Clipboard Chris and the Question We’re Not Asking

What do our coaches actually need?

I read with interest the piece from “Clipboard Chris” on TFC.

But more than that, I read the comments.

There were some respected voices in there. Coaches who have spent years on the grass, not just in a room talking about it.

And the comments didn’t argue with the article.

They expanded it.

They confirmed something that has already been said, just more publicly this time.

We are hearing the same message again

In a previous blog, I outlined the structure of coach education in Tasmania.

The pathway is clear.
The expectations are high.
The investment is real.

And the gap is just as clear.

Coaches are qualified.

Then largely left to work it out themselves.

What stood out this week is that the same message is now coming directly from the coaching community.

Not one voice.

A pattern.

Course v Reality

The idea that courses don’t reflect real coaching is not new.

But it still resonates because it remains true.

Real coaching is not:

• a clean session plan

• a controlled group

• a short assessment window

It is unpredictable, messy and constant.

And yet, we continue to assess the controlled version.

Not the real one.

The comments said more than the article

The comments told the fuller story.

Not one issue. A system.

• Coaches struggling to access courses

• Late or unclear communication

• Cost and time pushing people away

• Experienced coaches stepping back

• New coaches asking for mentoring

And one comment in particular should not be ignored.

A respected coach, Steve Darby, made a simple point.

Coaching used to be on grass.

Now it risks becoming something else entirely.

When YouTube becomes the classroom

If coaches are turning to YouTube as their main source of learning, something has gone badly wrong.

YouTube should be:

• a supplement

• a reference

• a way to spark ideas

Not the system.

Because if it is, then what exactly is the formal system providing?

And it is not solved by a one-off conference.

We know how those days go.

You sit.
You listen.
You take notes.

And then you go back to training and try to work out what actually translates.

Too often, very little.

That is not innovation.

That is coaches filling a gap.

This is not just about coaches

It is worth saying this.

Coaches are not the only group who could say they feel this gap.

Volunteers, administrators and parents all sit inside the system in similar ways.

They are essential.

They often operate without consistent, visible support structures.

That is not unique to coaching.

But coaching is different

Coaching is one of the few areas the system actively regulates.

It is mandated.

Licences are required.
CPD is required.
Clubs are assessed against it.

So while others sit within the system, coaching is enforced by it.

And when something is required at that level, it should be visible as a priority in its own right.

When something is mandated, it should not be assumed.

It should be designed for.

We keep asking the wrong question

The system asks:

Are you qualified?
Are you compliant?
Have you met the requirement?

But the question that is rarely asked is:

What do you actually need to coach better?

Not:
what do you need to complete

But:
what do you need to improve

They are not the same thing.

Qualified is not developed

We are good at qualifying coaches.

We are not as consistent at developing them.

Once the course is done, the system largely steps away.

No consistent mentoring.
No visible, ongoing structure.
No regular engagement that builds coaching over time.

The expectation remains.

The support fades.

The experience we are not using

There is another part of this that sits quietly in the background.

We have experienced coaches in Tasmania.

Not just qualified.

Experienced.

Decades in the game.
Different environments.
Different countries.
Different levels.

Coaches who have:

• adapted over time

• studied the game deeply

• continued to evolve

And yet, much of that knowledge sits on the sidelines once those coaches step away from formal roles.

Take someone like Ken. Yes, I am biased but I am astounded by his football knowledge.

Fifty years in coaching.
Multiple countries.
Titles across levels.
Still watching.
Still analysing opposition.
Still doing the work.

That knowledge does not disappear.

But it does get left unused.

Why are we not using it?

Not as a one-off.

Not as a guest appearance.

But as part of a structured approach to developing coaches.

Because if we are serious about development, experience matters.

What coaches are actually asking for

I asked Ken a simple question.

What would actually help?

The answer was not complicated.

Monthly workshops.
North and south.
On grass.

• practical sessions

• real coaching environments

• quality guest speakers

• space to watch, question and discuss

Not once a year.

Not online.

Regular.

Consistent.

Useful.

The ideas are not hard to find.

The question is whether anyone is asking.

Connection matters

There was another moment in that conversation that stayed with me.

We had to stop and think about who the National Technical Director actually is.

That is not a criticism of a person.

It is a reflection of connection.

Because in years gone by, there was a sense that the national game came to Tasmania.

There was visibility.
There was presence.

That feels less obvious now.

Who is actually doing the work?

If coaches are relying on YouTube, private networks and their own connections to develop, then the question becomes unavoidable.

If the system is responsible for coach development, who is actually doing that work once coaches are qualified?

Because from the outside, it increasingly looks like the coaches themselves.

The consequence

When development becomes self-directed and disconnected, the standard does not lift evenly.

It fragments.

Some coaches improve.

Some stand still.

Some leave.

And the players experience all of it.

The Tasmanian reality

In Tasmania, you can see it.

The difference between:

• a supported coach

• and an unsupported one

shows up quickly.

In session quality.
In player engagement.
In development over time.

The margins are small here.

The gaps show faster.

What this should look like

If we are serious about coaching, development has to look like coaching itself.

Regular.
Practical.
On grass.
Observed.
Challenged.

Not once a year.
Not in a lecture room.
Not something you tick off.

But something that exists week to week.

This is not new

None of this is new.

The structure is there.
The expectations are clear.
The feedback is consistent.

And now the voices are public.

The question

If we are mandating coach development, who is actually delivering it in a way that coaches can use?

Final line

We don’t have a knowledge problem.

We have a follow-through problem.

The Man in the Middle

Brenton Kopra with his beautiful children - photographed by Nikki Long

There are people in football you think you know.

Players. Coaches. Presidents. The loud ones. The visible ones.

And then there are referees.

You see them every week. You have opinions about them, usually strong ones. But if we’re honest, most of us wouldn’t recognise them at the supermarket, wouldn’t know what they do for work, wouldn’t know anything about their lives away from the pitch.

Brenton Kopra is one of the most recognisable referees in Tasmanian football. Eight-time Referee of the Year, the last five back-to-back, a detail he quietly corrected when he sent his answers through.

And yet, like most referees, he’s largely unknown.

Growing up competitive, but quiet

Brenton grew up in South Hobart before moving up the hill to Ridgeway, a place he still describes as a little hidden away. His parents are still there.

He and his younger brother were heavily into sport, playing a wide range of games and spending hours at both houses in the backyard, football, both codes and cricket. Summers were often spent at the family shack on Bruny Island, where they would play cricket in the neighbour’s backyard for days on end.

They were competitive then, and still are now. A workplace strengths assessment years later simply confirmed it, his number one trait came out as “Competition”.

Away from sport, he was a quiet kid who did well at school. Despite that, he built strong friendships, many of which have lasted from primary school through to college. These days those friendships look a little different, less time at the pub, more time catching up at kids’ birthday parties.

The people who shaped him

He points first to his parents.

A lot of his personality traits and principles come from them. He and his brother both picked up their love of sport from their dad, who always focused more on enjoying the game than worrying about winning or losing, something he admits didn’t always stick at the time. From that upbringing came high standards, a willingness to take on challenges, and a strong sense of fairness.

In refereeing, his early influences came from those around him. He started a couple of years after Ivan Jozeljic and Adrian Lockley, and in his first seasons they would referee together at Northern Suburbs juniors at Weily Park. He looked up to both of them and learned a lot from them. Adrian’s refereeing career was cut short by injury, but he moved into coaching and still picks up things Brenton can work on when he watches his games. He also speaks about it being great to see Ivan back refereeing after taking time away.

He has always learned best by watching others, taking note of what they do well and applying it. As he progressed into assistant refereeing at senior level, he learned from the leading referees at the time, particularly Kim Barker and the way he managed players, while also taking aspects from Ivan, Craig Phillips and Sean Collins.

A decision that wasn’t meant to be big

Refereeing wasn’t a plan.

He started at 14 because a mate was doing the course, and he went along with him. It was also the first time he had worked to earn money.

The shift came a few years later. In his third season, he was selected to attend the boys youth national championships in Coffs Harbour. He found himself well behind many of the other referees at the tournament in terms of development, some of whom were refereeing in the A-League a season or two later. That experience stayed with him. It was probably the first time he started to take refereeing more seriously.

At 18, after finishing college, he took a gap year, working for six months to save before travelling to Europe for another six. In the half-season before he left, he made his debut as a referee in the Southern Premier League, which was the top level in Tasmania at the time, and managed eight or nine senior matches while still playing a level or two below.

While in England, he saw a number of Chelsea matches, including one against Manchester United at Old Trafford. Chelsea were well beaten, but what stayed with him was the atmosphere, close to 70,000 United supporters, loud and hostile to both the opposition and the referees.

It was there that the shift became clear. He realised there was no chance he would become a professional footballer, but that refereeing at that level might be possible.

When he returned home and started university, something had to give. A night job made it difficult to commit to training as a player, so he made the decision to focus solely on refereeing. He did return to playing a few years later, spending some seasons with Peninsula Pirates in the social leagues, and has continued to play futsal on and off with the same group of mates he has had since his teenage years.

Letting the game breathe

Having played the game shaped how he referees, but he is careful not to make it a simple answer. It helps in different ways depending on how long someone has played and at what level.

For him, it influenced his approach early. When he started refereeing, he tried to officiate in the way he would have wanted to be refereed as a player. He disliked referees who gave too many free kicks and interrupted the game unnecessarily, and that fed directly into his natural style of allowing the game to flow where possible.

He also recognises that players who come into refereeing after longer careers at higher levels often have an advantage early. They tend to read the game more quickly, move more naturally around the pitch, understand team tactics, and have a better feel for how to manage players.

The night it became real

His first real “this is serious” moment came a little later.

He had made his Southern Premier League debut in 2008, but that had come quickly, after only refereeing his first reserves match the week before due to a shortage of referees. After returning from Europe in 2009, he spent most of that season and the start of 2010 back in the reserves before working his way into regular senior appointments.

In the final round of the 2010 season, he was assigned Hobart Zebras against Olympia.

The stakes were clear. Olympia had one of the biggest supporter bases in the league but were battling relegation. The night before, Taroona had picked up a point, leaving Olympia needing at least a draw to stay up.

He remembers people wishing him luck in a way that suggested they were glad it wasn’t them in the middle. He also remembers seeing Olympia coach Chris Hey in the car park at KGV, visibly nervous, as they wished each other well.

The game itself was frantic. Played on a freezing night, at a relentless pace, players were going down with cramp from around the hour mark. Olympia led twice, Zebras pegged them back twice.

As Olympia supporters began calling for the final whistle, he looked at his watch and realised there were still eight or nine minutes to play because of stoppages. Using a traditional stopwatch at the time, he admits he didn’t really have a clear sense of how long had elapsed, only that there was still plenty left. He also remembers thinking that if Zebras scored a late winner, there might be a riot.

In the end, it finished 2–2. Olympia survived. Fans flooded the pitch and set off fireworks after the final whistle.

Looking back now, he sees things he would do better. But at the time, it gave him confidence that he could handle the pressure and expectation of senior football, and it remains one of his career highlights.

He also notes, quietly, that it is good to have promotion and relegation back in the NPL.

Pressure, instinct, and staying in the moment

Pressure is not something he feels he has had to learn.

Even at school, he was someone who thrived in exams, and in his working life colleagues often comment on how relaxed he seems when deadlines are tight or problems need solving.

His approach to refereeing follows a similar pattern. Preparation during the week is thorough, building an understanding of both teams, their tactics and potential flashpoints. But in the lead-up to a game, he deliberately switches off.

The night before and the morning of a match are about staying relaxed and arriving mentally fresh. He keeps that approach through the warm-up, only really switching on when giving final instructions to his refereeing team and walking out.

He believes that if you spend the whole morning thinking about the game, you can tire yourself out mentally before it even begins.

