds of doubt are sown.”
At fifteen he broke his leg playing for Southern Tasmania in Sydney and never regained full confidence.
But he remembers his strengths.
“I was always an accurate crosser of the ball, had a powerful shot and took excellent free kicks. The stars of the senior team would always let me take the free-kicks. I’m left-footed and left-footers are always special.”
One match stayed with him.
“I recall playing for Hobart Matric Under-18s against Metro at Cadbury’s and winning 7-0. I made four goals and scored a hat-trick. It was probably my best game ever. Our centre-forward, Tony Davies, was deadly in the air.”
Coaching
Coaching followed naturally.
“Natural progression from a player to a coach. I thought I’d make a better coach than a player and coaching appealed to me. I eventually wanted to write about the game so I needed some street cred.”
He earned the Full Badge of the Australian Soccer Federation, attending a nine-day national course run by Brian Green with Jimmy Shoulder, Ron Smith and Eric Worthington.
There were ideas he wanted to try.
He loved working with players.
“Seeing players improve and be the best that they could be. Seeing players achieve good results.”
Teaching shaped his coaching.
“Teachers often make the best coaches. They can break things down into manageable parts.”
Football gave him purpose.
“Challenges and satisfaction, as well as disappointment at times, but always something to aim for.”
Football also took time.
“I spent a lot of time with football and probably neglected other important things.”
Becoming the writer
Walter began writing about football in 1978.
“I always loved writing and I wanted to write about something I knew a little bit about.”
He became the football writer at The Mercury for 25 years and also wrote for national and international publications including Soccer Action, Australian Soccer Weekly and World Soccer.
“It was a lot of responsibility because you were the voice of the sport.”
He always felt he was fighting for football to be taken seriously.
“It was the world game yet non-football people here didn’t acknowledge that.”
One story he was proud of was interviewing Gary Lineker.
“He was scoring for England one week and the next week he was standing in the middle of the pitch at South Hobart.”
He wrote without fear or favour, sometimes drawing criticism, including after his criticism of Devonport withdrawing from the State League.
Even after retiring in 2009, he kept writing and photographing football through his website.
Volunteer devotion.
How the game has changed
Walter saw football run from kitchen tables.
“It was a serious venture and people invested a lot of time and effort. Administrators were all part-time and did the best they could.”
What improved most?
“The fitness of players and officials and the level of competition.”
What has not improved enough?
“The standard of facilities and media coverage.”
Administrators today?
“Just different. Technology has revolutionised administration.”
One mistake football keeps repeating?
“It doesn’t always take itself seriously enough.”
What worries him, and what gives him hope
“There is still a gap between juniors and senior football. The transition should be seamless.”
But his belief in the game remains.
“It’s the most popular game in the world and it has endless potential. It’s an immovable force and can’t be stopped, despite the obstacles that non-football people erect.”
His blog and football culture
Walter allows comments on his blog.
“As long as they make valid points and are respectful, they should be allowed. Supporters need a voice.”
Harsh comments sting, but debate is part of football.
“Surely debating issues is healthy.”
Matches he still carries
Locally, one match stands above the rest.
“Locally, Tasmania versus New South Wales at South Hobart, 4-5, in the early 1990s.”
Elsewhere he remembers:
“Victoria versus Santos, with Pelé. Eintracht Frankfurt versus Cruzeiro, with Tostão. And the Under-20 World Cup Final in 1981, West Germany 4-0 Qatar.”
People he wanted remembered
Walter named another writer.
“Gordon Burnett, the former soccer writer for The Mercury in the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s. He did a marvellous job.”
Writers remember the game so others can remember too.
Recognition and pride
Walter is proud of the full arc of his football life.
“That I have been a player and coach and then a writer on the game.”
He also represented Tasmania at the International Coaches’ Convention in Sydney in 1981.
In 2022 he was inducted into the Football Australia Hall of Fame.
“It was a humbling experience and one of which my family were very proud. My extended family all travelled to Melbourne for the induction.”
What he wants remembered
Tasmanian football has an illustrious history.
“It has had some great players.”
Walter hopes people will say he loved the game, promoted it and spoke honestly.
His message to the next generation:
“You are playing the greatest game on earth. Respect its traditions, acquaint yourself with its past, and take it positively into the future.”
Thank you, Walter
Tasmanian football owes Walter Pless more than we often realise.
For the countless Saturdays.
For the empty grandstands and the packed ones.
For the cold sidelines and the long drives home.
For the reports and photographs that kept our football alive.
He did it quietly, as a volunteer, because he believed the game deserved to be remembered.
The respect we have for him is endless.
And Tasmanian football is richer because Walter Pless cared enough to write it down.
Thank you, Walter. Truly.
A Gleam in the Dark: What Bodø/Glimt Teaches Small Football Places
Aspmyra Stadium - Bodo
The Miracle of Bodø/Glimt
Who else has been marvelling at the minnow in the Champions League?
A tiny club from the Arctic Circle.
An 8,000-seat ground.
A town smaller than many Tasmanian suburbs.
And yet there they were, lining up against Europe’s giants.
People called it a miracle.
It wasn’t.
It was a plan.
The name tells the story
The club’s name is simple.
Bodø is the town. A fishing and air-force town north of the Arctic Circle. Wind off the sea. Dark winters. Midnight sun in summer.
Glimt means a gleam, a flash of light.
A small spark in a dark northern sky.
That is the poetry of the club before a ball is kicked.
A community team from a remote place that believed it could shine.
Identity matters in football.
Names remind clubs who they serve.
The basics
Founded in 1916.
First top-division title in 2020, after 104 years.
Titles again in 2021, 2023, 2024.
European football almost every season since.
Champions League group stage in 2025–26.
Town population about 43,000.
Stadium capacity about 8,270.
Turnover around €30 million.
Wage bill around €20 million.
Small by European standards.
Huge by small-town standards.
And still they beat clubs with ten times their money, clubs like Roma, Celtic, Olympiacos, Lazio, and strong runs against teams like Tottenham, proving this was not a lucky draw or one good night.
Ownership and governance
Bodø/Glimt is not owned by a billionaire.
It is a member-owned club, like most Norwegian clubs.
Community roots.
Elected board.
Professional staff.
In Norway, as in Germany, there is a strong tradition that members keep majority control of clubs. Often described as a “50+1” or 51% principle, it means outside investors can help, but they cannot take over the club’s identity or direction.
So clubs must grow sustainably.
No reckless spending.
No fantasy budgets.
They professionalised without losing their soul.
Clear roles.
Clear strategy.
Patience.
That balance, community control with professional standards, is one of the real secrets of their rise.
The turning point
They were relegated in 2016.
Most clubs panic.
They rebuilt.
New executive structure.
Clear football philosophy.
Long-term plan.
They asked a better question.
Not how do we survive this season.
What kind of club do we want to be in ten years.
That question changed everything.
The coach and the idea
Manager - Kjetil Knutsen
In 2018, Kjetil Knutsen became manager.
Not famous.
Not expensive.
But perfectly aligned with the club’s philosophy.
High pressing.
Fast transitions.
Fitness and courage.
Collective movement.
Every age group learned the same ideas.
Consistency beats cleverness.
Mental strength
They hired a former fighter pilot as a mental coach.
Resilience.
Calm under pressure.
Belief.
Small clubs often lose before kickoff.
Bodø didn’t.
They expected to win.
Smart player trading
They did not buy stars.
They developed players.
Sold at the right time.
Reinvested carefully.
No boom and bust.
Just steady growth.
That is how a €30 million club competes with €300 million clubs.
Using geography
Aspmyra Stadion has artificial turf and undersoil heating.
Cold. Windy. Remote.
