From the Outer: Footy Like You've Never Heard It

By Nicole Hayes and Alicia Sometimes

A celebration of our great game, From​ the Outer brings together 30 personal stories about Aussie Rules from unexpected voices: those who are female, Indigenous or gay; those with a disability, a foreign accent or even – perhaps most dubious of all – literary leanings.

Some are closet fans, some are out and proud. Many are ground-breaking and revolutionary, shaking up the institution that has dominated cultural life in Melbourne, and much of Australia, for generations. Some are actively involved in the game, such as Leila Gurruwiwi, panellist on Australia’s first all-Indigenous footy show; Angela Pippos, one of Australia’s first female sports commentators; and Jason Tuazon-McCheyne, founder of the LGBTI supporter group the Purple Bombers. Others, like Christos Tsiolkas, Sophie Cunningham, Tony Birch and Alice Pung, share their poignant, passionate experiences as spectators and supporters.

Engaging and surprising, From the Outer shows how footy can both thrill and devastate, exclude and unite, by shining a light on the diversity and splendour of the game.

‘From the Outer is a timely reminder of what keeps us coming back to the oval.’ —Books+Publishing

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Inc. Books
• Release date: Mar 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781925203899

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together.

AN OPEN LETTER TO DOUBTING THOMAS

Chelsea Roffey

Dear Thomas,

Where has the time gone? The past decade as an AFL umpire has flown, and there’s one question that continues to surface, second only to ‘Are you allowed to date the players?’ The question is: ‘What barriers have you faced as a female in a male domain?’

Where do I start? To be frank, when I reflect on the hardships of gender, it’s difficult to believe I survived this long – I’ve faced more hurdles than Sally Pearson! The intrinsic differences of gender have created a myriad of challenges to overcome. Biology, as you have so insightfully observed, has made an indelible mark.

Some airheads, like the respected neuroscientist and writer Cordelia Fine, suggest that gender stereotypes are not biologically hardwired at all, but are the result of priming based on social expectations. However, like you, I find detailed ‘empirical evidence’ hard to swallow, especially when it is so clumsily wrapped up in the guise of ‘neuroendocrinological investigation’. In more sensible times, assertions like this would have got you burnt at the stake.

Let me elaborate by addressing the elephant in the room. Women are, quite literally, girls. Everyone knows the top two things that don’t belong on the footy field are girls and wusses (interchangeable, really). That’s not to say they don’t have their uses. There’s nothing like a hardworking Aussie sheila expressing her God-given talents running the canteen or removing stubborn stains from twenty-two smelly guernseys every week. But girls on the field? It’s a concept that undermines the fabric upon which this great nation is built. Ladies nurture and men make decisions – it’s the law of nature.

As a baby of the ’80s, there was one thing I noticed that a truly decisive man, a real man, wore with absolute pride: a moustache. Back then a man without a moustache was practically a woman in pants. All the men I loved had a moustache. What was intrepid filmmaker Alby Mangles, irresistible to the ladies and the ultimate man’s man, without a mop of golden locks offset by an unkempt spray of whiskers? We looked to the mo when Merv Hughes and David Boon faced down England on the cricket pitch (or rose to the challenge of sinking a rumoured fifty-two beers on the plane flight over). Try imagining footy greats Ron Barassi, Leigh Matthews and Malcolm Blight without one. My own father rocked a mo. And so it made perfect sense that a moustache on a goal umpire exuded the utmost authority. It was as much a part of the game as meat pies and yelling ‘Ball!’ for holding decisions. Though times had changed by the time I arrived on the AFL scene, my lack of facial hair was merely a clue to the underlying inadequacies that would be revealed in time.

The moustache situation would turn out to be the least of my worries.

There’s the issue of not having played the game. I can still remember my first umpires’ training session – I was transfixed by the silky-smooth football skills of the goal umpires as we replicated game-day scenarios. People tend to think umpires aren’t good players, but it’s time to blow that stereotype out of the water. Deciding who will play full-forward during our skills sessions is virtually impossible, they’re all that good. We often invite our boss, Wayne Campbell, and ex-St Kilda captain Lenny Hayes, who does some part-time work with the AFL, to be the ‘kickers’ – mainly so they don’t feel left out. Wayne jumps at the opportunity, being a former Richmond Tigers skipper and All-Australian, but he gets a thorough coaching clinic from our blokes.

Hence the trepidation for me, a female, who has never actually played a proper game! All I managed in my youth was the occasional kick-to-kick with Dad and my two brothers. As a spectator I excelled, religiously attending games since toddlerhood. And I was glued to the TV screen every time the mercurial talents of Tony Modra were on display. With time, I wrapped my lady brain around the mathematics of scoring, which naively gave me the idea I could handle the flag-waving for the teams at high school, even though I hadn’t played. I later discovered that the first lesson you learn at umpiring school is to attach a printout of the six times tables to your scorecard. This enabled a raft of girls to join up, because as you know, all girls are bad at maths.