Once the match starts, it becomes rhythm. Movement, communication and decision making, often instinctive rather than overthought.

When it comes to big decisions, he leans on something he was told early in his development. A referee coach once said that he performs best when he does not overthink things, and that has shaped how he approaches decision making.

He describes himself as instinctive. In many situations, he sees something once and has an immediate sense of the correct decision.

Not every decision is that straightforward. Some fall into grey areas of interpretation, or occur when the referee is not perfectly positioned. In those moments, the approach becomes more methodical, working through the relevant laws and, importantly, using the input of the other officials.

The key, he says, is trusting that process and not second guessing yourself simply because the moment feels big.

For penalties, his focus is always on the defender. Attackers will try to sell contact, but the decision comes down to whether the defender’s actions were reasonable and whether an infringement has actually occurred.

For discipline, the challenge is different. After heavy tackles, players and crowds will often apply pressure, particularly at higher levels where teams actively try to get key opponents cautioned early. His instinct is to use cards as a last resort. The more frequently they are used, the less impact they have.

Instead, he is constantly asking himself whether there is another way to manage the situation.

To maintain concentration, particularly after big decisions, he relies on simple triggers, movement and voice. By focusing on those fundamentals, he is able to bring his attention back to what is happening in front of him, rather than dwelling on what has already happened. Without that reset, referees can easily compound mistakes by losing concentration and carrying one decision into the next.

The work no one sees

He believes one of the biggest misunderstandings about refereeing is how little of the job people actually see.

Most players and supporters remember only a couple of key moments in a match, a penalty, a red card, a decision that goes one way or the other. But the role extends well beyond those moments.

During the week there is physical training, online coaching sessions, match preparation and review.

Before a game, there are instructions to the officiating team, the warm-up, and a range of small but important tasks, checking match balls, pitches, team sheets and player equipment, all of which help ensure the game runs smoothly.

During the match itself, movement, communication with the other officials, and management of players are all happening constantly under the surface.

In his view, the best referees are the ones who do all of those things well, so that when the key moments arrive, they are in the best possible position to make the right decision.

Managing people, not just decisions

His approach to managing players is built on respect and trust.

He aims to be respectful in how he deals with players, with the expectation that respect is given in return. When that line is crossed, whether it is directed at him or at the game itself, he responds strongly.

For him, managing players is about being human. It is about building relationships, not just during the 90 minutes of a match, but before and after as well.

Having played the game himself, he understands what he describes as “white line fever”, the frustration and emotion that comes with wanting to win.

He believes modern players respond best to referees who show understanding, explain decisions, and use empathy where appropriate. Combined with consistency in decision making, that builds trust.

When players trust the referee, they are more willing to let him deal with situations when they feel wronged. Without that trust, they are more likely to take matters into their own hands.

There is also a practical reality in a league like Tasmania’s. You see the same teams regularly, so it is important to leave what happens on the pitch each week behind and move on.

Criticism, and not taking yourself too seriously

His approach to criticism is grounded in something simple.

He takes the job seriously, but not himself too seriously.

He describes himself as calm in stressful situations, and one of the things he consciously does during matches is remind himself to smile when things get intense. Sometimes a smile, a laugh, or even just a look can take the edge out of a situation.

He also enjoys it. The challenge, the difficult moments, and the fact that he has a front row seat to the game. At times, he says, it is important to remember that it is just a game and that he is out there to enjoy it.

He is realistic about the role. He knows he will never leave a game with two completely happy teams. If everyone agreed on every decision, there would be no need for a referee at all.

With experience, criticism becomes more predictable. At junior level, it might come out of nowhere. At NPL level, he says you can assume that most decisions will be questioned by someone.

The key is being able to shut that out and stay focused on what comes next, the next decision, and the one after.

When it goes wrong

Not every memory is a positive one.

He points to one match in the national NPL finals series, around 2014, as the worst game he can remember.

Pre-match, he had planned to referee in his natural style and let the game flow, but he admits he stuck to that approach too doggedly when the early signs suggested he needed to step in more strongly.

The game escalated. He never felt fully in control, with multiple melees across the 90 minutes.

He then compounded that by overthinking a relatively straightforward decision late in the match and getting it wrong. The one saving grace, he says, was that it did not affect the outcome.

It is one of the few times he has been genuinely disappointed with his performance in a big game.

What made it harder was that it was the final match of the season, leaving months to reflect on it.

The lessons from that game have stayed with him.

Read the signs early and referee the game in front of you, not the one you planned.

Trust your instinct, rather than overthinking decisions that do not need it.

They are points he still emphasises in his pre-match instructions to his assistant referees and fourth official today.

The games that test you

He sees two distinct types of difficult matches.

The first are the physical battles, where tackles keep flying in and the game takes on a life of its own. He talks about matches where cards stop working as a deterrent and the refereeing team can feel like passengers in a war between the teams.

One example that stands out is an early NPL match between Devonport and Olympia. A night game that escalated into a fight in the second half, with two red cards and around ten yellow cards. Those types of matches are less common now, something he attributes partly to changes in the game and partly to his own development as a player manager.

More often now, he finds the most difficult matches are not the most physical, but the ones with the highest stakes. Games at the top end of the table where the tension is constant.

In those matches, the challenge is different. There may be fewer heavy tackles, but there is a constant stream of verbals, players lobbying for decisions, pushing for opponents to be cautioned, and creating confrontations after almost every challenge.

They are the games where you come off the pitch feeling like you have been working the entire time, even if it might not look that way from the stands.

Staying grounded

He is not someone who tends to carry games with him after the final whistle.

He says his wife can rarely tell whether he has had an easy or difficult match.

Part of that comes down to having multiple outlets. Between family life, work, refereeing and running, there is always something else to focus on.

That does not mean the game is forgotten.

Like most referees, he reviews key incidents as soon as possible and, if the match was particularly busy, will often watch the full game back. If he wants a second opinion, he will send clips to Nathan, and there is also a group chat among NPL referees where videos are shared and discussed.

It is a process of understanding decisions, learning from them, and then moving on.

Moments that matter

One of the moments he is most proud of came recently.

Last year, he made his debut as referee in the national rounds of both the Australia Cup and the Australian Championship.

But for him, it was not just about the level. It was about who he shared it with. On both occasions, the entire officiating team was Tasmanian, something he believes is rare, if not the first time in a long time at that level.

Those matches were shared with Tom, Claire, Josh and Nathan, a group he says had spoken about the possibility beforehand and would love the opportunity to experience again.

The Australian Championship match carried another milestone. It was the first time both of his children had been in the crowd watching him referee, even if part of the occasion involved them sneaking off to the playground next door.

Finding the humour

He admits there have been plenty of moments over the years.

He does not take himself too seriously, and if something is genuinely funny, he is more than happy to laugh.

One example stands out. During a match, while opposition players were complaining about decisions, one player kept walking past him saying things like, “you can’t let them talk to you like that”, something that sounds supportive, but is often just an attempt to influence the referee.

Later in the game, that same player lost the ball and wanted a free kick. When it was not given, he grabbed his opponent, who broke free and started moving up the field. As Brenton followed play and called “advantage”, the player, still frustrated, ran alongside him yelling, “f**k you Kopra!!!”.

A few minutes later, once things had settled, they both laughed about it.

Another moment that stayed with him came from Beau Blizzard, who, late in a match at South Hobart with his team leading in stoppage time, walked past and sighed loudly, “I didn’t want to get drunk tonight”.

Still chasing something

What still drives him is simple.

The possibility that there is still something more.

He is still hopeful of refereeing in the A-League one day. As he puts it, the door feels slightly ajar, and he is doing everything he can to try and stick his foot in it.

He is realistic. He knows he is not getting any younger, but believes that if he can stay fit, healthy and keep improving, there is no reason he cannot continue to develop well into his 40s.

There have been some opportunities in recent years, and he feels the current direction of refereeing in Australia suits his natural style. He was pleased with his performances when given the chance and is focused on closing the remaining gaps so that if another opportunity comes, he is ready to take it.

He also understands the pathway. A decade ago, after time in the national referee talent programs, he reached the point where those who had not progressed were sent back to their member federations to continue developing and prove they were ready to step up.

From Tasmania, that is not easy. The level of football is different, and the gap to the A-League is significant. Many referees step away at that point.

He made a different decision. To keep going, as long as he still enjoyed it, and to keep challenging himself to improve.

But the reality around him has changed.

His children are getting older. Weekend sport is coming. Travel demands have increased, with more northern teams and a largely southern-based referee panel.

The season itself is long, stretching from NPL friendlies in January through to national competitions in November or December, before it begins again.

For now, that balance is manageable, because the goal is still there.

But he is clear.

If that door closes, it is something he will have to reassess.

Why he still walks out

Away from football, life is centred around family.

He speaks about how much he enjoys fatherhood and the time they spend together, and describes his wife Ella as his best friend, someone he has always shared most of his interests with.

Sport is not always one of them, although there is one exception. After taking her to a Tasmania JackJumpers game in their first season, they are now regulars, and he jokes that she is more invested than he is.

Running has also become a big part of his life. What started as a way to stay fit for refereeing has grown into something more, with events like the Gone Nuts 100km in Stanley, the Cradle Mountain Run, Bruny Ultra and the Kunanyi Mountain Run becoming regular challenges in recent years.

But it is still football that draws him back.

Not just the big games, but the variety and unpredictability of it all.

In Tasmania, he says, referees are lucky to work across a wide range of teams and venues, often in some of the most picturesque settings in the country. And no two weeks ever feel quite the same.

One week might be a Southern Championship match at Warrior Park, a freezing night, a handful of spectators, and one of the best goals he has seen in a seven-goal game.

A few days later, it might be the biggest match of his career in front of 2,000 people in the Australia Cup.

Or a night at Clare Street in driving rain, struggling to stay on his feet and handing spare tops to a young assistant referee at half time to keep them warm.

Or a trip to Launceston, combining a match with a day out with family and catching up with people like Ross Logan.

It is that mix, the challenge, the unpredictability, and the people, that keeps him coming back.

Not just for the biggest games, but for everything in between.

The people we don’t see

We spend a lot of time in football talking about players and coaches.

We don’t spend much time talking about referees like this.

Not as people.

Not as parents, workers, competitors, and individuals trying to balance ambition with life.

Brenton Kopra has spent years in the middle of the game, often only noticed when something goes wrong.

A quiet kid from South Hobart who followed a mate into refereeing and never really left.

Still competitive. Still improving. Still chasing something just out of reach.

And still, every weekend, walking onto a pitch with a whistle in his hand, exactly where he wants to be.

This Is What We’re Supposed to Protect

South Hobart Football Club’s First U5 team.

I try not to always talk about my club.

I’m conscious of it when I write. I want the blog to be broader than South Hobart, to speak to football more generally, to avoid becoming an internal newsletter or a running defence of one place.

I know I’ve been writing a lot lately about what’s not working.
That has its place.

This nearly didn’t get written for a different reason.

It felt too close. Too personal. Too “my club”.

But then this happened.

Last weekend, South Hobart Football Club fielded its first ever Under 5 team.

And today, the club turns 116.

Those two things sitting side by side felt like something worth stopping for.

116 years is a long time

Clubs like South Hobart carry history whether we acknowledge it or not.

We’ve spanned two world wars, although not without struggle. There were years when teams were hard to field, when life quite rightly pulled people elsewhere.

And still, it found a way to continue.

That matters.

Because history in football isn’t built on perfect seasons. It’s built on persistence.

Generations of players, volunteers, coaches, families.

People who lined fields, washed kits, argued, celebrated, and kept it going when it would have been easier not to.

I’ve spent 20 of my 67 years in and around this club.

That’s a big chunk of a life.