Travelling there is hard.
They leaned into their location instead of apologising for it.
Identity became advantage.
Real European results
This was not a fairy tale.
They beat serious clubs.
Roma 6–1.
Beat Celtic over two legs.
Beat Olympiacos.
Beat Lazio.
Europa League semi-final.
Champions League group stage.
Consistency, not luck.
What Tasmania can learn
Tasmania is not Bodø. But the comparison is useful.
A small island state of about 570,000 people, spread across towns and regions, playing football in cold winters and wet grounds, with long travel and limited money. Like northern Norway, football here is community-run, volunteer-heavy, and deeply local. We have clubs older than a century, strong junior numbers, passionate families, and grounds that carry generations of memory.
And to be clear, the Bodø lesson is not about inventing a new sterile franchise. Bodø/Glimt was a 100-year-old community club before it won anything. It grew from its own members, its own juniors, its own town. No relocation. No branding exercise. No imported identity. Just an existing club that aligned its governance, coaching, and long-term planning.
Tasmania already has clubs like that. Clubs with history, members, volunteers, and community trust. The lesson from Bodø is that one of those real clubs, rooted in its place, can grow patiently into something bigger without losing its soul.
Small places do not need new logos.
They need alignment.
The real lesson
Bodø/Glimt is not magic.
It is what happens when a community club becomes professional without losing its identity.
Stable leadership.
Clear philosophy.
Financial discipline.
Patient pathways.
Belief.
Small places can shine.
A gleam in the dark.
Continue Reading
→ Stop Telling Football to Be Grateful
When Running a Club Became a Second Job
Reading the North Again
I recently resubscribed to The Examiner and The Advocate.
Partly because I miss reading a real newspaper with my morning tea.
Mostly because it is one of the best ways to hear what is happening in football in the North and North West of our state.
So thank you to the journalists up there who keep writing about our game.
Local football stories do not write themselves. Someone has to turn up. Someone has to listen. Someone has to care enough to file the story. It matters more than you probably know.
On 29 November 2025, Ryan Bentley wrote an article in The Examiner titled Fees going up and rising volunteer burden has clubs wondering is it worth it?
I found myself nodding the whole way through.
Not because it was new.
Because it was familiar.
Voices From The North
Launceston City president Danny Linger said clubs are “getting past being just a community organisation, you're a business now.”
Riverside Olympic president Stuart McCarron spoke about the workload, saying applying for an NPL licence took him more than one hundred hours.
He also said clubs are trying to “run an elite program but at the same time run a community program and at times they're at odds.”
Those words will feel familiar to anyone who has sat on a football board in Tasmania.
Ninety Criteria
The article explained that there are ninety licensing criteria for NPL clubs, spread across sporting, infrastructure, personnel and administrative, legal, and financial areas.
Some are simple. An email address. A phone number.
Others are not.
Youth development programs that must run at least forty weeks a year for players aged fourteen and above. Safeguarding policies. Governance structures. Documentation.
This is real work. Done mostly by volunteers.
One president spoke about spending more than one hundred hours on licensing paperwork alone.
That is not unusual.
Running Two Clubs At Once
Clubs like Launceston City, Riverside Olympic, and Launceston United are dealing with more than five hundred players each.
Most are juniors.
As McCarron said, “less than a tenth of your players are involved in any elite program, the majority just prefer to play football.”
But every one of those players still needs a team, a coach, a uniform, a referee, a ground, and someone organising it all.
That web of work sits quietly behind every Saturday morning.
Often after someone’s real job.
North, South, North West – Different Models
One important difference across Tasmania rarely gets explained.
In the North and North West, most juniors play directly for clubs. That is why clubs there can have five hundred or more players registered.
In the South, junior football is powered by regional junior associations, and many children also play for their schools. Club junior numbers look smaller because players are spread across schools, association competitions, and club pathways.
It is a different structure, not less football.
Across the state, junior associations organise fixtures, support volunteers, develop referees, and carry the weekly workload that keeps football alive for children.
So when we talk about club size, volunteer burden, or licensing capacity, we need to remember these regional differences. Northern clubs carry junior numbers inside their club structure. Southern clubs rely more on association competitions feeding into clubs.
Both systems depend on volunteers.
Both systems are stretched.
Both systems power Tasmanian football.
Fees and Expectations
The article noted the 2025 NPL licence fee of $18,900, with another $10,500 for clubs with a women’s team.
Football Tasmania said these fees help cover travel and referee costs.
At the same time, the season is shortening as the league expands to ten teams and introduces relegation.
So clubs meet ninety criteria, organise hundreds of volunteers, raise sponsorship, and risk relegation at the end of it.
You can understand why some boards are quietly asking whether it is worth it.
The article reported that several clubs considered whether to leave the NPL after the 2025 season.
That should make all of us stop and think.
Volunteers Carrying The Weight
Danny Linger spoke about volunteers backing clubs out of their own pocket, serving on boards, running match days, and doing committee work.
He said it is “a second job for some people.”
Anyone who has sat on a Tasmanian football board knows that is true.
The sport runs on goodwill.
And goodwill is not infinite.
Clubs Becoming Businesses
Football Tasmania CEO Tony Pignata was quoted saying NPL and WSL level has gone past being community clubs and needs to be run like a business.
In one sense that is right.
We want proper safeguarding. Good coaching. Safe facilities. Financial transparency. Strong pathways.
But businesses have staff. Revenue streams. Office hours.
Most football clubs have volunteers and parents trying to keep everything afloat late at night after work.
That gap is where the strain lives.
The Quiet Fear
Northern Rangers faced the same decision years ago and stepped away from the NPL.
If more clubs do the same, replacing them will not be easy. There are only a few non-NPL clubs ready to step up.
Pathways disappear faster than they are built.
Communities lose teams. Juniors lose role models. Volunteers burn out.
Rebuilding takes decades.
This Is Not One Region’s Problem
Reading Danny Linger and Stuart McCarron speak so openly mattered to me.
It reminded me that these challenges are not about one club or one region.
Across Tasmania, presidents are having the same conversations about licensing hours, volunteer fatigue, sponsorship pressure, facility standards, and the gap between expectations and support.
Different structures in the North, South, and North West.
The same strain everywhere.
We all want strong competitions.
We also need sustainable clubs.
Thank You For Telling The Story
So again, thank you to the northern journalists who keep covering football, and thank you to the club presidents who speak honestly about the reality of running clubs.
These stories help the rest of us see the full picture of the game across our state. They honour the volunteers who carry far more than most people ever see.
Because clubs are not failing.
They are trying to carry more than they were ever designed to hold.
Continue Reading
If this piece resonated, you might like this earlier reflection.
When Football Outgrew the Volunteer Model
A look at how expectations grew faster than volunteer capacity in Tasmanian football.
Thank you for reading and caring about the game in our state.
41,395 Tasmanians played football last year
Football Australia’s 2025 Participation Report shows
41,395 Tasmanians played football last year.
Across 44 clubs.
Participation in Tasmania grew 32 percent.
These are official numbers.
They matter.
What the report actually says
In Tasmania in 2025
• 41,395 total participants
• 15,193 outdoor affiliated players
• 44 clubs
• 5,318 women and girls
• 1,810 registered coaches
• 261 referees
• 762 volunteers
The total number already includes schools, futsal, social football and community programs.
This is one of the largest community sport networks in the state.
It runs in every region.
It runs mostly on council grounds and volunteer labour.
Now look at the other number
Tasmania has committed about $1.1 billion to the Macquarie Point AFL stadium project.
Hundreds of millions in public funding.
For one elite competition.
This is not about AFL.
It is about priorities.
Do the maths
Tasmania has 44 football clubs.