Dealing with hormones and emotions can be a rollercoaster for the fairer sex at the best of times, but overcoming the effects of oestrogen on game day, when maintaining focus is crucial, is no walk in the park. Female football fans are intrigued to learn how I maintain peak concentration in a testosterone-fuelled environment, amid a sea of short shorts, glistening biceps and guy-on-guy action. Not only must I read the flight and drop of the football to ensure precision in positioning to get the best view, but often I must jostle with half a dozen players milling around the goal area. I can literally smell the liniment evaporating off their muscles! At other times, my line of vision is interrupted by a rock-hard rump, not metres away, as a fullback reaches down to stretch a hamstring – and it’s all I can do not to drool, open-mouthed. But nothing says ‘Hello, ladies!’ like a cheeky scratch to the groin, or a bushman’s hanky, which involves blocking one nostril so the other can act as a chute for evacuating nasal congestion (ugly when it goes wrong). Men are remarkably at ease with their bodies, aren’t they?

Asserting my authority has presented as another major challenge. When things get rowdy and a bit of elbow-lifting escalates to chest-bumping, it’s mesmerising to watch, like having a window to a different species in its natural habitat. So primal. But monitoring this behaviour is vital, lest I wish to find myself attending a tribunal appearance to follow up a striking report. I can’t just call on the nearest field umpire to rescue the situation; girl or not, I have a job to do. As you might imagine, reasoning with Fraser Gehrig when he’s got his opponent in a headlock is a bit like trying to wrestle a bone from the mouth of a Doberman – you need to proceed with extreme caution.

In my case, channelling the voice and stern words of a mother brandishing the wooden spoon has been a successful tactic. But some people are so difficult to please. After reporting Barry Hall for wrestling with his opponent one day, I copped flack from a journalist who insisted I should have ‘intervened’. On reflection, the vision of Hall knocking out Brent Staker with a single blow to the chin during another match must have been clouding my judgement. Any reasonable man would have stepped in, and if only I’d had the balls to place myself in the middle of a volatile situation, I would have been applauded for my courage.

I like to think being on the end of a few knocks and bumps is a sign that I’ve made it as an umpire, that the players treat me like any other ‘white maggot’ out on the field. But being typically clumsy (hormones, again!) can be problematic when you’re faced with the decision to hold your ground behind the flight of the ball as Jonathan Brown rushes at you with the force of a steam train. Other highlights include the painful scrape of Todd Goldstein’s size-14 football boot down the length of my shin during his run-up to a contest, and having my face connect with the end of a trademark Drew Petrie spoil. Occasionally I find myself standing in the goals next to Aaron Sandilands’ hip and marvel at not being used as a speckie stepladder more often. But if you can’t handle a 194-centimetre, 93-kilogram athlete lodging his knees in the back of your neck (thanks, Jarrad Waite!), being drilled with footies kicked from close range, the odd falcon, or seeing stars after spectators return the ball via the back of your head, get back to the kitchen, right?

I suppose you’re wondering what sense of misguided confidence landed me here in the first place. I blame this one squarely on my parents for raising a daughter with self-worth and aspiration. I was encouraged to think big, and was impatient to achieve what I set my mind to. ‘Four going on twenty-four,’ Dad used to quip, which may explain the photo of me at the tender age of two, triumphantly clutching the perfect pot of beer I’d poured from the bar of the family’s pub. A right little lady, I clomped around wearing my nanna’s high heels and strings of beads from the op shop, appearing at the dinner table to sip from a water-filled wine glass, painted pinkie finger extended from the stem.

I loved dancing and performing. The Grease VHS was on high rotation in our house, but my favourite movie was Dirty Dancing, and Baby’s winning attitude made a lasting impression. My favourite scene, to this day, is when she puts herself forward to step in as Johnny’s dance partner, and he lays down the gauntlet: ‘She can’t do it. She cannot do it.’ Baby narrows her eyes, purses her lips and shoots invisible daggers at him, as if to say, ‘Screw. You.’ (And she does exactly that, in more ways than one.) That’s the moment where her infatuation is joined by self-respect and you know she’s going to prove this gorgeous moron wrong and win his heart in the process.

Mum insists I was born with ‘fear of missing out’, which encouraged me to try new things. The potential for failure would always play second fiddle to FOMO. I still remember the part it played in my first regret. I was at the circus, aged three, when the acrobats called for a volunteer to climb into a harness and join the show. A huge spotlight moved across the sawdusted floor and over the crowd, landing on me. I froze. Despite desperately wanting to jump up and say, ‘Yes! I’ll do it!’ I shyly shook my head. The pang of regret I felt as the opportunity passed was instant.