And I felt a quiet sense of pride standing there last weekend.

This is where it actually starts

Not in boardrooms.

Not in constitutions.

Not in strategic plans.

It starts here.

Six kids in oversized shirts, one not really listening, one staring off somewhere else, one with an arm around a teammate because someone told them to stand still.

Boots that don’t quite match. Socks slipping down.

No one worrying about formations. No one talking about pathways.

Just kids turning up to play.

We spend a lot of time in football arguing about structures.

This is what we’re arguing for.

I’ve been avoiding writing this

Because I didn’t want it to sound like promotion.

Or pride.

Or bias.

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe we’ve gone too far the other way, where we’re so careful not to sound self-interested that we forget to say when something is actually good.

This is good.

Not because it’s South Hobart.

Because it’s football.

It’s easy to lose sight of this when you spend time in the parts of the game I often write about.

Why it matters

A 116-year-old club doesn’t stay alive by accident.

It survives because new kids keep walking onto the field.

Because someone signs them up.

Because someone coaches them.

Because parents bring them down on a cold morning.

None of it happens without the people you don’t see.

Because a club makes space for them.

That Under 5 team is not just another age group.

It’s the next 116 years.

One day, one of those kids might run out for the senior team.

Or they might not.

That’s not really the point.

This is the point

Not just what’s broken.

But what’s quietly working.

What keeps showing up, even when the noise gets loud.

Because for all the frustration, for all the politics, for all the things I’ll keep writing about…

This is the bit we’re supposed to protect.

Everything else should serve this.

Pay More. Play Less. Say Less. Tasmanian NPL 2026

Up, then on your own: What happens after promotion?

You don’t have to look far to see how hard it is to step up a level in football.

In the Premier League, clubs fight for promotion knowing what comes next. The gap is real. The jump is unforgiving.

I know the comparison to the Premier League is chalk and cheese. But stay with me. Because in Tasmania, this is our Premier League, and how we treat clubs at this level matters just as much.

The Known Reality

In England, promoted clubs are supported, not just celebrated.

They receive significant broadcast revenue immediately. If they go down, there are parachute payments. There is an understanding that survival takes time, not one season.

Even then, many still struggle.

Promotion is hard. Staying there is harder.

But the system acknowledges that.

The Tasmanian Version

Now look at the National Premier Leagues Tasmania.

This year, Ulverstone Soccer Club and South East United Football Club did exactly what clubs are told to do.

They qualified.
They met licensing requirements.
They paid a licence fee of over $20,000 to participate.

They stepped up.

And six rounds in, the reality is stark.

No wins.
No points for one.
Heavy goal differences.

Not because they don’t belong.

Because the jump is real.

The Gap No One Planned For

The ladder tells a familiar story.

Established clubs with depth and continuity.

New entrants trying to build, compete, and survive.

That is not failure.

That is transition.

But transition needs time.

Instead, what was offered?

One season. Around 18 games. A “prove yourself” window.

That’s not a pathway.

That’s a pressure test.

Less Games, Same Costs

At the same time, the structure tightens.

Fewer games means:

• fewer home fixtures

• less canteen revenue

• reduced sponsor exposure

But the costs don’t drop.

Licence fees remain.
Travel remains.
Operational pressure increases.

Clubs are being asked to carry more, with less.

One Year to Survive

We are told relegation is coming.

We are not told if promotion will continue in 2027.

So what exactly is this?

A system?

Or a one-year experiment.

Clubs Asked to Be Heard

On 22 October 2025, Tasmanian NPL clubs wrote collectively to the CEO of Football Tasmania.

The letter was measured and constructive.

Clubs raised concerns about licence fees, reduced fixtures, sponsorship limitations, and the uncertainty around the National Registration Fee.

But at its core, the message was simple.

They wanted a meaningful conversation about competitions.

The Response

The response acknowledged the concerns.

But confirmed that:

The competition structure would remain as communicated.
Licence fees would remain as set.
Deadlines would not be extended.

There would be discussion.

But not about the decisions that matter most.

Consultation or Confirmation

Consultation after decisions are made is not consultation.

It is confirmation.

Clubs were effectively told the structure would remain, the fees would remain, and the timelines would remain.

Clubs are being asked to fund the system.

But not shape it.

And Then We Ask Clubs to Step Up

At the same time, clubs are being asked to:

Pay significant licence fees.
Take on higher standards.
Stretch already thin volunteer bases.

These are not professional organisations.

They are run at night, after work, by people already stretched.

And when they do step up, they are given one season to survive.

The Missing Piece

Clubs are not asking for handouts.

They are asking to be heard.

Not through a hired facilitator.

Not through a $30,000 “expert” to tell clubs what they already know.

Because the expertise already exists.

Across Tasmania, in clubs, in volunteers, in people who live this every week.

They don’t need to be studied.

They need to be listened to.

The Bigger Issue

This is not about two clubs at the bottom of the table.

It is about a system that asks clubs to:

Pay more.
Play less.
Say less.

And still carry the game.

The Question

What club would look at this and think stepping up is worth it?

Closing

Two clubs did everything right.

They qualified.
They paid to participate.
They stepped up.

Clubs collectively asked to be part of the conversation.

And the decisions were already made.

In England, the system tries to catch clubs when they fall.

Here, they are asked to prove they can fly.

If this is the start of a genuine football pyramid in Tasmania, it needs more than a door opening.

It needs a structure that lets clubs stay once they walk through it.

Because right now, stepping up looks less like opportunity, and more like a risk clubs are expected to carry alone.

Bringing the Game into Disrepute

I’ve just read a post on Tassie Football Central.

It’s anonymous.
Written under the name “George Best”.

It raises concerns that people within Tasmanian football feel unable to speak openly. That when issues are raised, they are often met with silence, or at least the perception that nothing changes. It points to real pressures in the game, referees, clubs, competition demands.

But its strongest message is not the problems themselves.

It’s the feeling that people cannot safely talk about them.

And that’s the part that matters.

When people stop putting their name to things

Football people are not shy.

They stand on sidelines in the cold.
They volunteer.
They argue, they care, they show up week after week.

So when those same people feel the need to go anonymous, something has shifted.

If people feel unheard, they don’t stop speaking.
They just stop putting their name to it.

There is a system. So why aren’t people using it?

On paper, there is a pathway.

Clubs can contact Football Tasmania, usually through staff and the CEO.
There is an AGM.
There is a Board.

But there is no clear, regular forum for open discussion.

And the Board does not engage directly with the community it governs.

Everything is filtered.

And when communication through that filter is unclear or inconsistent, people don’t feel heard.

They feel managed.

And over time, they stop engaging.

The silence before the silence

This is how frustration builds.

Not through confrontation.
Through absence.

Emails that go unanswered.
Questions acknowledged but not addressed.
Decisions made without explanation.
Information shared late, or not at all.

That is how people learn.

Not that they can’t speak.

But that speaking doesn’t lead anywhere.

The phrase we all know

“Bringing the game into disrepute.”

It exists for a reason. To protect the game from genuine harm.

But in an environment where communication is unclear, it can start to feel like something else.

A line people hear in their head before they speak.

Be careful.
Don’t push too hard.

Whether that is intended or not doesn’t really matter.

If people feel it, it shapes behaviour.

This is where it turns

Because there must be a clear difference between:

Damaging the game
and
questioning how the game is run

If that line is not visible, people will always choose the safer option.

They won’t stop speaking.

They’ll just speak differently.

Privately.
Quietly.
Or anonymously.

This isn’t just frustration

It would be easy to dismiss the anonymous post.

But anonymous voices don’t appear out of nowhere.

They are a signal.

That people don’t feel heard through the existing system.

And that is not a social media issue.

It is a governance issue.

The real risk

The risk is not criticism.

The risk is disengagement.

When clubs stop asking questions.
When referees feel unsupported.
When volunteers step back.

That is how the game weakens.

Not loudly.

Quietly.

So how did we get here?

Not through one decision.

But through a pattern.

A gradual erosion of communication.
A lack of visible transparency.
A growing gap between those making decisions and those living with them.

And eventually, a point where someone feels safer being anonymous than being themselves.

What happens next

This is the moment that matters.

Not to defend.
Not to dismiss.

But to listen.

Because if people feel unheard, they will find other ways to be heard.

The question is whether the system listens before anonymity becomes the norm.

Final thought

“Bringing the game into disrepute” should protect football.

It shouldn’t be the phrase people hear when they are deciding whether to speak up.

Because if that’s where we are, then the issue isn’t the anonymous voice.

It’s the environment that created it.

Membership 101: Who Actually Gets a Vote?

AGM season always brings questions.

Watching Spurs struggle to stay up, and with United about to play Chelsea, there was a quiet moment to think between games.

This year, one of those thoughts came from Evelyn.

On Tassie Football Central, responding to my recent blog, Evelyn described years of trying to engage with Football Tasmania. Asking about the AGM. Wanting to be involved.

Then, after seconding a board nomination, something changed.

An invoice arrived.

A membership fee.

For many clubs, that is the first real indication that membership exists. Not an explanation. An invoice.

This is not about any new constitution that may be introduced. It is about how the system operates now, under the current constitution.

It is a simple story, but it opens up a bigger question.

What actually is “membership” in football governance?

Start here: membership is not automatic

This is the part most people do not realise.

Running a club does not automatically make you a member of Football Tasmania.

Registering players does not make you a member.

Competing every weekend does not make you a member.

Under the current constitution, membership is a separate, formal status.

You have to be admitted.

So how do you become a member?

This is where things become less clear.

The constitution says that an organisation can apply for membership, and that the Board determines whether to admit that application.

Admission is not automatic. It sits with the Board.

That is the rule.

But it does not explain, in practical terms:

• who you contact

• what you submit

• how long it takes

• or what the exact criteria are

So the process exists.

But it is not visible.

Why membership matters

Membership is not symbolic.

It is the gateway to governance.

Only members:

• attend General Meetings

• vote at AGMs

• elect the Board

If you are not a member, you are outside that system.

Even if you are deeply involved in football every week.

Clubs, associations, and where your voice sits

There is another layer that makes this more complex.

Not every team, club, or school program sits as a direct member of Football Tasmania.

In many cases, regional bodies, like junior associations, are the recognised members.

That means thousands of players, across multiple clubs and schools, may sit behind a single vote.

At the same time, some clubs may hold direct membership and vote in their own right.

So the question is not just whether you are a member.

It is also where you sit in the structure, and how your voice is represented.

Not all votes represent the same base

Membership is not just about being in the room.

It is also about how representation works.

A regional body with thousands of participants may hold one vote.

A single club may also hold one vote.

That is how many governance systems operate.

But for most people in the game, it is not visible, and not well understood.

The role of fees

Evelyn’s experience, and others, point to another layer.

There can be a membership fee.

I found an invoice issued to South Hobart Football Club in 2024, $110, referencing a by-law.

So yes, there is a cost attached.

But the important question is not the fee itself.

It is understanding what that fee gives you.

Does it confirm membership?

Is it required to maintain it?

Unless that is clearly explained, clubs are left to interpret it themselves.

Timing matters too

Another question that is not clearly answered.

When do you need to be a member to vote at an AGM?

Is there a cutoff date?

Can a club become a member just before a meeting?

The constitution does not set this out in a way most people would find or understand.

So how would you know?

This is the heart of Evelyn’s comment.

Unless:

• someone tells you

• you go looking

• or you read the constitution closely

You probably would not know how membership works.

And most volunteers running clubs are not reading constitutions.

They are organising teams, managing parents, lining fields and doing all the hundreds of other jobs required.

What this means in practice

It creates a quiet gap.

Clubs assume they are part of the system.

But the formal pathway into governance sits somewhere else.

Defined.

But not clearly explained.

What is missing

This is not just about a fee.

It is about clarity.