If even $100 million were invested statewide in football facilities, that would be about $2.2 million per club.
Enough for lighting, drainage, changerooms and safe training space across the state.
Instead, clubs apply for grants of $20,000 or $50,000 and hope.
That is the scale of the gap.
The everyday reality
Every Tasmanian football person knows the winter message.
No spare pitch.
No lights.
No time available.
Training cancelled.
Matches moved.
Waiting lists growing.
This is not complaint.
It is capacity.
Women and girls are growing the game
More than 5,318 women and girls now play football in Tasmania.
That number will keep rising.
Growth needs infrastructure.
Separate changerooms.
Lighting for evening training.
Safe facilities.
Participation without facilities becomes exclusion.
Quietly.
The people who keep it going
Football in Tasmania relies on a small workforce and many volunteers.
1,810 coaches.
261 referees, who are paid modest match fees.
762 volunteers.
Thousands of hours every season organising teams, marking fields, running canteens, driving kids, writing grant applications.
This is community service.
It deserves community planning.
Prestige versus participation
Tasmania is choosing to spend more than a billion dollars on one stadium.
At the same time forty-one thousand footballers share space, share facilities and fundraise for basics.
This is not envy.
It is arithmetic.
Participation builds community health, inclusion and belonging.
Funding should recognise that.
The question Tasmania should ask
If forty-one thousand Tasmanians played cricket or AFL,
would they still be sharing changerooms and waiting lists?
Because footballers are not asking for a stadium.
They are asking for somewhere to train.
Somewhere to play.
Somewhere for their daughters to change safely.
That is not ambition.
That is dignity.
Just Andy
Just Andy
Andy Brennan has been part of our family for most of his life.
He and Ned met when they were four. Boots by the door. Sleep-overs. Backyard games until dark. He was Ned’s best man. He is like a fourth son to me.
He comes from a big sporting family. Every Brennan could play something well. Andy too, football, hockey, anything with a ball. But what we remember most is his gentleness. His kindness. The way he never made a fuss.
Ken coached him for years. Andy was part of the South Hobart family for many years. Many of our juniors remember him running drills, laughing, helping younger players. He grew up inside our football life. Training nights. Away trips. Kitchen table conversations.
Andy is studying a Doctor of Psychology, combining sports and exercise psychology with clinical psychology. He has finished the sports and exercise side, is nearly done with the clinical work and still has his research thesis to go.
To us he was never a headline. He was the kid who hated spicy food and got nosebleeds on our pillow during sleep-overs.
Just Andy. That is how we still see him.
When Andy rang to tell us he was gay, it was not a shock. It was not a problem.
The shock was that he wanted to go public.
We were proud of him. But we were frightened too. Because football crowds can be cruel. And we love him. We were afraid the game we loved might be cruel to one of our own.
Andy chose courage anyway.
This is his story, in his own words.
Growing Up in Sport
Sport was part of being a Brennan, but not as rivalry. It was shared.
They went to each other’s games. Their parents were always there.
One memory stayed with him. He was rowing in a quad. He hated the early mornings and wanted to quit mid-season. His mum told him he had made a commitment to three other boys. If he quit, they would suffer too.
So he stayed.
He did not like it, but he knew it was right. That lesson about commitment has never left him.
Andy was also a strong hockey player. Midfield in hockey. Attacker in football.
Hockey was quick. You had to anticipate play. That stayed with him. In hockey he felt it was his duty to create for others. Setting someone up gave him more satisfaction than scoring himself. That mindset followed him into football.
Football became his focus around fifteen. Not because he stopped loving hockey. He knew how much it meant to his mum. That was hard.
But football felt right.
Football Culture and Finding Himself
Senior football was intense.
Long trips home from up north. Drinking on the bus. Post-game nights out. A culture that assumed everyone would fit in.
Andy often felt like an observer.
There were good people, he says, but some things were toxic. There was little space to be different.
He remembers one early session with Daniel Brown chasing him in a possession drill after Andy had gone past him. Not malicious. Just the norm.
Ken told him to keep getting on the ball. Keep expressing himself.
Football became his identity in that period. Ken’s protection gave him space to be himself and in a way, held him together, for the time being, at least.
Looking back, Andy says he was authentic in football, but it was authenticity with a secret.
He hid a vulnerability. When it felt exposed, he edited himself. Doing that for long enough changes you. It makes it harder to see the parts of yourself that feel unacceptable.
When he later shared that vulnerable side, others often shared theirs too.
Before Coming Out
The years before coming out were, in his words, really terrible.
He describes intense cognitive dissonance. Minimising who he was to ease internal discomfort. Lingering shame. Anxiety.
He thinks that struggle showed up in his football. In his form. Even in his injuries.
At Newcastle and in other intense environments, football was not going well. His identity felt under threat. There was no outlet.
He says, “I’ve never really described how lonely and tough it was.”
It felt like a pot of boiling water with the lid on.
Eventually he reached acceptance. Determination. The lid lifted.
The water still boiled, but it was different.
Relief came.
He feared people would not accept him. That relationships he loved would change.
Instead, when he told those close to him, it was relief. Curiosity. Support.
He kept telling himself one thing.
This is the greatest sift. If they don’t like it, why would I share my life with them.
Football mattered less than honesty.
People close to him were worried. His dad. Me. Others who loved him. Not rejection, just fear for what might happen.
Once he had accepted himself, he needed to finish the process.
Hearing It and Dealing With It
Andy still experiences periodic homophobia.
In games. In life.
Most of the time it does not keep him awake. But there are moments.
He remembers a game at Preston. He was tired. Drained. People in the crowd yelled things throughout the match.
What hurt most was looking around and wondering why no one else said it wasn’t okay. Then the attention turns to him. What do you want to do. How do we handle it. What is the way forward.
Sometimes you just want someone else to step in and fight for you.
First comes shock.
He processes what was said. Who said it. Was it malicious.
Online comments rarely bother him, though it can shock him to see questionable things from people he knows.
Sideline abuse is harder because you are meant to keep playing. There have been moments where he has stood in the middle of the pitch and thought, fuck this, completely drained and wanting to go home.
Most of the time he keeps going.
Sometimes the hardest moments are when someone close says something careless without meaning harm.
Support matters most. Talking. Being with people. Knowing he is not alone.
Sometimes he uses abuse as motivation. Give me the ball. Create something. Make them look and say wow.
But he does not believe in simply blocking things out. With enough heat, things bubble up. For him it is about recognising what happened and choosing what to do next.
Fold in. Or keep playing.
He says that choice is real. Sometimes getting that ball and showing them takes a lot of energy.
Those ideas come from his experience and from the sports psychology work he is doing now.
Family, Friends, and Perspective
Some of his teammates are among his best friends.
Humour helps. It brings people closer and makes difficult topics easier. Sometimes people get carried away, he says, but he can manage that.
Perspective matters most.
Andy says rigidity of belief leads to distress. We all live inside our own experiences. Change comes through empathy and shared stories. If we can create environments where people are less certain about others, he thinks we are succeeding.
When the Brennan family gathers, life is normal. They tease each other. Get on with things.
When he debuted for Newcastle, his whole family was there. Their love never wavered.
When asked if growing up in a big sporting family gave him resilience, he laughed and said maybe I would know better than him.
Those childhood friendships mattered too. Being around people who do not judge you makes a difference when you are questioning yourself.
It always did.
What He Wants Football to Learn
Andy does not think football fully understands what openly LGBTQ players face.
But he does not expect people to understand what they have not lived.
Empathy grows through stories.
To young players he says be patient. Coming out is a process. Read stories. Find people you trust.
