INSUFFICIENT INTENT
AN ENTIRELY TRUE STORY OF AFL GREED AND CORRUPTION
A CARLO SANDS' MYSTERY
July 29, 2023.
Satuday night.
Round 20.
Maybe I should have got a proper job. Maybe I should have had rich parents and gone to med school. Maybe then I'd not be chasing husbands for jealous wives who deserve better, or wives for jealous husbands who don't.
But I was stuck in my stereotypically old bomb with a busted heater in winter with just an Essendon game playing on my phone for company. I had hoped the Bombers would lift my spirits but they weren't pulling their weight. Jake Stringer booted another behind.
"That's a bad miss, JB", offered the commentator, a grown man called BT. If inanely obvious statements generated heat, the Channel 7 commentary team would warm me right up.
I looked at the scoreline and sighed. I thought longingly about the bottom-shelf whiskey bottle waiting for me at the local when I was done.
Something had to happen soon to advance the plot.
Then I saw it, swaying gently into the vision of my foggy side mirror. A man hanging from a tree.
Turning up my collar, I braved the cold to take a look. My first instinct was a Bombers fan pushed too far by the state of the latest "rebuild".
Then I saw the Carlton scarf.
No Bombers fan would be seen dead in the scarf of the Eternal Enemy. And this guy was unquestionably dead.
Something was wrong with this picture. The Blues seemed to be making a better fist this season than the Bombers in the two club's Eternal Quest to recreate the glories of 90s.
Sure they were bound to screw it up in soul destroying fashion, but Carlton had only just beaten ladder leaders Collingwood last night to actually break into the eight. A Blues fan stringing themselves up the day after a huge upset win over the Pies? It didn't add up.
Looking closer I realised it was the home insurance branch manager. What kind of perverted sicko wears a Blues scarf to meet their lover? A Blues fan, I guess. That kinda perverted sicko.
This strong-arming was proving about as popular with Tasmanians as AFLX proved with anyone outside the no doubt very drunk AFL subcommittee that invented it. So when I checked the guy's wallet and saw the Hobart address, my mind raced.
Was the dead guy a Tasmanian agent sent to inflitrate the AFL and defeat their stadium blackmail plot? How did he get the invite to AFL House and what was he planning to do when he got there? And did the AFL want him dead?
Who was I kidding. Of course the AFL wanted him dead. AFL boss Gil McLachlan was a well-bred product of Adelaide's wealthy elite who presented a slick image for the cameras, but off-camera was known to be more than willing to play the man instead of the ball. He was supposedly stepping down at the end of the season, but if you think the likes of McLachlan walk away from power of their own volition, then I have a North Melbourne rebuild plan to sell you.
So who really was this apparent Carlton fan who'd seeningly ruled themselves out for the rest of the season?
I looked at the date of the AFL House invitation. It was tonight.
I had to hurry if I wanted to make the opening bounce.
It's well known that every weekend, McLachlan hosted a huge soiree in the board room. The good and the famous gathered to drink fine champagne and, if the rumours were true, sustain several Colombian villages.
These parties famously had only one rule: no NRL.
As I approached the stadium, the noises from the Board Room grew louder. Wild cries of "BAAAALL!!!" and "DELIBERATE!!!" rang across a car park studded with up-market SUVs.
The entrance was guarded by a burly bloke I recognised as a notoroiously tough back pocket for St Kilda in the early '00s.
I handed him the invite and awaited his question. Entry to the shindig was password protected, but I had my sources.
"What's the call?" asked the big unit, his face tense.
"No prior," I said, and he nodded and stood aside. I walked past, wondering if his off-field shirtfronts did as much damange as the ones dealt to on-field opponents back in the day.
As the lift climbed to the top floor, the terrible din growing louder.
"IN THE BACK!" roared a huge crowd.
The lift door opened onto a scene more disturbing than any I'd seen in my life. And I'd watched the West Coast Eagles play this season. The event had all the decorum of a Port Adelaide crowd.
The room heaved with bodies, naked except for an array of AFL scarves. Thus attired, a sizeable chunk of the Melbourne elite chased and kicked a giant inflatable sherin, climbing on each other's back to take a "screamer" while others shouted "KICK IT YA MUG!' and "THAT WAS HIGH!"
Every time the giant plastic football bounced near the champagne-ladled tables that sat against the walls, there was a defeating cry of "DELIBERATE!!!" This was followed by a piercing whistle as a man dressed in tight white shorts, knee high socks and nothing else yelled "INSUFFICIENT INTENT" and the crowd erupted into an even greater din.