If membership is the gateway to governance, then every club should know:

• how to become a member

• whether they already are one

• what qualifies them

• what it costs

• what rights it gives them

• and when they need to act before an AGM

These are not hypothetical questions, or questions about a future model. They sit within the current structure.

And when AGM notices are sent, that information should be front and centre.

Not assumed.

Not buried.

Not left to interpretation.

Because this is about voice

Football in Tasmania runs on volunteers.

People who give their time every week to keep clubs going.

Those people should not have to decode governance structures to understand how to participate.

They should be able to see the pathway.

A simple question this AGM season

Evelyn’s experience leaves us with a simple question.

Are we actually members?

And if we are not, how would we know?

In football, we talk constantly about player pathways.

It might be time we created one for clubs.

Before we forget what a football club feels like

It is a cold Friday night in Melbourne, at Northcote City FC where my son Max is coaching.
Tonight I am a mother. A guest. Watching.

I have felt versions of this at grounds all over the country.
This is not unique.
But on this night, it is here.

The lights are on.
The pitch is perfect.

And there is football being played.

But that is not what stays with you.

You smell it before you see it

Before you even get inside, you know.

The smoke hits you first.

Souvlaki on the grill.
That unmistakable smell drifting across the ground.

It pulls people in.

Not just for food.

For connection.

Then the welcome

You are not just allowed in.

You are welcomed.

Handshakes.
Smiles.
People stopping to talk.

And then:

“Oh, you’re Max’s mum.”

Just like that.

You are known.

I felt comfortable.
I felt welcome.

I felt proud.

And then the generosity

It doesn’t stop.

Greek salad.
Saganaki.
And of course the melt-in-the-mouth lamb and chicken souvlaki.

Hot jam donuts.
Steaming hot tea pressed into your hands.

“Are you sure you don’t want more?”

You haven’t even finished what you have.

And still it comes.

You go to pay.

And they won’t let you.

Not for anything.

You try.

But they insist.

Endless generosity.

Blue and white, and everything that comes with it

Then you start to notice the rest.

Blue and white everywhere.
Scarves. Walls. Shirts.

Trophies lining the room.
Not for show. For memory.

This is not just a club.

This is heritage.

Greek language in the air.
Conversations that have been happening for decades.

Old friends meeting again.

Friday night.
Home game.
Same place.

Week after week.
Year after year.

This is not an event.

This is tradition.

This doesn’t happen by accident

It would be easy to call it hospitality.

But it is more than that.

This is culture.

Built.
Protected.
Passed on.

And fragile.

Inside, the same feeling

Inside the clubrooms it continues.

People everywhere.

Talking.
Laughing.
Watching through the windows.

No one rushing off.

No one disengaged.

The football is outside.

But the club is happening inside.

A whole-of-club identity

Talking to Michael, their president of nearly eight years, it becomes clear this is deliberate.

Juniors.
Women and girls.
Seniors.

Everyone matters.

Everyone belongs.

And that shows.

And it takes work

A lot of work.

If you are a club person, you know this.

It doesn’t just happen because people care.

It happens because people give their time.

Their energy.
Their weekends.
Their lives, in some ways.

Michael has three kids at the club.

That is why he is there.

Just like me with South Hobart.

We joked that with the youngest playing U14s, he has a few years to go before he can step down.

But the truth is, people like that don’t really step away.

Once you are in it, you stay.

Maybe not in the same role.

But you keep helping.
You keep turning up.
You keep stepping in when needed.

Because that is what clubs are built on.

Because this can be lost

Clubs like this don’t survive because of strategy.

They survive because of people.

And if we stop valuing this, if we overlook it or take it for granted, it disappears quietly.

Not with a headline.

Just with a slow drift away from what made clubs special in the first place.

Because this is what football is supposed to be

In a time where football feels increasingly structured, managed and measured, nights like this matter more than ever.

It is not transactional.

It is not polished.

It is human.

It smells like smoke.
It tastes like shared food.
It sounds like familiar voices.
It feels like belonging.

And maybe the question isn’t how we build better systems.

Maybe it’s whether we still remember how to build clubs like this.
Because if we don’t, they don’t last.

Why Football Clubs Should Never Ignore AGM Season

Every year Football Tasmania makes decisions that shape the game across this state, and every year many of the clubs most affected by those decisions leave their seats empty when it matters most.

Competitions change.
Boards are elected.
Voting rules can shift.
Constitutions can be amended in ways that shape football for years.

Yet when the moment comes to influence those decisions, too many clubs are absent from the room.

That moment is AGM season.

And in Tasmanian football, it matters more than many realise.

The meeting most clubs underestimate

Every year, Football Tasmania holds its Annual General Meeting.

For many clubs, the AGM is treated as procedural:
reports are tabled, elections are held, paperwork is approved.

But an AGM is not just administrative ritual.

It is one of the few formal moments when the members of Football Tasmania exercise their real democratic power.

This is where:

• directors are elected,

• constitutional changes are voted on,

• leadership is questioned,

• governance direction is shaped.

A change in voting rules, a board election, or a constitutional amendment can alter who holds influence in Tasmanian football for years.

If clubs are absent from that process, they are absent from the room where decisions are made.

Football Tasmania belongs to its members

This is worth repeating because many people misunderstand it.

Football Tasmania is not a distant authority floating above clubs.

It is a member-based organisation.

Its authority comes from its affiliated clubs and associations.

That means:
the clubs are not outside the governance structure.

They are the governance structure.

And every member club matters.

A small rural club.
A junior-only club.
A volunteer-run regional association.

Each has a place in the democratic framework.

That is one of the fairest features of football governance.

But fairness only works if members participate.

The constitution is the most important football document most clubs never read

A constitution sounds dry.

But in governance terms, it is everything.

It determines:

• who gets to vote,

• who can nominate candidates,

• how board elections work,

• how meetings are run,

• how power is distributed.

Most clubs never read it.

Yet when disputes arise, or major decisions are made, the constitution is the rulebook everyone suddenly wishes they understood.

AGM season is often when constitutions are amended, governance rules are tested, and clubs discover too late how much those documents matter.

That is why this season deserves attention.

Timing matters too

Under Football Tasmania’s constitution, the AGM must be held within five months of the end of the financial year.

That creates a strict governance clock.

There is only a limited window each year in which:

• elections can occur,

• constitutional amendments can be adopted,

• members can formally exercise voting rights.

As that deadline approaches, the governance calendar tightens.

Important governance decisions rarely happen by accident.

They happen because the calendar requires them to happen.

Silence creates concentration

Many clubs say they feel unheard.

Yet many of those same clubs:

• do not attend AGMs,

• do not nominate candidates,

• do not submit motions,

• do not ask questions.

That creates a quiet paradox.

Clubs often feel powerless while leaving their power unused.

When fewer members participate, fewer voices shape outcomes.

That is not conspiracy.

That is arithmetic.

Silence creates vacuum.
Vacuum creates concentration.

And then decisions begin to feel distant.

The danger of sideline governance

Tasmanian football has developed a familiar habit.

People react loudly after decisions are made.

But reaction after the event is not governance.

It is commentary.

Governance happens before decisions are final:

• when agendas are circulated,

• when constitutions are reviewed,

• when nominations open,

• when votes are cast.

If your club has strong opinions about Football Tasmania but no one attends the AGM on its behalf, that silence is not neutrality.

It is surrender.

The empty chairs matter

At every AGM there are empty chairs.

Those empty chairs represent:

• absent voices,

• unused votes,

• surrendered influence.

They matter.

Because every empty chair makes it easier for a smaller number of people to shape the future of the game.

Healthy governance is not quiet.

Healthy governance includes:

• questions,

• debate,

• contested ideas,

• active participation.

Noise is not disorder.

Noise is democracy working.

A question for every club this year

As AGM season approaches, every club should ask:

• Who is representing us?

• Have we read the agenda?

• Do we understand the constitutional rules?

• Are there questions we should be asking?

• Are we using the vote we already have?

Because if clubs want stronger governance in Tasmanian football, the answer is not silence followed by frustration.

The answer begins by entering the room.

When the decisions are made, will your chair be empty?

In six weeks’ time, Football Tasmania’s AGM will arrive whether clubs are ready or not.

The decisions taken there will shape leadership, rules and influence across the game.

When that moment comes, every club has a choice:

Leave the chair empty and accept whatever follows.

Or turn up, take your place, and make some noise.

Customers complain upward.

Owners show up.

Nothing Was Wrong With the Appointment, Except One Thing

A Routine Football Decision

Union Berlin needed a new head coach.

Results had stalled, pressure had mounted, and Steffen Baumgart was dismissed. In football, this is not unusual. Clubs make these decisions every season. Managers come and go. Interim appointments are made. The cycle moves on.

So when Union Berlin announced they would promote from within, there was nothing remarkable in that decision.

In fact, it looked like the sort of calm, rational football choice clubs make all the time.

The replacement was already inside the system.

This was someone who knew the squad, understood the club environment, and had already been trusted within Union Berlin’s senior football structure. Continuity matters in moments like these, and internal appointments are often the least disruptive option.

A Résumé Built for the Role

And the qualifications behind this appointment are hard to dismiss.

The football credentials are formidable.

A UEFA Champions League winner with Turbine Potsdam in 2010, followed by multiple domestic league titles during one of Germany’s strongest football eras.

There is international pedigree too.

Germany’s Under-20 World Cup-winning national team setup also forms part of the résumé, meaning elite tournament football has shaped this career from the beginning.

When injury ended the playing career early, the move into coaching followed a serious pathway rather than a ceremonial one.

There was work in Germany’s youth national team development system.

Then came progression into Union Berlin’s football structure.

In 2023, Union Berlin promoted this coach into its senior men’s first-team environment, working directly alongside Bundesliga coaching staff.

Since then, the experience has only deepened:

• involvement with Union Berlin’s senior men’s squad

• leadership of Union Berlin’s Under-19 men’s team

• prior touchline responsibility in Bundesliga match conditions

In football terms, this is a résumé clubs trust every week.

Elite honours.
International pedigree.
National development coaching.
Bundesliga staff experience.
Direct involvement in men’s senior football.

On paper, it looked like exactly the kind of interim appointment football makes every week.

A logical internal promotion.

A club choosing stability over panic.

The Reaction That Made No Football Sense

And yet the online reaction was immediate and ugly.

Union Berlin publicly denounced the attacks directed at the appointment, making clear the club stood fully behind its new coach.

Not tactical criticism.

Not serious debate about whether another candidate was better qualified.

Not concern over lack of experience.

The hostility was clearly not about football alone.

Which is what makes this story revealing.

Handed only the football résumé, most supporters would likely shrug and say:
fair enough.

A sound appointment.

A reasonable choice.

The outrage only becomes understandable when you discover what some people could not accept.

The résumé had not changed.
The experience had not changed.
Only the lens through which some people viewed it.

The One Detail That Changed Everything

Union Berlin’s new interim head coach is Marie-Louise Eta.

Marie-Louise Eta is a woman.

That is what triggered the backlash.

Not lack of qualifications.

Not lack of experience.

Not lack of merit.

Football’s Real Barrier

Football likes to call itself meritocratic.

But moments like this expose the fault line beneath that claim.

And that should trouble football everywhere, because Berlin is not an exception. It is simply the example we can see most clearly.

The barrier was never a shortage of qualified women.

The barrier was football’s refusal to see them.

Annus Horribilis: South East United and the Hardest Decision a Club Can Make

There are seasons when football reminds us that behind every ladder, every fixture and every regulation is something far more fragile than points tables.

People.

South East United have announced that they have made the difficult decision to withdraw from the Southern Championship and Championship 1 competitions for the remainder of the 2026 season.

Football Tasmania has since issued the formal procedural notice confirming what follows: fixtures involving South East United will be removed from the records, played results voided, and goal-scoring statistics erased.