He sees coming out as an accelerated version of something most people face across a lifetime. Facing fear. Accepting yourself. Choosing authenticity.
It can be a profound gift. Surviving that fear changes your relationship with fear forever.
That is the thinking he is exploring in his PhD work now.
What He Would Tell His Younger Self
You will be okay.
You are safe.
Things will work out just fine.
Andy Brennan will always be part of our family.
He will always be the boy at our kitchen table, the kid who hated spicy food, the young player Ken backed when others tried to kick him, the friend who stood beside Ned on his wedding day.
He has always been happier setting others up than scoring himself.
He is also a brave man who chose honesty in a sport that is still learning.
Here in Tasmania, where football is small and built on families and volunteers, his courage matters. It tells young players in Hobart, Launceston, Devonport, Ulverstone, everywhere, that they can belong too. That our game must be safe for all of us.
To us he is just Andy.
And we love him very much.
Different Doors, Same Room
Face covered. What is being said?
What happened, 101
During a UEFA Champions League play-off match between Real Madrid and Benfica 18 February 2026, Real Madrid forward Vinícius Júnior alleged that Benfica player Gianluca Prestianni directed a racist slur at him after he scored.
Vinícius reported the incident to the referee.
The referee stopped the match for around ten minutes while UEFA’s anti-racism protocol was activated.
Prestianni denied making any racist remark.
UEFA opened an investigation.
After the match, Benfica coach José Mourinho said he did not know who was telling the truth and tried to take a neutral stance, suggesting the situation may have been sparked by Vinícius’ celebration.
That is the basic sequence.
No rumours.
No spin.
Just what happened.
Neutrality is not neutral
When something ugly happens in football, everyone looks to procedure.
Did the referee stop the match.
Did UEFA follow the protocol.
Will there be an investigation.
But the real test is not the protocol.
It is what leaders say afterwards.
Because racism in football rarely arrives shouting.
It arrives dressed in careful language.
Let us stay neutral.
Let us hear both sides.
Let us wait.
Those words sound reasonable.
They are not neutral.
They shift attention away from racism and onto behaviour.
Reputation before reality
Managers protect clubs.
Associations protect competitions.
Institutions protect their image.
So they talk about history.
Tradition.
Values.
We are not racist because of who we are.
But football’s history does not protect players in the present.
Reputation is not reality.
And reputation is often defended more fiercely than people.
The protocol worked. The culture didn’t.
UEFA has anti-racism steps.
Matches can stop.
Announcements can be made.
Investigations can begin.
Football can tick every box.
Yet Vinícius keeps reporting abuse, season after season, stadium after stadium.
That tells us something uncomfortable.
Football loves campaigns.
It struggles with consequences.
Structures exist.
Culture resists.
This is what Andy Brennan had to contend with
I am about to publish an interview with Andy Brennan.
Andy is intelligent, articulate, thoughtful, a professional footballer who also carries a university degree and a life beyond football.
He is also a man who came out publicly as gay in men’s professional football.
And suddenly the game he loved changed around him.
Not always with slurs.
Not always with headlines.
Sometimes with silence.
Sometimes with jokes.
Sometimes with careful neutrality.
Andy spoke about hearing comments from the sideline and online.
The constant awareness.
The calculation about how to react.
The need to keep performing while carrying something heavy.
That is the same culture Vinícius is facing, just through a different door.
One player hears monkey chants.
Another hears whispers about masculinity.
Different prejudice.
Same mechanism.
Football says it is inclusive. Players know better.
Football launches campaigns.
Respect.
Say No to Racism.
Rainbow Laces.
But players still carry the burden.
Vinícius has to keep playing while crowds abuse him.
Andy had to keep playing while wondering who might see him differently.
The protocol can stop a match for ten minutes.
It cannot change dressing room jokes.
It cannot change online abuse.
It cannot change leaders who choose neutrality over clarity.
What young players are watching
Young players are always watching.
They watch how adults respond when someone is targeted.
Do leaders speak clearly.
Do teammates stand beside someone.
Do clubs act, or wait.
These moments tell young players what football really is.
Not the slogans.
The culture.
Racism is not an incident
Football treats racism as a moment.
It is not.
It is a culture.
Crowd behaviour.
Media framing.
Leadership language.
Fear of consequences.
The same patterns appear with racism, homophobia, sexism, bullying.
Silence.
Deflection.
Neutrality.
Closing
The referee did his job.
UEFA will investigate.
But football’s real test is still ahead.
Will leaders speak clearly.
Or will they stay neutral.
Because neutrality, in moments like this, is never neutral at all.
Brian Murphy: finding clarity, grounding and belonging in Tasmanian football
Brian Murphy photographed by Nikki Long
There are moments in football where it’s worth pausing and listening rather than rushing to the next result.
Brian Murphy wrote back after the questions to say he had really enjoyed the process. He said Tasmania is a small football community and stories spread quickly, so he appreciated the chance to share his thoughts directly. That alone tells you something about how he approaches the job.
Not with spin, but with a preference for clarity.
Brian arrived in Tasmania carrying a lot at once. A new league. A new state. A young family settling into a new life. A season at Glenorchy Knights that had not unfolded the way he expected. Ongoing postgraduate study. And, quietly, a decision about whether Tasmania was somewhere he wanted to stay and contribute long-term.
It felt worth stopping for.
Where football first took hold
Football first grabbed Brian during Italia ’90, when Ireland played in their first World Cup. That tournament sparked his love for the game, encouraged by his father and his late Uncle Eamon.
He went on to play at a strong level across Ireland, the UK, Australia, New Zealand and Asia, lining up for clubs including Shamrock Rovers, St Patrick’s Athletic, Kilkenny City, Monaghan United, Kildare County, Port Vale, DPMM FC in Brunei, Springvale White Eagle in Victoria and Eastern Suburbs in New Zealand.
At 32, a ruptured Achilles tendon ended his playing career. That setback became the turning point that pushed him into coaching.
The influences that stayed
When Brian talks about influence, he doesn’t reach for famous names.
Roger Wilkinson in New Zealand had a huge impact early, giving him belief and helping him see the game in its simplest form.
But New Zealand itself changed him more deeply. Ireland shaped his resilience and fight. Aotearoa grounded him in ideas of connection and belonging. Through conversations with high-performance psychologist Dom Vettise, those ideas became part of how he leads.
“Dom probably has had the biggest influence on me,” Brian says simply.
“I am just an Irish/Kiwi who is following his dreams.”
Seeing Tasmania from the outside
Brian arrived in Tasmania without strong expectations. What surprised him most was not the football itself, but how Tasmanian football is perceived from outside the state.
He feels the league is often looked down on, despite the potential he sees. He believes Football Australia should be investing more in Tasmania, not just at state level but across grassroots and pathways.
His young family fell in love with life here, and that mattered. He also believes the state is overdue an A-League team. The culture and talent base exist. What’s missing, in his view, is backing and vision.
Visibility matters as well. He credits the work of people like Matt Rhodes, Walter Pless and Tanner Coad for helping keep the league visible, noting that without that coverage the competition would receive far less recognition.
Lessons from Knights
Brian describes his season at Glenorchy Knights as a major learning experience.
“I was probably a little naive going into the role,” he says.
It taught him the importance of clarity, structure and alignment. Expectations need to be written down. Support needs to be real. A head coach needs authority and framework to lead.
“Being let go gave me space to reassess,” he says.
That reassessment helped him understand the Tasmanian landscape properly and think about what mattered most to him and his family.
Why Clarence felt right
When Clarence Zebras emerged as an option, it felt right early. The club made it clear they wanted him and they welcomed his family.
For Brian, a club must feel like a family. A place where honest disagreement is possible, where trust exists and where forgiveness is real.