I headed straight to the champagne. I was in bad need of a drink.
I was picking up a champagne glass in each hand when I saw him. Gil McLachlan stood on the balcony outside the glass doors.
His back was facing me. His unmistakable heavily stylised black hair, plastered so thick it wouldn't move in a Bradley Maynard high bump, shined in the moonlight.
A drink in both hands, I stepped on to the balcony. He turned and looked me straight in the eye.
"Carlo Sands. How nice of you to join our little soiree."
I guess my mouth dropped faster than Essendon's ladder position post June in any season for too many years because he smiled and said, "Oh yes, we've had a hard tag on you for some time. But what, I wonder, brings you to our little... game tonight?"
"A little matter of a Blues fan who heard the final siren," I replied.
McLachlan chuckled. "You surprise me! I wasn't aware the well-being a Blue Bagger would concern a die hard Dons man. Shouldn't you be more concerned about the shortage of genuinely elite big-bodied midfielders playing in the red and black?" McLaughlin's smirked with a smugness reminiscent of Hawthorn fans circa 2015.
"I was wondering," I continued, deciding to boot the ball deep into the 50, "whether it had anything to do with these rumours of a secret deal with the NRL to carve up the country."
Winger had uncovered irrefutable evidence of the AFL-NRL plot to use their dominant market share, media access and influence over governments to lock out all other codes. The game the vast majority of the world calls football was to be relegated back to near joke status in this country.
***
AFL House looked a lot different in the cold light of day. It seemed smaller and largely lifeless.
I found McLachlan behind his desk. On his office walls were book shelves filled with an endless array of footy player autobiographies. I wondered if the AFL CEO had ever read a single ghost-written line.
"Carlo!", he said with a thin smile as he leant back in is chair. "So nice to see you again."
He sounded as sincere as an AFL club insisting they don't tolerate racism in the face of strong allegations to the contrary from their non-white players.
"I have the report," I said. "Peace with rugby league! All your talk of fighting Evil and standing up to Barbarism! You probably signed it over a few XXXX Golds!"
Looking closer I realised it was the home insurance branch manager. What kind of perverted sicko wears a Blues scarf to meet their lover? A Blues fan, I guess. That kinda perverted sicko.
I needed to get out of there. A dead guy brings cops and the Victorian Police Force was a club I no longer played for. I couldn't even remember the words to the team song.
I was about to turn away when I saw the card in the dead guy's hand. An invitation to a gathering at AFL House, the famed headquarters of the sporting code that ran this city. If the AFL had their way, they would run the whole country, as shown by their frequent mercenary invasions of rugby league territory.
Even Aussie Rules states were not immune from AFL power-grabs, as Tasmania was discovering. Its long-desired AFL team was being tied to pumping millions of tax-payer dollars into a giant new stadium. This was despite a couple of perfectly good ones sitting there with a look on their faces like "we put up with all those North Melbourne games for nothing?"
I was about to turn away when I saw the card in the dead guy's hand. An invitation to a gathering at AFL House, the famed headquarters of the sporting code that ran this city. If the AFL had their way, they would run the whole country, as shown by their frequent mercenary invasions of rugby league territory.
Even Aussie Rules states were not immune from AFL power-grabs, as Tasmania was discovering. Its long-desired AFL team was being tied to pumping millions of tax-payer dollars into a giant new stadium. This was despite a couple of perfectly good ones sitting there with a look on their faces like "we put up with all those North Melbourne games for nothing?"
This strong-arming was proving about as popular with Tasmanians as AFLX proved with anyone outside the no doubt very drunk AFL subcommittee that invented it. So when I checked the guy's wallet and saw the Hobart address, my mind raced.
Was the dead guy a Tasmanian agent sent to inflitrate the AFL and defeat their stadium blackmail plot? How did he get the invite to AFL House and what was he planning to do when he got there? And did the AFL want him dead?
Who was I kidding. Of course the AFL wanted him dead. AFL boss Gil McLachlan was a well-bred product of Adelaide's wealthy elite who presented a slick image for the cameras, but off-camera was known to be more than willing to play the man instead of the ball. He was supposedly stepping down at the end of the season, but if you think the likes of McLachlan walk away from power of their own volition, then I have a North Melbourne rebuild plan to sell you.
So who really was this apparent Carlton fan who'd seeningly ruled themselves out for the rest of the season?
I looked at the date of the AFL House invitation. It was tonight.
I had to hurry if I wanted to make the opening bounce.