That is how football administration works.

But nothing about this story feels administrative.

Because this is not simply about a club withdrawing from competition.

This is about a club enduring what can only be described as an annus horribilis.

In recent months South East United have suffered the death of their president, Glen Roland, a loss that struck at the heart of the club. Glen was not simply a name on paperwork or a committee office bearer. He was one of those people community football depends on, the kind who build clubs through belief, persistence and countless unseen hours of volunteer labour. South East United’s growth carried his imprint. He represented the optimism behind the club’s ambitions and the quiet work that keeps regional football alive.

And now this.

The fact that this decision has come from the club itself makes it no less painful. If anything, it speaks to the burden carried by those still trying to hold things together, making hard choices not because they want to, but because sometimes protecting the future of a club means stepping back in the present.

Ambition in football is not a dirty word.

Regional clubs should dream.

They should try to rise.

They should test themselves against stronger opposition and imagine bigger futures for their players and communities.

South East United did exactly that.

Sometimes in Tasmanian football we are too quick to treat struggle as failure, when often it is simply the cost of trying to build something ambitious in an environment where margins are thin, volunteers are stretched, and one or two devastating blows can shake the foundations of an entire organisation.

What has happened at South East United could happen to any club.

That is the part worth remembering.

Today is not a day for ridicule or whispered judgment.

It is a day for compassion.

For recognising that football clubs are living community institutions, vulnerable to grief, burnout and circumstance.

The hope now is not for quick fixes or harsh assessments, but for the time and space every grieving club needs to regain its footing.

Because clubs like South East United matter.

Not only when they are climbing.

Especially when they are hurting.

Governance Is Not Sexy

Governance is often invisible until people begin to feel its absence

I’ve been thinking a lot about governance recently.

Not in an abstract sense, but in what it actually feels like for members.

Because there’s a difference between having rights, and feeling like those rights matter.

Governance rarely excites people in football. It does not come with the colour and emotion of match day. It does not fill grandstands or create highlight reels. But in football, especially in Tasmania, it shapes competitions, pathways, clubs, and the decisions that affect how the game is experienced at every level.

At its simplest, governance is how decisions are made, who makes them, and how those people are held to account.

And that matters more than many realise.

What works on paper

On paper, Football Tasmania has the foundations you would expect of a modern sporting body.

Its constitution sits comfortably within the framework of contemporary corporate governance. Members can vote. Directors are elected. Meetings can be called. The structures exist.

And on paper, that sounds reasonable.

But governance is rarely tested on paper.

It is tested in moments.

When decisions are contested.

When clubs disagree.

When members simply want to understand what is happening and why.

That is where governance becomes real.

Because having rights is one thing.

Feeling like those rights matter is something else entirely.

The gap between rights and reality

What I keep coming back to is this: much of football governance still operates as a compliance model.

The rules are there.

The processes exist.

The requirements have been technically met.

But modern expectations in sport have moved beyond that.

Across Australia, good governance is no longer measured only by whether rights exist. It is measured by whether those rights are visible, accessible, and meaningful to the people they affect.

It is not enough to say members have a vote.

People need to understand how decisions are made before they ever get to that point.

Because if you have to go searching for answers, something is already out of balance.

A vote every few years is not the same as feeling heard.

When information sits at the top

When information stays at the top and only moves when it has to, a gap forms.

And people fill that gap themselves.

Not always because decisions are wrong, but because they are not clearly understood.

Over time, that creates distance.

You hear it in clubrooms, on sidelines, and around grounds.

What happened there?

Who made that call?

Why?

Those questions do not come from nowhere.

They come from people trying to make sense of processes they cannot see.

A clear example is the recent decision to expand the NPL competition and move to an 18-round season, communicated to clubs after many had already begun preparations for the 2026 season.

The merits of that decision are open to debate.

The governance issue lies in how it was experienced by clubs, as something significant, affecting planning, budgets, staffing and player preparation, delivered after many had already begun shaping their season around different expectations.

That is where governance is felt most sharply.

Not simply in the decision itself, but in how and when people are brought into it.

And once that distance forms, it is hard to pull back.

When silence fills the gap

If we are honest about our game, and honest with its stakeholders, and by stakeholders I mean the people who live and breathe football every week, the volunteers, clubs, coaches, parents, players, and the readers of this article, then decisions should not feel mysterious.

Yet this season there have been decisions that have raised questions, and in some cases there has been little clear communication about why they were made.

That absence matters.

Because when decisions are not explained, silence fills the gap.

And silence is not neutrality in governance. It is a choice.

It creates uncertainty, frustration, and speculation where clarity could have built understanding.

If there were a stronger sense of connection between the board and the wider football community, if decisions were accompanied by clearer reasoning, even unpopular outcomes would be easier to accept.

People can live with decisions they disagree with.

What is harder to live with is not understanding them at all.

What happens when governance doesn’t feel real

When people cannot understand the process, they do not simply ask questions.

They begin to step back.

Volunteers disengage.

Clubs stop expecting answers.

Frustration replaces trust.

And over time governance stops feeling distant and starts feeling irrelevant to the very people it is meant to serve.

That is dangerous in community sport, where the whole system depends on participation and goodwill.

You can sometimes see that disengagement in the quietest moments.

At last year’s AGM, there were moments where the silence in the room felt heavier than any spoken disagreement.

Not because silence always means consent, but because it can also reflect uncertainty about whether speaking up will make any practical difference.

That kind of silence is worth noticing.

It suggests a disconnect between the formal right to participate and the lived confidence that participation matters.

Governance fails long before constitutions do.

Consultation only works if it matters

Consultation is often presented as evidence of engagement.

But consultation only works if people believe it matters.

Otherwise it becomes a process people go through, not one they believe in.

And once consultation feels performative rather than meaningful, trust erodes quickly.

It is much harder to rebuild than it is to preserve.

This is cultural before it is structural

What is interesting is that the changes needed are not structural in the first instance.

They are cultural.

This is not primarily about rewriting constitutions.

It is about changing the mindset from:

What do we have to share?

to:

What would actually help our members understand this better?

That is a very different question.

One is about compliance.

The other is about connection.

Because governance in sport is not simply a system of control.

It is a relationship.

Leadership sets the tone

This kind of governance does not happen by accident.

It requires leadership that is comfortable being visible, open to feedback, and willing to explain decisions, not simply make them.

Transparency explains decisions.

Accountability stands behind them.

I was reminded of this recently when a question put to the CEO was answered with the view that members should take their concerns to the Board they elected.

In one sense, that answer is constitutionally correct. Boards are elected by members, and boards appoint and oversee chief executives.

But it also reveals something deeper about governance culture.

If accountability is experienced only as deflection upwards through the structure, rather than as shared responsibility across leadership, members are left feeling further removed from the decisions that affect them.

Formal governance may still be intact.

But lived accountability begins to feel distant.

Trust is the whole game

Like any relationship, governance depends on trust.

If members can see how decisions are made, if they understand how outcomes are reached, then even difficult decisions can hold.

If they cannot, everything becomes harder than it needs to be.

Disagreement is not the problem.

Opacity is.

A strong game deserves strong governance

Tasmanian football has strong foundations.

Clubs are sustained by people who care deeply.

Volunteers give up countless hours.

Parents drive children across the state.

Coaches, referees and administrators carry enormous unseen loads because they believe in the game.

Governance should reflect that same strength.

Not simply by meeting requirements, but by building confidence.

The question that matters

I do not think the real question is whether members have rights.

The question is whether those rights feel real.

Because in the end, governance is not about clauses and constitutions alone.

It is about whether people feel connected to how their game is run.

Because governance only works when the people beneath it still believe it belongs to them.

Seatgate: We Now Know How Clubs Applied. We Still Don’t Know How They Knew

After I wrote recently about the redistribution of 1,500 seats from UTAS Stadium to 15 northern Tasmanian sporting clubs, a football volunteer from the north, Josh Perry of Rosevears, sent me something useful.

He had written directly to Jo Palmer’s office asking about the process.

The response from Jo Palmer’s electorate office was polite, prompt and helpful.

And it clarified one important point.

The clubs applied through Stadiums Tasmania.

That answers one part of the question.

But not the most important part.

What Has Been Confirmed

Jo Palmer’s office has now made clear that this was not a selective allocation process.

Clubs were not hand-picked.

They applied.

That matters, because it confirms the distribution itself appears to have been fair.

The government’s original statement, that every club that applied received what they asked for, now makes practical sense.

So let us be clear.

This is not a story about favouritism.

It is not a story about AFL clubs doing anything wrong.

And it is not criticism of Jo Palmer’s office, which responded transparently.

What Still Has Not Been Answered

The central question remains untouched:

How were clubs told the seats were available?

That is the missing link.

Because unless we understand how the opportunity was communicated, we still cannot answer why no northern football clubs appear on the list.

Not:
Launceston City FC
Not:
Launceston United FC
Not:
Riverside Olympic FC

Nor the many Championship, community and social football clubs across the north that would also have benefited.

Clubs where spectators still stand on sidelines.
Clubs where parents bring folding chairs from home.
Clubs where even a small bank of seating would make a real difference.

The Missing Link

The application pathway is now clear.

The communication pathway is not.

Was there:

• a public expression of interest?

• direct email contact to clubs?

• notice through governing bodies?

• circulation through AFL Tasmania?

• circulation through Football Tasmania?

Those details matter.

Because if the opportunity was widely circulated and football clubs simply did not act, that tells us one story.

If it was circulated unevenly, that tells us another.

At the moment, we do not know which is true.

This Is About More Than Allocation

The seats themselves are not the controversy.

Reusing them is a good idea.

Giving them to community sport is a good idea.

The issue is not where they ended up.

The issue is whether all sports had equal opportunity to know they were available.

That is a very different question.

And a very important one.

An Uncomfortable Possibility

There is another possibility too.

Football clubs may well have known.

And simply not acted.

If that is the case, then this is not a government problem.

That is a football problem.

And perhaps that is the harder conversation.

Because missing out through exclusion is frustrating.

Missing out through inaction is something else entirely.

So Where Does This Leave Us?

We now know:

• clubs applied through Stadiums Tasmania

• the allocation process itself appears fair

• Jo Palmer’s office has clarified that much

What we still do not know:

• who was told

• how they were told

• whether all sports received equal notice

Until that piece is answered, the story is incomplete.

Because in this case, the real issue is not the seats.

It is the silence around how clubs were invited to claim them.

The Question Still Stands

So the question remains simple.

Who was told, and how?

Because until that is answered, football still cannot know whether it missed out because it was absent from the room, or because it never knew the door was open.

Continue Reading

Sometimes the most revealing part of a process is not the allocation itself.

It is how quietly the opportunity was announced.

When Shame is the Weapon: A Warning From One Of Our Own

There is a cruel kind of crime that depends on silence.

It begins with trust.

A message online.
A conversation that feels genuine.
A connection that seems to fill a lonely space.

Then, suddenly, the threat arrives.

This week Matthew Rhodes, known to so many in Tasmanian football through Tassie Football Central, shared publicly that he had been the victim of sextortion and blackmail.

When he rang me to tell me what had happened, I tried to lighten the moment with humour. I laughed and said that if they wanted to put the body of a young person on my old face, well, that was hardly the worst thing in the world.

Humour can sometimes be how we hold difficult things at bay.

But beneath that moment was something deeply unsettling.

Because this is not funny at all.

This is not really a football story, and yet it is.

Because football communities are made of people, and Matthew is one of ours.

Over the years, through Tassie Football Central, we have come to know him in that familiar modern way that communities know the people who show up every day. We know his passion for Tasmanian football. We know his enthusiasm. We know the way he writes, his jumbled spelling and tangled words, imperfect and unpolished, but unmistakably his. They are our jumbled spelling and words now, part of the voice many in this community recognise instantly.