After speaking with four clubs, Clarence stood out. Shared values, trust and responsibility to lead properly mattered more than short-term opportunity.
Building from the inside out
When Brian officially started in November, his first priority was understanding the club.
He immersed himself in Clarence’s history, learned who was involved and why, and tried to understand the motivations of players, staff, volunteers and board members. Honesty about the past came first. Structure followed.
Clear standards. Defined roles. Recruitment focused on people who fit the culture and believe in the project.
When he recruits, his first question is simple. “Are they a good person?”
“If they’re not, no matter how talented they are, they won’t play for me.”
“There is no room for egos in the dressing room.”
Values before philosophy
Brian is wary of big coaching language. “The word philosophy gets thrown around too much,” he says.
What matters are values.
“I want their love for the game to grow, not fade.”
“It’s rarely the money, trophies or medals that stay with you most — it’s the people.”
Consistency, character, attitude, work ethic and courage are non-negotiable. Those standards come from upbringing and experience and they shape the people he wants beside him when things are hard.
Overrated, underrated, and the part people avoid
Brian thinks coaching sometimes spends too much energy on tactics and worrying about opponents.
“Focus on what you can control. Execute your plan.”
He adds a line that will make some people nod and others argue. “Football is about 80% motivation and 20% technical skill.”
He sees football more simply. “Football is movement, creating space, exploiting space, connecting between the lines.”
Commitment matters. He points to a recent friendly cancelled because a team could not field players. Off-field responsibility, he says, matters as much as skill on the pitch.
Learning beyond courses
Brian’s postgraduate study confirmed much of what he already believed, but refined it.
It deepened his understanding of psychological development, environment and leadership. It also showed him that learning does not only happen through federation courses.
Exposure to practitioners who had worked in Premier League and international environments gave him a different depth of perspective.
Supporting coaches properly
When Brian speaks about support at state level, he talks about connection.
“There is a huge amount of knowledge in this state. It’s an untapped resource,” he says.
He would like to see regular forums where coaches share ideas, mentor younger coaches and work collectively to improve football in Tasmania. Improve the coaching environment, he believes, and the whole game improves.
Coaching in a small football world
Tasmania’s size took adjustment. As an outsider, Brian noticed resistance to change and the speed with which stories travel. Trust takes time.
At Clarence, he says he has found his people, his village. The club’s sense of community has made it easier to lead and build culture grounded in trust and shared vision.
Clarence now and next
Brian believes Clarence needs a clear pathway from juniors through to seniors.
With Nick Taylor leading juniors, Dave Smith overseeing youth and Brian guiding seniors, the aim is a consistent club-wide identity that reduces reliance on external recruitment.
He is also clear that progress must include the women’s program. Being the club of choice on the Eastern Shore means providing pathways for players of all ages and genders.
The board has been open to that vision. But as Brian reminds us, “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
Staying with the work
What stays with me after this conversation is not a tactical blueprint or a promise about results. It’s Brian’s insistence on clarity, alignment and belonging and the sense that he has learned as much from what didn’t work as from what did.
In a small football ecosystem like Tasmania, where stories travel fast and structures are often assumed rather than examined, that kind of reflection matters. Clarence’s journey under Brian won’t be defined only by wins and losses, but by whether the club continues to build something coherent, humane and sustainable.
That work takes time. It takes trust. And it takes people willing to stay, listen and keep going when the easy option would be to move on.
Football Is Memory: Where English Premier League Club Names Came From
Antique photograph of the Crystal Palace at Sydenham(London,England)-19th century
Where Did Premier League Club Names Come From?
In Tasmania, you can walk into any café on a Monday morning and hear people arguing about Liverpool or Arsenal.
Children wear Manchester City shirts to school. Parents stay up at 3.45am to watch Tottenham away games. We follow these clubs like they live down the road.
But most of us have no idea where the names came from.
They sound permanent.
They sound inevitable.
They were chosen by teachers, shipbuilders, railway workers, church groups and factory staff who wanted a winter game.
That is the part of football we forget.
And if you scroll to the bottom, there is a simple Football 101 appendix with all 20 current Premier League clubs and where their names came from. Once you know the stories, you hear those names differently.
Football Started With Ordinary People
Most English clubs were not born glamorous.
They were born ordinary.
Workers at a munitions factory formed Arsenal.
Shipbuilders at Thames Ironworks formed West Ham.
Railway workers created Newton Heath, later Manchester United.
Teachers started Sunderland.
Church congregations started Everton and Fulham.
These were winter activities. Community exercise. Social glue.
Not brands. Not franchises. Not broadcast products.
Just people who wanted a game.
Antique London's photographs: Royal gun factory, Woolwich Arsenal
Towns That Wanted To Be Seen
Other clubs were simply about place.
Brighton & Hove Albion. Nottingham Forest. Newcastle United. Aston Villa.
Names that said, we are here.
Sometimes a merger created the name. Newcastle United, two rival sides becoming one.
Sometimes it marked geography. Aston Villa, named after a house near a chapel.
Sometimes it was civic pride.
We understand that in Tasmania. Clubs carry suburbs, migrant histories, schoolyards, and council grounds in their names. That is why people fight so hard when someone suggests changing one.
Because you are not changing a logo.
You are rewriting memory.
Accidents That Became Identity
Some names happened by mistake.
Brentford’s nickname came from students shouting “Buck up Bs” and a journalist mishearing it.
Chelsea was chosen because Fulham already existed nearby.
Tottenham Hotspur came from a medieval knight written about by Shakespeare.
Football history is full of tiny accidents that became permanent.
A strip colour that sticks for 100 years.
A ground you never quite leave.
A nickname shouted from the sideline that suddenly becomes the club.
What This Means For Us
This is why football arguments about names get heated.
It is not branding.
It is belonging.
In Australia we asked ethnic clubs to drop identity markers to join national competitions. We still pretend that did not matter.
But names are history.
And history does not disappear because a federation says so.
When clubs lose their names, or their grounds, or their stories, something else goes with it.
Continuity.
Memory.
Place.
That is why a tiny junior club badge matters as much as a Premier League crest.
They both hold a story.
Next Time You Say A Club Name
Pause for a moment.
Ask yourself
Who started this club
Why did they meet
What job did they do
What did they want for their town
Because football did not start in boardrooms.
It started in chapels, factories, classrooms, and muddy parks.
And every club name still carries that truth.
The 20 Premier League Clubs And Their Name Origins – Football 101
A quick guide to where the names really came from.
Arsenal
Founded in 1886 by workers at the Royal Arsenal munitions factory in Woolwich. They later moved across London but kept the name. Their nickname, the Gunners, still honours the factory.
Aston Villa
Named after Aston Villa House near Aston parish. Members of a Wesleyan chapel cricket club formed a winter football team, and the name stayed.
Brentford
Local rowing and cricket club members voted to start a football team. The Bees nickname came from a misheard chant of “Buck up Bs”.
Brighton & Hove Albion
Named after the two towns. Albion was added without a clear reason, possibly copying a successful club of the time.
Burnley
Started by Burnley Rovers rugby club members who switched to football. They later adopted claret and blue to honour Aston Villa.
Chelsea
Stamford Bridge owners wanted a club for their new stadium. Fulham refused to move there, so they created their own club and named it after the neighbouring borough.
Crystal Palace
Named after the huge glass exhibition building moved to south London after the Great Exhibition of 1851. Early teams played on land linked to the exhibition.
Everton
Started at St Domingo Methodist chapel to keep cricketers active in winter. Renamed Everton so non-church players could join.
Fulham
Formed by a schoolteacher and churchwarden at Fulham St Andrew’s Church. Later shortened to Fulham. Their nickname, the Cottagers, comes from Craven Cottage ground.