I attacked my first ‘competition’ – an apple-bobbing contest at age five – with gusto, leaving me drenched to the waist, but victorious. At twelve, I jumped head-first into a swollen creek during a cross-country event to leave competitors in my wake and secure a place in the state championships. By adolescence, I was getting good at feeling out of my depth. I’d travelled overseas on a tour of Asia, playing clarinet with the Queensland Symphonic Wind Orchestra, and I’d survived the public humiliation of an ear-wrenching vocal solo as Tallulah in my high school production of Bugsy Malone. From athletics and swimming carnivals to school exams, musical eisteddfods to debating, I spent a great deal of time channelling nerves in various activities. It would prove to be fantastic training for the pressure cooker of a full MCG crowd, having every move televised.

One of the greatest challenges of being elevated to the ranks of AFL has been navigating a ‘no vulnerability’ zone. The outward appearance of strength is rarely wrapped up in a feminine blanket, so proving you know your stuff in a man’s sport takes extra effort. Breaking down in tears or storming off the field in a huff when things don’t go your way aren’t exactly hallmarks of composure, so it’s essential to cultivate a hardened exterior. People often query whether I practise my signals in front of a mirror. ‘No, of course not!’ I inevitably lie, but in truth I devote weekly sessions to looking at my reflection, repeating ‘Who’s the man?’ before slamming down a goal signal and shouting ‘I am!’

Managing the princess persona ladies are inclined to adopt is tricky. If a woman can’t indulge the pressures of body image, is she really a woman at all? I feel naked without nail polish and full make-up, but that’s the price you pay for professionalism. Fortunately there’s a hat to hide under! Initially I thought the cameras would be my biggest concern, with the weight they add, but the real task has been maintaining sex appeal in a pair of men’s slacks and an oversized polo. You should see some of the clown pants I’ve been issued. Not to mention the ghastly silhouette created by the vest beneath my shirt, housing technology for an earpiece and a keypad for communicating decisions to the third scorer (difficult to avoid appearance of nipple-tweaking here). Then there’s a head camera to capture anything the other fifty-three angles may have missed.

Even throwbacks to the old way of doing things presents challenges. I’ll never forget Heritage Round, when I was issued with a coat, men’s size XL. I loved the concept of the old-school uniform, but it made me look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters. Thankfully, Mum can sew, and having received the coat a day before my game, she lopped a chunk off each sleeve and a good 40 centimetres off the hem and reassembled the shoulders, taking care to conserve the ‘PlayStation’ sponsors’ logo on the back.

Getting the outfit right is half the battle. Then there’s the perpetual feminist issue that you, Thomas, brought to my attention: wearing appropriate underwear. This was a toughie. Those first few games as a professional AFL umpire were nerve-wracking and hugely exciting – being a lifelong footy fan who’d dedicated five and a half years to learning the skills of goal umpiring, reaching the pinnacle was a dream come true. All that training and preparation had led to this moment, and I was methodical in ensuring my equipment was in order. Boots, socks, pants, belt, top, hat, flags, scorecards, pens, coin, sunnies … I mentally ticked them off before heading onto the field and my pre-match jitters gave way to the hum of 30,000 fans in the Gabba stands. But there was something crucial I’d left off my list, that you politely reminded me of from over the fence at those early matches. Was I wearing my G-string?

As far as I knew, none of my colleagues wore jockstraps, and the AFL didn’t give any direction around panties, so I assumed that comfortable underwear was the safest bet (we’ve all seen the stir Tania Buckley’s jewel-encrusted G-string caused at the Brownlows). In the end, I went with a sensible pair that, truth be told, rivalled the knickers Renée Zellweger made famous in Bridget Jones’ Diary. How often can you say vanity loses out to practicality? If you’re female, not very often – I guess I really am a pioneer! While we’re on the topic, was it you who tossed the sizeable pair of jocks into the goal square one evening as I inspected the area, pre-game? If so, I hope you didn’t sustain any chafing injuries!

Those who regard footy as a religion are familiar with the gospel of the cheer squad. Praise be, Thomas; these folks speak the truth. Like the time the man who routinely bursts my eardrums with profanities once admitted: ‘I’m just a nice, normal guy, you know.’ Rational advice regarding whether or not I’ve made the correct decision is always gratefully received – it’s amazing how accurately people can assess super-tight scoring scenarios from all the way back in their seats. Their observations remain razor sharp, even after several beers! And clever? Sometimes I hear something so original, I commit it to memory. Like one time when I signalled a goal, and that chap yelled: ‘How big is it?!’, alluding to the size of my (absent) male genitalia. Classic! Mobile phone numbers called across the fence as I write down the score are appreciated, and I always record them to my contacts list post-game. Big ticks to the Romeo who complimented me on the switch to green uniforms (‘You look great in lime green. I’d love to squeeze the juice out of ya!’), and just wait till you’re of legal age, young man who playfully referred to me as a ‘cougar’. Grrrrrr!

But fun sexual innuendo aside, decision-making is serious