And we also know something else about Matthew.

He has spoken openly on his page about his mental health struggles. He has written honestly about loneliness, about difficult days, about the parts of life many people hide. That openness is brave, but in the wrong hands it can also make someone visible to predators.

Scammers look for vulnerability.

They scan profiles, posts and public comments for clues about who may be lonely, isolated, grieving or emotionally exposed. What many of us read as honesty and courage, they read as opportunity.

That is part of what makes this so cruel.

What is sextortion?

Sextortion is a form of online blackmail.

Typically it begins when someone creates a fake identity online and forms a connection with a victim. That connection may be flirtatious, emotional or simply friendly. Over time, trust is built. The scammer then persuades the victim to share private images, or creates fake manipulated images, and uses them as leverage.

The demand is simple and brutal: pay money, or the images will be sent to family, friends, employers or published publicly.

Sometimes there are no real images at all. Increasingly scammers use edited or AI-generated material simply to create fear.

The threat is the weapon.
The shame is the currency.

Why these scams work

These crimes are not successful because victims are foolish.

They work because they are carefully designed to exploit human vulnerability.

Loneliness.
Isolation.
Grief.
A desire for companionship.

These are not weaknesses. They are ordinary parts of being human.

Matthew himself wrote movingly about believing he had found someone who cared. That is painful to read because it is so recognisable. Many people know what it is to long for connection.

That longing is what predators exploit.

What to look out for

There are warning signs people should know:

• Someone online becomes emotionally intense very quickly

• They push conversations onto private messaging apps

• They ask for intimate photos or videos early

• They create urgency, secrecy or emotional pressure

• They threaten immediate exposure unless money is paid

If threats begin, experts are clear: do not pay.

Paying rarely ends the blackmail. It often encourages more demands.

If this happens to you

If you are targeted:

• Stop responding immediately

• Keep screenshots and evidence

• Do not send money

• Report it to police and the eSafety Commissioner

• Tell someone you trust

• Seek emotional support

The scam thrives in silence.
Speaking breaks its power.

Matthew’s courage in going public

What Matthew has done by speaking publicly is brave.

Scammers rely on embarrassment to keep victims quiet. Public honesty removes that leverage. It says clearly: I will not carry your shame for you.

And that is the truth at the centre of this.

The shame belongs entirely to the criminals.

Not to the people they deceive.
Not to the people they manipulate.
Not to the people who trusted.

Matthew is not defined by what happened to him.

He is a victim of a calculated crime, and by sharing his experience he may help protect others from the same trap.

That matters.

Because if there is one lesson here, it is this:

This can happen to anyone.

What Parents Carry in Tasmania’s State Team Journey

It was hard not to notice the latest Emerging Matildas results.

My first reaction, if I am honest, was anger.

Who do we blame?
What is going wrong?
Why does Tasmania keep finding itself here?

Perhaps that anger came from recognition, because after decades in Tasmanian football, these scorelines still sting precisely because they are so familiar.

But that reaction did not sit well with me for long.

Every goal conceded is carried by a child, a young player who loves this game and has dared to aspire higher.

Every scoreline reflects not just a result, but the effort, hope and vulnerability of young footballers representing their state as bravely as they can.

So I found myself asking a different question:

What does this actually feel like for the families and players inside the experience?

I spoke with the parent of one Tasmanian player, anonymously, to allow honest reflection without placing a family or child under public scrutiny. What follows is one family’s lived experience of a system many of us see only through results.

The scoreboard never tells the whole story

What emerged was not bitterness or blame.

It was pride in the journey, belief in the value of the experience, and realism about the hard truths of elite youth football from a small state.

“It’s the journey, not just the game,” she told me.

She spoke not only of her daughter, but of the wider group of girls, watching them grow through pressure, disappointment and shared ambition.

“These girls share the joy and the heartbreak,” she said. “That matters.”

What struck me most was how often she spoke about the whole squad rather than just her own child, proud not only of one daughter’s effort but of a collective group of girls carrying Tasmania together.

And despite the defeats, she would do it again.

“To watch her giving the best in Australia a crack is worth every cent.”

What families really invest

The financial cost is substantial.

Around $3,200 is the direct cost of sending her daughter to the tournament itself.

Then come the additional costs: months of statewide travel for training, petrol, accommodation, flights, car hire, family travel to attend the championships, kit and all the incidental expenses that gather around representative sport.

For this family, the true cost will exceed $6,000.

But money is only part of it.

There are months of planning, hours on the road and family schedules constantly rearranged around training camps and football commitments.

This is not simply paying for football.

It is committing a family to a dream.

Dreams need realism too

“Don’t crush their dreams,” she said. “But keep it realistic.”

Tasmania is a small football state competing against jurisdictions with vastly larger player pools. New South Wales and Victoria can field multiple teams in each age group. Tasmania cannot.

That tyranny of numbers is real.

Many Tasmanian families, she said, came into this tournament buoyed by last year’s Origins success, believing Tasmania might arrive as one of the stronger sides.

But national championships are another level entirely.

“Origins compared to Nationals is like comparing the Hobart Cup to the NPL,” she said.

It is a sharp comparison, but an accurate one.

For her, realistic success is not national titles.

“Top eight would be massive for our kids.”

That feels like a benchmark worth hearing.

Not every loss tells the same story

One of the most revealing parts of her account was Tasmania’s match against Queensland.

Tasmania did not win.

But in her view, it was the side’s best performance of the tournament.

The girls pushed Queensland hard enough that their opponents kept their first goalkeeper on the field throughout.

That detail stayed with her.

It meant Tasmania had made one of the strongest states take them seriously.

“They didn’t get the win,” she said, “but we were proud of their play.”

Heavy defeats can flatten public perception into a single narrative of failure, when tournaments are really made up of smaller stories: moments of courage, competitiveness and progress that do not always show on ladders.

The emotional cost of heavy defeats

But heavy defeats leave their mark.

Some losses, she admitted, are emotionally brutal.

A scoreline like 13–1 is not forgotten when the whistle blows.

Young players carry those moments back into dressing rooms, hotel rooms and long nights away from home.

At national tournaments, defeat happens in full public view, which makes resilience even harder won.

And it raises a difficult question:

At what point does exposure to elite competition remain constructive learning, and at what point does repeated heavy defeat begin to erode confidence rather than build it?

That is not a criticism of players.

It is a question every development pathway must ask itself.

The questions families still ask

Her strongest concern is preparation time.

She believes selections should happen much earlier, as soon as current programs finish, giving squads longer to train together before facing the strongest teams in Australia.

More time together would mean:
better cohesion,
better tactical understanding,
less rushed preparation,
and more time for families to financially plan.

She also raised something I have heard before in Tasmanian football circles: some parents are unclear how selections are ultimately made.

Whether that perception is accurate or not, it matters that it exists.

If engaged families inside the system do not fully understand selection logic, Football Tasmania has a communication challenge.

And beyond selection lies the bigger unanswered question:

What exactly is the pathway trying to achieve?

Is it:

• identifying one or two elite players for national pathways?

• exposing Tasmanian players to higher-level football?

• building competitive state teams?

Without clear public benchmarks, families are left to interpret the system through results alone.

And results rarely tell the whole truth.

Losing, resilience and the small-state dilemma

I have lived this pathway too.

I went through it with two of my own sons years ago, watching Tasmanian teams walk into national tournaments knowing the odds were often against them.

Ken has always said that in football, losing can become a habit, not because players stop trying, but because repeated defeat shapes expectation.

The harder question for Tasmania is how to break that cycle when the tyranny of numbers is real.

How does a small state build belief when larger states arrive with deeper squads and stronger depth?

There is no easy answer.

But children are often more resilient than adults imagine.

That was true in our family, and it is true in this parent’s story too.

Young players recover faster than we think.
They absorb setbacks differently.
They turn disappointment into determination in ways adults often underestimate.

More than football

Perhaps her most important line was also her simplest.

“This game is more than football. It is life skills and character building.”

That feels true.

These tournaments are not only about ladders and placings.

They are about young people learning:
how to compete,
how to lose,
how to recover,
how to persist.

That is not nothing.

But if Tasmanian families are investing this much money, time, emotion and faith into the pathway, then they deserve clarity in return.

Clearer benchmarks.
Clearer purpose.
Clearer communication about what success is meant to look like.

Because what parents carry in Tasmania’s state team journey is far heavier than a result sheet can ever show.

A Licence Is Not a Strategy

Getty images

Over the weekend I read several comments about how far Western Sydney Wanderers FC have fallen.

That struck me.

Because when the Wanderers began, they were everything football people dream about.

Those early images are still vivid: thousands of supporters walking together to the stadium, red and black everywhere, drums beating, chants rolling through the streets. It felt tribal, alive, authentic, the kind of football atmosphere Australia rarely creates but desperately wants.

This was western Sydney, one of the great football heartlands in the country, and the Wanderers looked unstoppable.

Now the crowds are smaller.
The atmosphere has thinned.
The Sydney Derby no longer feels like the electric event it once was.

So what happened?

And what does that have to do with Tasmania?

Quite a lot, actually.

Because the Wanderers are a reminder of something Tasmanian football urgently needs to understand:

An A-League licence is not success.
It is simply permission to begin.

The contradiction at the heart of Tasmanian football

At the same time Football Tasmania continues to include a Tasmanian A-League club in its strategic ambitions, many of the people actually carrying football in this state are exhausted.

Clubs are stretched.

Junior associations are overloaded.

Volunteers are burning out.

Parents, delegates, registrars, referees and committee members are doing enormous amounts of unpaid labour simply to keep football functioning every weekend.

That is where this debate begins for me.

Not in boardrooms.
Not in strategic vision statements.

But on grounds, in clubrooms, and inside associations where the real work of football happens.

What is an A-League licence, actually?

For readers unfamiliar with how the system works, an A-League licence is simply the right to operate a club in Australia’s national professional competition.

It is granted by the Australian Professional Leagues.

That licence gives you:

• entry into the competition,

• national exposure,

• access to broadcast structures,

• commercial opportunities.

What it does not give you:

• supporters,

• financial stability,

• club culture,

• long-term sustainability.

That is where public discussion often goes wrong.

People speak as though getting a licence is the achievement.

It is not.

A licence is merely the front door key.

What matters is what kind of house you are opening it to.

I supported Tasmania’s earlier bid, and why that matters

I was a signatory to Tasmania’s serious A-League push during the 2018 expansion process, and I do not regret that.

Because that bid was fundamentally different.

At that time:

• there was genuine private capital involved,

• wealthy backers supported it,

• infrastructure assistance had been offered,

• the league was actively expanding.

That was a credible commercial bid.

It was not reliant on asking a financially fragile Tasmanian Government to underwrite a football dream.

That distinction matters.

Supporting that bid made sense then.

What concerns me now is not the idea of ambition itself, but the change in context.

Why the current strategy feels disconnected

Football Tasmania’s strategic plan still includes ambitions such as:

• delivering a Tasmanian A-League club,

• delivering a Home of Football in Tasmania.

These may sound visionary.

But many of us embedded deeply in clubs and associations do not recall broad meaningful consultation about whether these are truly the game’s highest priorities.

And that matters.

Because Football Tasmania is supposed to represent:

• clubs,

• associations,

• players,

• volunteers,

• coaches,

• referees.

If the grassroots game does not feel ownership over these ambitions, they risk becoming top-down aspirations rather than community-driven priorities.

The proposed Home of Football may well have merit, but it raises the same question: who decided this is the game’s most urgent priority?

What Football Tasmania would say, and why that argument has logic

To be fair, Football Tasmania would likely argue:

• elite pathways matter,

• an A-League team raises football’s visibility,

• flagship projects inspire participation,

• major ambitions attract investment.