Leeds United
Created in 1919 after Leeds City were expelled for financial issues. The new club took Elland Road and continued football in the city.
Liverpool
Born when Everton left Anfield over a rent dispute. Stadium owner John Houlding formed a new club to use the ground.
Manchester City
Started as St Mark’s Church team in Gorton. Became Ardwick, then Manchester City after financial trouble.
Manchester United
Founded by railway workers at Newton Heath depot. Nearly called Manchester Celtic before settling on Manchester United in 1902.
Newcastle United
A merger of Newcastle East End and Newcastle West End clubs. The name United marked the joining of rivals.
Nottingham Forest
Named after playing on Forest Recreation Ground near Sherwood Forest.
Tottenham Hotspur
Named after Sir Henry Percy, nicknamed Harry Hotspur, a fiery medieval knight. Tottenham was added later to avoid confusion with another Hotspur club.
Sunderland
Started by schoolteachers wanting winter recreation. Opened to the public soon after.
West Ham United
Formed by workers at Thames Ironworks and Shipbuilding Company. The Irons nickname remembers that shipyard origin.
Wolverhampton Wanderers
From Blakenhall Wanderers cricket team who had no fixed ground and wandered between venues. When they merged with St Luke’s Church team, Wolverhampton Wanderers was born.
The Closed Shop and the Empty Pyramid
We talk about crowds.
We talk about atmosphere.
We talk about why some clubs feel alive and others feel empty.
But to understand that, we have to understand how the A-League was built.
Because it is not a normal football league.
What a closed shop means
A closed shop league has no promotion and relegation.
Teams are invited.
Or they buy a licence.
Once you are in, you stay in.
Unless the league decides otherwise.
This is how most American sports work.
And it is how the A-League was designed in 2005.
Buying a licence
In a closed shop, clubs do not earn their place through results.
They buy a licence.
Investors pay millions for the right to operate a team in a chosen city.
The logic is simple.
Protect investors.
Control costs.
Create stability.
It can work as an entertainment model.
But football grew differently almost everywhere else in the world.
Through local clubs.
Through promotion and relegation.
Through history.
From Football Australia to the APL
Originally, the A-League was run by Football Australia.
Later control passed to the clubs themselves through the Australian Professional Leagues.
The structure stayed the same.
Closed shop.
Licences.
Franchises.
More commercial control, but still separated from the grassroots pyramid.
Why this was done
Australia had problems in the old NSL.
Financial instability.
Governance failures.
Real tension around identity.
So the new league wanted a clean start.
New names.
New badges.
Neutral identities.
It was meant to create a national, television-friendly competition.
And in some ways it worked.
Some clubs built strong followings.
The early years were exciting.
But something else was lost.
History.
I was there when the league expanded
I have to be honest.
I was part of a Tasmanian bid group when Macarthur and Western United were admitted.
We sat in meetings.
We heard the arguments.
We saw the numbers.
There was nothing secret about it.
Foxtel made it clear that more teams in Sydney and Melbourne meant more derbies.
More derbies meant lower travel costs, easier scheduling, and potentially more subscriptions.
So expansion leaned towards those markets.
It made sense at the time.
Television drove the league.
And then the world changed
Foxtel walked away from football.
Broadcast money shrank.
The model that justified expansion shifted underneath the league.
When television money falls, you are left with something simpler.
Crowds.
Community.
Local identity.
And those things cannot be engineered overnight.
When new clubs struggle
Some franchise clubs connect to real communities.
Others struggle.
Western United struggled for identity and stability.
Macarthur still struggles for crowds.
Because people ask a simple question.
Why should this be my club.
Without history, that answer is hard.
A Saturday reminder
Yesterday we streamed Oakleigh Cannons and Preston Lions.
A big crowd.
Greek families.
Macedonian families.
Generations together.
Those clubs carry migration stories.
They carry memory.
They carry belonging.
That cannot be created in a boardroom.
Even in Tasmania we see it every week.
Old clubs still draw people because they are part of family life.
The JackJumpers lesson
Look at the Tasmania JackJumpers.
They filled arenas and inspired children across Tasmania to play basketball.
That is real success.
More kids picked up a ball.
But we still do not have enough community courts.
We did not before.
We do not now.
Professional teams create excitement.
Facilities create participation.
If funding keeps flowing upward, the base of the pyramid cannot grow.
Football faces the same risk.
What I thought then
At the time, I saw the value in being in the A-League.
Visibility.
Sponsors.
Professional pathways.
It looked like the future.
But looking around Australia today, I am less sure.
Because the real question is not whether the A-League has value.
The question is who it helps.
Why clubs like ours would not benefit
For community clubs in Tasmania, an A-League franchise would not solve our real problems.
It would not build changerooms.
It would not add lights.
It would not pay junior coaches.
It would not solve ground shortages.
Franchises live in big markets.
Grassroots football grows through local clubs.
Through schools.
Through families.
Through volunteers.
Our challenge is facilities and participation.
Not television exposure.
The danger of believing visibility equals growth
We often assume a professional team lifts the whole game.
Sometimes it does.
Sometimes it does not.
A derby on television does not train a nine-year-old on a wet Tuesday night.
A licence fee does not fund girls’ changerooms in Ulverstone.
And expansion does not automatically strengthen local clubs.
That is not criticism.
It is structure.
What actually builds a club
A football club is not just a team.
It is memory.
Grandparents bringing children.
Local rivalries.
Shared heartbreak.
Years of small Saturdays.
That is why community clubs endure.
Because they are woven into people’s lives.
You cannot buy that in five years.
The honest conclusion
I am not anti-A-League.
I am pro-football.
Professional leagues matter.
So do state leagues.
So do community clubs.
But we have to stop pretending that a franchise league automatically lifts the grassroots.
Sometimes the best investment in sport is not another professional team.
It is lights.
Fields.
Coaches.
Girls’ pathways.
Volunteer support.
The things that keep clubs alive.
The next conversation
London City Lionesses are trying to build a club without inherited fans.
The A-League tried something similar in Australia.
What can each learn from the other.
That is the next post.
Because building a club without roots is one of the hardest things in sport.
And we are still learning that lesson today.
Who Has Heard of Michele Kang?
Michele Kang
London City Lionesses and the experiment in independent women’s football
Who has heard of Michele Kang?
Not many people in Tasmanian football have.
We know referees.
We know club volunteers.
We know the parent who runs the canteen every Saturday.
But Michele Kang is quietly becoming one of the most powerful people in women’s world football.
And we should understand why.
What Michele Kang has actually done
Michele Kang is an American businesswoman who made her fortune in health technology.
Then she started buying women’s football clubs.
She now controls three major teams.
Washington Spirit in the United States.
OL Lyonnes in France.
London City Lionesses in England.
She has created a multi-club organisation linking them together, sharing sports science, scouting and commercial systems.
She has invested millions into women’s football research, facilities, and development.
She is not sponsoring.
She is building.
Why that matters
Women’s football has never had enough investment.
Across Tasmania we still see girls teams sharing changerooms, training late because lights are scarce, and volunteers fundraising for basics.
So when someone puts serious money into women’s football, it matters.
Because the gap is real.
And it is global.
Kang is trying to prove that women’s football can stand as a professional sport in its own right.
Not as an afterthought to men’s football.
The unusual thing about London City Lionesses
London City Lionesses are not like most teams in the English Women’s Super League.
They are not connected to a men’s Premier League club.
They are not Arsenal Women backed by Arsenal men.
Not Chelsea Women backed by Chelsea men.
Not Manchester City Women backed by Manchester City’s global machine.
They are a fully independent club.
Owned by Michele Kang.
Built from scratch.
That is rare at the top level of women’s football.
Where they sit in the Women’s Super League
The Lionesses were promoted into the Women’s Super League and in their first season they have been sitting around mid-table.
Respectable results.
Good players.
Serious investment.
But attendances are still small compared with Arsenal or Chelsea, whose women’s teams can draw tens of thousands when they play at big stadiums.
London City average only a few thousand.
Which is not failure.
It is reality.
Because most women’s clubs grow their fan base from their men’s club supporters.
Arsenal fans become Arsenal Women fans.
Chelsea fans become Chelsea Women fans.
London City have to build theirs from zero.
Why most women’s teams are tied to men’s clubs
It comes down to economics.
Men’s clubs provide stadiums, training grounds, marketing staff, sponsors and existing supporters.
That support helped women’s football grow quickly in England.
Without it, many teams could not survive.
So most WSL clubs sit inside big men’s clubs.
It is practical.
But it also creates dependency.
If the men’s club loses interest, funding disappears.
We have seen that happen before.
Kang’s different idea
Michele Kang believes women’s football should stand on its own.
London City Lionesses are her experiment.
An independent club.
Independent identity.
Independent commercial strategy.
Part of a global women’s football network, not attached to a men’s brand.
It is a bold idea.
Because it asks a hard question.
Can a women’s club succeed without leaning on a men’s club?
No one really knows yet.
The courage in what she is doing
Investing in women’s football right now is risky.
Media money is uncertain.
Attendances are still growing.
Commercial returns are not guaranteed.
Kang is funding facilities that girls have never had.
That matters to players in Kent.
In Lyon.
In Washington.
And eventually to girls in Hobart, Devonport, Launceston, Ulverstone and everywhere football is played in Tasmania.
Because standards spread.
When the top rises, expectations rise.
The risk we should still talk about
Football history teaches us something.
Single-owner clubs are fragile.
If the owner leaves, what happens.
If the strategy changes, what protects the club.
This is not criticism of Michele Kang.
It is simply reality.
We have seen it in men’s football around the world.
And we should ask the question in women’s football too.
Because sustainability matters.
The Australian lesson
Football clubs in Australia were not built by billionaires.
They were built by families.
By migrants.
By teachers.
By volunteers.
By councils giving a patch of grass.
Clubs grew because children grew.
Because parents stayed.
Because stories accumulated.
You cannot buy that kind of belonging in five years.
But investment can still help.
Better facilities.
Better coaching.
Better pathways.
Maybe people like Kang raise the floor so community clubs can build higher.
The next conversation
Michele Kang is trying to build clubs from the top down.
In Australia, we tried something similar with A-League franchises.
New clubs.
No history.
No fan base.
What did we learn from that?
That will be the next post.
Because building a club without roots is one of the hardest things in football.
And we are still living with that lesson today.
When I Wanted the Livestream
Last night my son Max was coaching interstate at Northcote FC in Victoria. Round One.
8pm kick-off.
We go to bed early.
I lay awake anyway.
I got up at 3.45am and checked socials. Down 0-1 first post I saw. Dread.
Later, a 2-4 away win. I saw the overhead goal on my phone from a long throw.
I would have given anything for a livestream.
Which is awkward, because in December I wrote a post called Live Streaming, Empty Stands and the Cost of Convenience, about how streaming can quietly change behaviour and weaken club culture.
So which is it.
Have I changed my mind?
Not really. But I understand the problem better now.
The Two Truths
Streaming is wonderful when it is your own child.
When it is your team.
Your friend.
Your club playing interstate.
Your daughter away at university.
Streaming lets families stay connected. It lets grandparents watch. It lets injured players still feel part of something.
For football people, it is a gift.
But streaming also changes behaviour across a whole community.
People who might have come to a night game stay home.
People who might have bought a pie do not.
Kids who might have run around behind the goal are not there.
Both things can be true at the same time.
That is the uncomfortable part.
The Football Mother and the Club Administrator
Last night I was not thinking about gate takings at South Hobart FC.
I was not thinking about canteen revenue, or volunteer rosters, or club budgets.
I was a football mother who wanted to see her son.
And most of us, in that moment, would choose the same.
Which tells us something important.
This is not about selfish supporters.
It is about human nature.
If comfort is available, many people take it.
Technology does not change who we are.
It amplifies it.
The Quiet Economics
Community clubs survive on habits.
People turning up.
Buying food.
Standing together.
Talking after the game.
Those habits are fragile.
Streaming chips away at them slowly, not dramatically. One missed game here. One cold night there. One “I’ll watch from home” decision.
No one notices at first.
Then the canteen feels quieter.
Then volunteer numbers fall.
Then sponsorship conversations get harder.
No one decision caused it.
But the culture shifted.
At South Hobart we have around 750 players in the City of Hobart municipality. We know exactly how tight club finances can be, even when participation is strong. Attendance still matters. Canteens still matter. Habit still matters.
We rarely talk about what keeps the lights on week to week.
Progress With Consequences
Streaming is not the enemy.
It helps families.
It helps analysis.
It helps sponsors.
It helps visibility for players.
It helped me last night, even without the actual feed, because it reminded me how much I would value it.
But progress without reflection creates blind spots.
When streaming is centrally delivered, centrally branded, centrally controlled, the financial effects still land locally.
Some clubs lose more than others.
Some communities change faster than others.
No one is really measuring it.
That is the gap.
The Question Is Not Yes or No
The question is not whether we should stream football.
The question is how we support clubs as behaviour changes.
Do federations share digital revenue with clubs.
Do councils understand the loss of match-day culture when they plan facilities.
Do we track attendance patterns.
Do we talk about this openly before habits disappear.
These are not arguments against technology. They are arguments for honesty.
Nothing Beats Being There
Even last night, wanting that livestream, I knew something else.
Football is still better in person.
The noise.
The smell of chips.
The arguments on the sideline.
The moment when a whole ground gasps together.
Streaming can show a game.
It cannot replace belonging.
That is what we must protect.
A Small Personal Truth
Max won 2-4.
I saw the overhead goal later on my phone. Grainy, sideways video. Perfect.
I still wished I had seen it live.
But next home game at Darcy Street, I will rug up and go to the ground.
Because both things matter.
And if we forget that, we will wake up one day with perfect streams, empty stands, and clubs wondering what changed.
All Red All Equal?A Test of Power and Responsibility
This week, at the European Industry Summit in Antwerp, Sir Jim Ratcliffe said the UK had been “colonised by immigrants” during a discussion about economic policy and migration.
The backlash was immediate.
Political leaders criticised the language. Anti-racism groups condemned it. Supporter organisations expressed concern.
Ratcliffe is not a distant investor. Through INEOS he is the minority shareholder who now controls football operations at Manchester United.
Manchester United, one of the most global and multicultural clubs in world football, issued a public statement reaffirming its commitment to inclusion and equality.
That is when it stopped being a political comment and became a football story.
What Was Actually Said
Ratcliffe made the comments in a formal policy forum, not at a football press conference.
That context matters.
It shows this was not an off-hand remark. It was deliberate language used to frame a point about national direction and economic pressure.
He later apologised for his “choice of language”, clarifying that he was speaking about managed migration and economic growth.
He did not withdraw the underlying argument.
That distinction matters.
Why It Landed So Hard
“Colonised” is not neutral.
It carries historical weight. It implies invasion, takeover, displacement. It has long been used in rhetoric that frames immigration as threat rather than contribution.
When you use that word, you activate more than statistics.
Manchester United shirts are worn in Lagos, Mumbai, Melbourne. Its squads and supporters span continents. The club markets itself, proudly, as global and diverse. “All Red All Equal” is not just a slogan. It is a statement of identity.