None of that is irrational.

In fact, all of it has merit.

A successful elite club can inspire young players.
A visible flagship team can energise a sporting landscape.

But those arguments only hold if the base of the game feels healthy and heard.

Without trust from grassroots football, ambition begins to look detached from reality.

The Wanderers warning

That is why the Wanderers matter here.

They had everything:

• a major market,

• huge supporter energy,

• identity,

• scale,

• momentum.

And still, they are now struggling to hold the intensity that once defined them.

Their decline is proof that launching a club is the easy part.

Sustaining it is the hard part.

If a club in Sydney can lose its atmosphere despite all those advantages, Tasmania should be extremely cautious about assuming a licence alone solves anything.

The deeper structural question: is this even the right model?

The deeper question may not be whether Tasmania should have an A-League club at all.

The deeper question is whether chasing entry into a closed, licence-controlled competition is the right ambition for Tasmanian football.

Unlike most football systems in the world, the A-League remains a closed-shop model.

Clubs cannot earn their place through promotion.
They must be admitted.

That is very different from the emerging National Second Division model, which offers a pathway built far more closely around football merit, club readiness and earned progression.

Tasmania should absolutely be part of national football ambition.

But there is an important difference between:

1. strengthening clubs so they can rise through open football pathways, and

2. investing scarce energy into seeking invitation into a closed franchise system.

One approach builds the game from its foundations.

The other depends on being let in.

The grassroots contradiction no one should ignore

Every registration sends money upwards.

Families pay fees.
Clubs collect them.
Associations administer competitions.
Then significant portions flow to:

• Football Tasmania,

• Football Australia.

That system is accepted because governing bodies are meant to strengthen the game.

They are meant to regulate it, support it and help it grow.

Yet at grassroots level, many clubs and associations experience something very different:

• increasing compliance burdens,

• rising administrative expectations,

• volunteer fatigue,

• limited operational support.

Those of us living inside clubs and associations know this reality intimately.

We know how much unpaid labour holds football together.

We know referees are harder and harder to recruit and retain.

And we know how often that work feels unseen.

That is where frustration grows.

Because when grassroots football feels ignored, ambitious elite projects begin to feel less like inspiration and more like displacement.

This is not anti-ambition. It is about sequence.

Tasmania should absolutely have football ambition.

But ambition must be built in the right order.

Before elite expansion comes:

• stronger clubs,

• stronger associations,

• better facilities,

• better referee support,

• reduced volunteer strain,

• better coach education

• sustainable pathways.

That is where Tasmanian football’s future is built.

Not by chasing the most prestigious badge first, but by strengthening the structures already carrying the game.

The real question Tasmania should ask

The wrong question is:

How do we get an A-League team?

The better question is:

What must Tasmanian football become before an A-League team would even make sense?

Until the people carrying football in this state feel genuinely supported, chasing admission to a closed national competition is not strategic vision.

It is a prestige project built on foundations that are already under strain.

Paul Asked Why Football Wasn’t on the News

Why Isn’t Football on the News?

Paul messaged me last night with a simple question.

“Why was there no football on the news tonight?”

It came at the end of a day when football had been everywhere.

Junior football had just kicked off for the season. Youth matches were continuing across Tasmania. Fields were full from morning until late afternoon. Children pulled on boots for their first games of the year. Parents stood on sidelines in coats and scarves. Coaches encouraged. Referees officiated. Volunteers set up grounds, packed away goals, lined fields and opened canteens.

Across the state, football was alive in every direction.

And yet, if you switched on the nightly news, you would have little sense that thousands of Tasmanians had just spent their day inside the game.

I had to make a small confession in reply.

In our house, we barely watch free-to-air television anymore.

Like many people now, we get our news elsewhere, through digital platforms, social media, independent outlets, ABC radio and the networks built around our own interests.

And that may be the irony: football may have outgrown television long before television noticed.

Because while football no longer depends on television to survive, television still helps decide which sports are treated as culturally important.

Football has already solved the visibility problem for itself

The first truth is this: football is no longer waiting for mainstream media to validate it.

The game has built its own media ecosystem.

NPL clubs now run increasingly sophisticated communications operations. Many have photographers, videographers, livestream crews, social media managers and match-day commentators. They produce player announcements, interviews, highlights packages, match reports and behind-the-scenes stories.

That did not happen by accident.

It happened because football learned that if it wanted its stories told consistently, it would have to tell them itself.

In many ways, mainstream television is no longer where football’s real audience lives.

For younger audiences especially, legitimacy is no longer granted by appearing on the six o’clock news. It is granted by digital visibility in the spaces where they already consume sport.

The storytellers who matter most are often outside mainstream media

Football’s media world is bigger than clubs alone.

Matthew Rhodes saw the gap in Tasmanian football reporting and created Tassie Football Central, which has become indispensable to the weekly life of the game.

Week after week it records the rhythms of Tasmanian football:
previews, results, ladders, transfers, youth competitions, grassroots developments.

And we must not forget Walter Pless.

Walter’s match reports, interviews and chronicling of Tasmanian football over many years are of enormous historical importance.

If television captures moments, Walter Pless preserves football’s collective memory.

Long after a nightly bulletin has disappeared into the ether, Walter’s written record remains.

That is not simply reporting.
That is preservation.

People care about stories close to home

One thing football understands better than mainstream media is this:

People like to read about people they know.

That is why local football storytelling resonates so strongly.

When I write interviews, they are often among the most widely read pieces I publish, not because they feature famous people, but because they tell stories about familiar lives:
the coach everyone recognises,
the volunteer who has quietly served for decades,
the young player emerging through the ranks.

These are stories rooted in community.

And they matter because they reflect us back to ourselves.

Mainstream television, by its nature, rarely captures that intimacy well.

The issue is not hostility. It is outdated media assumptions

This is important to say clearly.

Tasmanian editors are not anti-football.

Most are working within shrinking newsroom budgets, shorter bulletins, fewer camera crews and inherited assumptions about what audiences expect sport to look like.

And those assumptions are old.

Commercial television still defaults heavily toward legacy hierarchies, where AFL remains familiar, easy and institutionally embedded.

Football loses in that system not because it lacks relevance, but because legacy media structures are slow to recognise change.

The same pattern runs across the wider media landscape

This is not just a television issue.

Tasmania’s newspapers and radio outlets follow similar patterns.

Football appears episodically, cup finals, controversy, national team moments, major announcements, but rarely with the consistency given to sports long embedded in mainstream editorial culture.

That is the real problem.

The absence of football from the news is not a reflection of football’s place in Tasmanian life.

It is a reflection of how slowly traditional media adapts to cultural reality.

Should we still care?

This is where the contradiction becomes interesting.

Football may no longer need television.

But television still influences how institutions perceive importance.

Visibility affects:

• sponsorship recognition,

• political attention,

• infrastructure debates,

• funding decisions,

• public legitimacy.

If a sport is rarely visible in mainstream media, it becomes easier to overlook when resources are allocated.

Media invisibility can still become structural invisibility.

That part has not changed.

Perhaps the real story is not football’s absence

Paul’s question began as a simple observation.

But perhaps the real story is not that football is missing from the nightly news.

Perhaps the real story is that Tasmania’s media institutions still underestimate where football now lives.

Because football has not been waiting.

It has built its own parallel world of storytelling, livestreaming, reporting and community memory.

And in doing so, it has quietly created something remarkable:

A sport that no longer needs permission to matter.

The question now is whether mainstream media is willing to catch up.

Recently I posted a photograph of Ken Morton and Brett Pullen together, and it drew a remarkable amount of attention.

That response was not accidental.

These are two recognisable Tasmanian football figures, from different clubs, different pathways, different football histories, yet both deeply familiar to the wider football community.

People stopped because they knew who they were.

That is the point.

Local football is built on relationships, memory and recognition.
The stories that resonate most are often not about elite stars or national headlines, but about the people whose names and faces are woven into the everyday life of the game.

That is something mainstream television rarely understands well, but football people understand instinctively.

Stop Telling Football to be Grateful, Part 4: When the Number Hit $3 Billion

If you haven’t read Part 3, where I break down the funding gap in detail, you can read Stop Telling Football to be Grateful, Part 3: OMG the Money!

This one is different.

This one is about a moment.

The moment the number changed

I listened to a chilling interview on SEN this week.

It was chilling because of one word.

Three.

Three what, you might ask.

Three billion.

And in that moment, the scale of this stopped being abstract.

What was actually said (a quick 101)

For those who didn’t hear it, Sydney Swans chairman Andrew Pridham was speaking about the proposed Hobart stadium in this SEN interview.

His position was clear.

Tasmania needs a stadium.

A proper one.

Not a compromise.

If the state wants an AFL team and the long-term future that comes with it.

And I understand that argument.

I actually agree with part of it.

Tasmania should have a team.

Why the number is moving

There is another reason that number matters.

It’s not just a throwaway line.

Construction costs are rising globally, and major projects are exposed to forces well beyond Tasmania.

Even this week, ABC radio was discussing how tensions around the Strait of Hormuz are pushing up fuel and shipping costs.

At the same time, Australia’s Prime Minister is in Singapore talking about securing fuel supply.

That’s the scale we are dealing with.

These are not distant issues.

They flow directly into construction.

Fuel drives transport.
Shipping affects materials.
Energy prices impact manufacturing.

And many building materials themselves are tied to global supply chains.

Steel.
Concrete.
Plastics and PVC products used across modern construction.

When those costs rise, projects don’t stay where they start.

They move.

And they almost always move upwards.

So when someone inside the industry says “three billion”, it’s not just a dramatic number.

It reflects the reality that these projects are vulnerable to global shocks.

War.
Supply chain disruption.
Energy price spikes.

And that makes the question even more important.

Not just what it costs today…

But what it ends up costing tomorrow.

This isn’t theoretical

And this isn’t theoretical.

It’s already happening.

This week, ABC reporting showed construction projects in Australia increasing by more than $100,000 in a matter of weeks as fuel and material costs surged.

PVC products, pipelines and essential infrastructure materials are up 30 to 40 per cent.

Asphalt has jumped by around 50 per cent.

Fuel costs have effectively doubled in their impact across construction.

These are not small movements.

These are structural shifts.

And they are happening before a project like this has even begun.

Projects don’t stay where they start.

And right now, they are moving fast.

This isn’t just Tasmania

This isn’t unique to Tasmania.

Around the world, major infrastructure projects are blowing out.

Costs don’t stay where they start.

They rise with energy prices, supply chain pressure, labour shortages and global instability.

That is the environment this stadium would be built in.

And Australia is not immune to it.

Major projects across the country have faced delays, cost increases and budget revisions.

That is now the norm, not the exception.

Which makes early estimates just that, estimates.

And in Tasmania, the margin for error is smaller.

We don’t have the scale of larger states to absorb major cost overruns.

Which means when projects grow, the consequences are felt more sharply.

And more widely.

But then came the question

Because once you hear “three billion”, the conversation shifts.

It’s no longer just:

Should we build a stadium?

It becomes:

At what cost?

Because if that level of investment is required to secure a team, what does it mean for everything else?

Are we building something for Tasmania…

Or are we trampling on the rest of us to get there?

What does that mean for the rest of us?

Governments do not operate in infinite budgets.

Every major commitment shapes what comes next.

If Tasmania commits to a multi-billion dollar stadium, with ongoing operating and lifecycle costs, that doesn’t sit in isolation.

It sits alongside every other demand.

Health.
Education.
Infrastructure.

And sport.

All sport.

Whose money is this?

And it’s worth saying this again, because it gets lost in the language of “government funding”.

This is not some separate pool of money.

It is not mysterious money that belongs to someone else.

It is our money.

Taxpayer money.

The money of the parents driving kids to training.
The volunteers running canteens.
The workers, the small businesses, the communities that keep sport alive.

So when we talk about billions being committed to one project, we are not talking about “government spending” in the abstract.

We are talking about a choice.

A choice about where our money goes.

And who it serves.

And right now, that choice is telling a very clear story.

This isn’t just about football

This is not just a football issue.

This is about every participation sport in Tasmania.

Football.
Netball.
Basketball.
Athletics.
School sport.
Community recreation.

So the question becomes unavoidable:

Will there be anything left for the rest of us?

Or will grassroots sport be asked, once again, to wait… apply… fundraise… and be grateful?

The “multi-purpose” argument

We are already hearing it.

That this will be a multi-purpose stadium.

That cricket will use it.

That it will host events.

And maybe it will.

But even if cricket goes in there, even if concerts fill the calendar, it doesn’t change the fundamental issue.

Participation sport does not happen in stadiums.

It happens on local grounds.

On school ovals.

On shared community spaces with lights that barely work and changerooms that still don’t meet the needs of women and girls.

A multi-purpose stadium is still a centralised, elite piece of infrastructure.

It does not solve the everyday reality of community sport.

It doesn’t give a junior team somewhere to train.

It doesn’t ease ground shortages.

It doesn’t reduce waiting lists.

It doesn’t change the lived experience of the thousands of Tasmanians who play sport every week.

While we debate what fits inside the stadium…

the rest of sport is still outside, waiting.

The part I can’t ignore

I fear for my code of sport.

And I fear for every other community sport in Tasmania.

Because if $3 billion is poured into a stadium that most people will never set foot in, we are making a very clear decision about what matters, and what doesn’t.

This is no longer just about what we build.

It’s about what we risk.

Tasmania should have an AFL team.

But building a cathedral to one sport risks leaving the rest of us outside.

Stop telling football to be grateful.

Who Knew About the Seats?

The Mercury 7 April 2026

I was scrolling when I saw the announcement.

“Stadium seating finds new life with local sporting clubs.”

At first glance, a great idea.

More than 1,500 seats removed from UTAS Stadium, redistributed to 15 local clubs.
Sustainable. Practical. Community focused.

Exactly the kind of initiative you want to see.

And then you look a little closer.

The Announcement

The Tasmanian Government, through Jo Palmer, confirmed that:

• more than 1,500 seats were redistributed

• 15 clubs received them

• and “every club that applied got what they were after”

On face value, fair.

No complaints there.

But that sentence shifts the question.

The List

When you look at the clubs, the picture becomes clearer.

The recipients are overwhelmingly Australian Rules football clubs, along with one bowls club.

No football clubs.

Not Launceston City FC
Not Launceston United FC
Not Riverside Olympic FC

Clubs that play in the NPL.
Clubs with facilities.
Clubs that host games.
Clubs that would absolutely use seating.

And in Launceston United’s case, the seats would have been closer to their colours than most.

But it doesn’t stop there.

Across the north there are Championship clubs, community clubs, and social teams who would also have benefited.

Clubs where people stand on the sidelines.
Clubs where parents bring their own chairs.
Clubs where even a small bank of seating would make a difference.

This wasn’t just an opportunity for the top end.

It was an opportunity for the whole game.

A Fair System?

Let’s be clear.

There is nothing in the announcement that suggests bias.

In fact, it suggests the opposite.

Every club that applied got seats.

That is, on paper, a fair process.

So the Question Changes

The issue is no longer:

Who got the seats?

It becomes:

Who was told, and how?

Because I cannot find:

• a public call-out

• an expression of interest

• a grant page

• a visible application process

Maybe it existed.

Maybe it went through Football Tasmania
Maybe it went through AFL Tasmania
Maybe it was sent directly to clubs

But if it did, it wasn’t visible.

And that matters.

Let’s Be Honest

There are a few possibilities.

Football didn’t know.

Football knew but too late.

Football knew and didn’t act.

All are possible.

None are proven.

But all lead to the same outcome.

And yes, it is possible football clubs knew and didn’t act. That’s a different conversation, but just as important.

AFL Does This Well

It’s also worth saying this clearly.

AFL clubs are organised.

They are connected.

They respond to opportunities.

They are ready when something becomes available.

That is not criticism.

That is reality.

Football Wasn’t in the Room

Because when you strip it back, that’s what this is.

A practical opportunity.

Free infrastructure.

Delivered into one sporting ecosystem.

Not the other.

No outrage required.

No conspiracy needed.

Just a simple observation:

Football doesn’t appear to have been in the room.

This Isn’t About Seats

This is about something bigger.

How information moves.

Who hears it.

Who is organised to respond.

Because too often, football isn’t missing out at the end.

It’s missing out at the start.

A Question Worth Asking

So this isn’t criticism.

It’s a question.

A genuine one.

Who was told, and how?

Because if it was open to all, and only one code responded, that tells us something.

And if it wasn’t broadly communicated, that tells us something else.

Either way, it’s worth understanding.

Because Next Time Matters

There will be another opportunity.

There always is.

The question is whether football will be in the room when it happens.

Or reading about it afterwards.

Dynamic Pricing and the Slow Drift Away from the Fan

The anguish of the England fan

I keep hearing and reading the same story.

Fans who have saved for years.
Planned the trip.
Built it into something close to a life moment.

A World Cup that is bigger than ever before.

And yet, somehow, harder to access.

Because now there is something new waiting for them.

Dynamic pricing.

What is that?

It means the price moves.

Not just a little.

Constantly.

It is the same system used for major concerts and events in the United States.
The kind where tickets for artists like Taylor Swift surge within minutes, or where premium sporting events price themselves according to demand.

Now imagine trying to run a football tour around that.

Flights, hotels, schedules, everything locked in…

Except the one thing that matters most.

Getting in.

What is dynamic pricing?

Dynamic pricing is exactly what it sounds like.

The price is not fixed.

It shifts depending on demand, timing and behaviour.
The same seat, for the same match, can cost very different amounts depending on when you buy and how many others are trying to buy it.

It is already common in airlines, hotels and concerts.

Now it has arrived at the World Cup.

For 2026, FIFA will use it for ticket sales.

Which means there is no true face value.

Only a moving target.

What it actually costs

This is where it becomes real.

Tickets are advertised from around $60 USD for the lowest category seats.

But that is only part of the story.

Typical ranges look like this:

• Group matches: roughly $100 to $575 USD

• Opening match: up to around $2,700 USD

• Round of 16: around $220 to $890 USD

• Quarter-finals: up to around $1,600 USD

• Semi-finals: up to around $2,700 USD

And the final?

Originally priced around $6,700 USD at the top end.

Now, with dynamic pricing, it has climbed to around $10,000 USD and beyond.

Hospitality packages sit in a completely different world again, stretching into tens of thousands.

So yes, there are cheaper tickets.

But they are limited.

And the real experience sits much higher.

Why it exists

The logic is simple.

Maximise revenue.

The 2026 World Cup is being played largely in the United States. A premium market with enormous demand and spending power.

If people are willing to pay more, the system allows FIFA to charge more.

FIFA would argue this reflects demand, not exclusion.

From a business perspective, it makes sense.

From a football perspective, it raises questions.

Where it becomes uncomfortable

Football has never behaved like a normal market.

It has always carried something more.

Access.

The World Cup was something you could plan for.
Save for.
Work toward.

Now, the price is unpredictable.

Supporters do not know what they will pay.
When they should buy.
Or whether they will be priced out entirely.

And that uncertainty changes everything.

Who this favours

Dynamic pricing does not treat all supporters equally.

It favours those with flexibility.
Those with higher disposable income.
Those buying an experience rather than living it.

And slowly, almost invisibly, it pushes others out.

The supporter who saves for years.
The families who plan together.
The next generation hoping to feel it for the first time.

Still there.

Just further away.

From Australia, you are already looking at thousands in flights alone. Add accommodation, time away from work, and suddenly a single match is not just a ticket.

It is a financial commitment.

The atmosphere question

This is the part that matters most.

Because pricing is not just about money.

It shapes who turns up.

I felt this sitting at Etihad Stadium.

The football was exceptional.
Technically brilliant.

But the crowd felt different.

Full of visitors. Experience seekers. People passing through.

Not worse.

Just less alive.

The football was still fabulous.
But the atmosphere had been curated, not created.

A preview of what is coming

That experience stays with me now.

Because it felt like a glimpse of where this is heading.

This is also the first World Cup with 48 teams. Bigger than ever before. More matches. More nations. More opportunity.

And yet, for many, less access.

The World Cup will not struggle to sell tickets.

The stadiums will be full.

But full of a different mix.

More corporate.
More curated.
Less organic.

And that changes the feeling of the game.

What we risk losing

The World Cup was never just about what happens on the pitch.

It was about colour.
Noise.
Identity.
Belonging.

It was about standing next to someone from the other side of the world and feeling part of the same thing.

That cannot be priced dynamically.

The bigger question

So the question is not whether dynamic pricing works.

It does.

The question is what it changes.

Because once you shift who the game is for,
you shift what the game becomes.

It’s not too late

There is still time to think carefully about this.

Not to reject modern systems.

But to protect what matters.

Because once the authentic fan is priced out,
they do not come back.

And when that happens, the World Cup does not disappear.

It just quietly stops belonging to everyone.

The Silence Of Football

The Mercury 8 April 2026

Here I go again.

Banging the drum.

This damn daylight saving.

I wake at 3am now instead of 4. I have always been an early riser, but it comes at a cost. By mid afternoon I am done. Foggy. Not thinking clearly.

Morning is where it works.

Tea first. Quiet.

Waiting for the UEFA Champions League or the EFL Championship to kick off.

Spoilt for choice at 4.55am.

The game everywhere.

And yet, not here.

A bit of time to read.

So it was no surprise that I opened The Mercury this morning.

And yes, I still subscribe.

Partly habit. Partly interest. Politics, letters to the editor, the odd honest piece buried somewhere in the middle, usually separated by twenty pages of racing before you find the end of it again.

That kind of reading.

But this one wasn’t buried.

It had volume.

Front page.
Editor’s words.
Then the full article.

Three separate moments to say the same thing.

Look at us, again.

4,100 players.
10 per cent growth.
A system under pressure.

It is a good story.

And it is told well.

That’s not just coverage.

That’s amplification.

The packaging

AFL doesn’t just grow the game.

It packages it.

It connects juniors to a club, to a jumper, to a future.

It gives media something clean and simple to publish.

And the media understands it.

It is a broadcast product. It fits.

So the story runs easily.

And runs well.

Alignment

This is not accidental.

Participation, pathway, identity and promotion all point in the same direction.

Junior numbers connect to the Devils.
The Devils connect to the AFL.
The AFL connects to the national stage.

One story.

Clear. Consistent. Repeatable.

Football’s silence

Because those pressures are not unique.

Football is managing the same reality.

I sit inside this every week.

The numbers.
The teams.
The fixtures.
The constant search for space.

Thousands of players.
Hundreds of teams.
Not enough grounds.
Not enough access.

Week after week.

Season after season.

But the story is not being told.

Banging the drum again.

Same old story.

Where is our voice?

The silence is deafening.

Structure, not effort

This is not about people not working hard.

It is about structure.

Clubs speak.
Associations organise.
But there is no single voice.

No consistent narrative.

So nothing cuts through.

Visibility

This is not about which code is bigger.

It is about which code is seen.

Football has the numbers.

It just doesn’t have the recognition.

AFL is organised to be visible.

Football is not.

That is the difference.

What follows

When stories are not told, they are not valued.

When they are not valued, they are not funded.

Not planned for.

Not prioritised.

Because visibility drives decisions.

Funding.
Facilities.
Priority.

The truth

We are doing the work.

Someone else is telling the story.