So when a part-owner with operational control uses language widely associated with exclusion, it collides directly with that identity.
Intent becomes secondary.
Impact becomes immediate.
The Club Response
Manchester United responded by reaffirming its inclusive values and pointing to its equality work.
That is what modern institutions do.
They separate the badge from the individual. The campaign from the comment.
It is a necessary move.
It is also an impossible one.
Owners are not anonymous commentators. They are power within the structure.
When they speak, the club absorbs it.
Supporters do not experience the owner and the club as separate entities. They experience them as intertwined.
And that is the tension.
Political Debate and Responsibility
Business leaders are entitled to enter political debate.
That is not the issue.
The issue is how language lands when you also hold symbolic power in a global sporting institution.
Apologising for “choice of language” is not the same as apologising for the premise.
It suggests the problem was phrasing rather than framing.
But language is framing.
If you choose a loaded word, you choose the consequences that travel with it.
That is not censorship. It is responsibility.
Who Gets to Speak Freely
Watching this unfold, I found myself thinking about something much closer to home.
When I was President of South Hobart, there were times I wanted to speak more bluntly than I did.
There were debates where I had strong personal views.
There were moments where I wanted to call things out more directly.
But holding that role meant understanding that my words were never just mine.
They carried volunteers.
They carried sponsors.
They carried players and families.
If I spoke freely in a way that satisfied me personally, I could have created consequences for people who did not choose that fight.
That is the quiet discipline of leadership in community sport.
Not because you are timid.
Because you are responsible.
Power and Stewardship
There is a difference between power and stewardship.
A billionaire owner can enter a national political debate and then clarify his wording.
A community club leader weighs every sentence because the collateral damage lands locally.
One position allows distance from consequence.
The other requires proximity to it.
“All Red All Equal” is a powerful phrase.
But if a club says those words, they are not marketing.
They are a promise.
And promises are tested when power speaks.
This story is not really about whether someone is allowed to hold a political view.
It is about what happens when power speaks in a way that unsettles belonging.
It is about who absorbs the shock.
And it is about the reality that in football, as in life, the people with the loudest platforms are rarely the ones who carry the quietest consequences.
Conditional Multiculturalism
Multicultural Round, Conditional Belonging
There was an announcement this week ahead of the A-League Multicultural Round.
For clarity, the A-League is operated by the Australian Professional Leagues, commonly referred to as the APL, the body responsible for managing the men’s and women’s professional competitions in Australia.
The announcement stated that national team shirts are acceptable.
Except for those “currently involved in major conflicts.”
Flags, banners and political messaging are prohibited.
On the surface, that sounds administrative.
In practice, it raises a simple question.
Who decides at the gate?
Who determines what qualifies as a “major conflict”?
On what date?
Using what list?
And who briefs the 19-year-old casual security guard tasked with enforcing it?
There are dozens of ongoing armed conflicts globally at any moment. Some involve internationally recognised wars. Others are regional, civil or long-running disputes. Who decides which ones are “major”? And on what basis?
Football policy only works if it can be lived.
If it cannot be clearly explained, consistently applied and calmly enforced at a turnstile, it is not good policy. It is theory.
This matters even more during Multicultural Round.
Because multicultural football in Australia is not a marketing concept.
It is the foundation of the game.
We Have Been Here Before
When the A-League was formed in 2004–05 under the old Football Federation Australia, one of its guiding principles was a clean break from explicitly ethnic club identities.
The intent was commercial neutrality.
Broader appeal.
Modern branding.
A new national start.
Names were softened.
Symbols were neutralised.
Heritage was repositioned.
Historic migrant clubs continued in the state systems, carrying their identity with them.
That reset may have been strategic.
But identity does not disappear because a governance document prefers it to.
Greek, Croatian, Italian, Macedonian, Serbian, Hungarian and Turkish communities built Australian football. That is not controversial. That is history.
So when a league now announces that certain national team shirts may not be acceptable because of “major conflicts,” it touches a long and sensitive seam.
Not because people want division.
But because football identity in this country has always been intertwined with migration and belonging.
Identity Is Not Automatically Political
If the concern is political messaging, say that clearly.
Political slogans.
Explicit protest material.
Incitement.
Those are enforceable categories.
But a national team shirt is not automatically a political statement.
For many families it represents:
Heritage.
Memory.
Parents and grandparents.
A connection to somewhere else.
Multicultural Round should be the safest place in the calendar for that expression.
Instead, the announcement introduces uncertainty.
It blurs identity with geopolitics.
And it outsources judgement to frontline staff who should never be asked to adjudicate global conflict at a stadium gate.
Governance Is in the Detail
Good policy is:
Clear.
Enforceable.
Fair.
Consistent.
If you cannot explain it in one sentence without qualifiers, it will fracture in practice.
If you cannot train gate staff to apply it calmly and uniformly, it will create embarrassment.
If you cannot define the terms publicly, it will create suspicion.
Multiculturalism is not conditional belonging.
It cannot be “celebrate your identity, unless we have quietly decided it is complicated.”
Football in Australia has always wrestled with the tension between commercial neutrality and migrant heritage.
Each time we try to administratively tidy identity, it reappears in another form.
Because it is lived, not theoretical.
If the aim is safety, explain the criteria transparently.
If the aim is political neutrality, enforce that consistently.
But do not write a rule that sounds reasonable in a boardroom and becomes unworkable at the turnstile.
Multicultural Round deserves better than ambiguity.
So do the people who built this game.
Just a Whistle
Referees we know
I watched Pep Guardiola shake a referee’s hand recently.
It was exaggerated.
Almost theatrical.
You could see he was angry.
He could not say what he wanted to say. He knew the cameras were on him. He knew the fine would follow.
So he made his point another way.
A prolonged handshake.
A fixed smile.
A performance of restraint.
Elite football allows for that kind of theatre.
There are cameras.
There are fines.
There is technology backing every decision.
There is distance.
In Tasmania, there is very little.
The Referees We Recognise
At senior level we know our referees.
We know their names.
We know where they work.
They run businesses.
They teach in schools.
They coach other teams.
They are part of the same football community week after week.
They are visible.
And visibility should change how we behave.
And Then There Are the Volunteers
At junior level, especially at CRJFA, many referees are parents.
Not career officials.
Not semi-professional match officials.
Parents who put their hand up because otherwise the game does not go ahead.
Sometimes it is a 14-year-old with a whistle for the first time.
Sometimes it is a dad who agreed at 8:15am because no one else would.
There is no slow motion.
No assistant reviewing angles.
No technology correcting mistakes.
There is just a whistle and a willingness to help.
The Standard We Expect
Yet sometimes we expect professional precision in both environments.
Perfect offside calls.
Instant judgement.
Absolute certainty.
From people operating in completely different conditions.
We stand on the sideline convinced we would have seen it better.
We film on our phones.
We replay it in our heads.
We comment with confidence.
We are not immune from this.
We expect elite performance without elite infrastructure.
That tension sits at the heart of it.
What It Is Costing
Across community sport, referee numbers are fragile.
Young referees walk away.
Parents decide it is not worth it.
Games are harder to cover.
And when there is no referee, there is no match.
Not a controversial match.
Not an imperfect match.
No match at all.
This is not abstract.
It affects weekends.
It affects draws.
It affects children who just want to play.
Close Community, Real Responsibility
Pep could make his point with a theatrical handshake because he knew the world was watching.
In Tasmania, the world is not watching.
Your community is.
Your child is.
Respect is not a campaign.
It is behaviour.
And in a football community this small, behaviour travels.
If we make refereeing unbearable, we do not just lose officials.
We lose games.