***
AFL House was in Docklands in the heart of Melbourne, squashed between the Yarra River and the Southern Cross Station. Meaning you could either drown yourself or flee the city should the need arise.
AFL apparatchiks, however, seemed only ever to drown in power and flee their responsibilities to protect the integrity of the sport, to go by the many loud critics in the footy media.
AFL House sat within the precinct of "Marvel Stadium", surely the most absurdly named sports ground in the Southern Hemisphere and pretty good evidence the critics had a point.
Politicians, business magnates, former star players and high ranking clergy from multiple denominations were said to partake in the wild celebrations that served to cement McLachlan's standing at the centre of the city's real networks of power. McLachlan said he was handing over the reigns to his hand-picked successor, but few doubted who'd be directing the play.
These parties famously had only one rule: no NRL.
All association with the rival code of rubgy league were barred. It was said that once, the Johns brothers themselves tried to sneak in, off their chops on an illicit case of Toohey's New they'd smuggled into Victoria. McLachlan was said to have personally drop-punted them from the venue to raucus cheers, declaring: "We play real footy in this city!"
The AFL made much of its anti-NRL mission. Defending the civilised world fron barabarism. A noble goal.
As I approached the stadium, the noises from the Board Room grew louder. Wild cries of "BAAAALL!!!" and "DELIBERATE!!!" rang across a car park studded with up-market SUVs.
The entrance was guarded by a burly bloke I recognised as a notoroiously tough back pocket for St Kilda in the early '00s.
I handed him the invite and awaited his question. Entry to the shindig was password protected, but I had my sources.
"What's the call?" asked the big unit, his face tense.
"No prior," I said, and he nodded and stood aside. I walked past, wondering if his off-field shirtfronts did as much damange as the ones dealt to on-field opponents back in the day.
As the lift climbed to the top floor, the terrible din growing louder.
"IN THE BACK!" roared a huge crowd.
The lift door opened onto a scene more disturbing than any I'd seen in my life. And I'd watched the West Coast Eagles play this season. The event had all the decorum of a Port Adelaide crowd.
The room heaved with bodies, naked except for an array of AFL scarves. Thus attired, a sizeable chunk of the Melbourne elite chased and kicked a giant inflatable sherin, climbing on each other's back to take a "screamer" while others shouted "KICK IT YA MUG!' and "THAT WAS HIGH!"
Every time the giant plastic football bounced near the champagne-ladled tables that sat against the walls, there was a defeating cry of "DELIBERATE!!!" This was followed by a piercing whistle as a man dressed in tight white shorts, knee high socks and nothing else yelled "INSUFFICIENT INTENT" and the crowd erupted into an even greater din.
I headed straight to the champagne. I was in bad need of a drink.
I was picking up a champagne glass in each hand when I saw him. Gil McLachlan stood on the balcony outside the glass doors.
His back was facing me. His unmistakable heavily stylised black hair, plastered so thick it wouldn't move in a Bradley Maynard high bump, shined in the moonlight.
A drink in both hands, I stepped on to the balcony. He turned and looked me straight in the eye.
"Carlo Sands. How nice of you to join our little soiree."
I guess my mouth dropped faster than Essendon's ladder position post June in any season for too many years because he smiled and said, "Oh yes, we've had a hard tag on you for some time. But what, I wonder, brings you to our little... game tonight?"
"A little matter of a Blues fan who heard the final siren," I replied.
McLachlan chuckled. "You surprise me! I wasn't aware the well-being a Blue Bagger would concern a die hard Dons man. Shouldn't you be more concerned about the shortage of genuinely elite big-bodied midfielders playing in the red and black?" McLaughlin's smirked with a smugness reminiscent of Hawthorn fans circa 2015.
"I was wondering," I continued, deciding to boot the ball deep into the 50, "whether it had anything to do with these rumours of a secret deal with the NRL to carve up the country."
There'd been some minor consternation caused by a few tweets from The Age's footy writer Barry Winger, which appeared to suggest a possible behind-closed-doors peace deal between the nation's two largest codes. Winger had since gone silent: no new tweets, articles for The Age or even new episodes of the moderately succesful footy podcast "Kicking In Danger" he did with a now-retired Western Bulldogs half back.
My comment was a bit of a kick-and-hope, but it seemed I'd found my man unmarked. I could have sworn I saw a flicker of shock in McLachlan's eyes, like a Dockers fan watching their team play consistently for all four quarters. It was probably just the moon's glare off his hair.
My comment was a bit of a kick-and-hope, but it seemed I'd found my man unmarked. I could have sworn I saw a flicker of shock in McLachlan's eyes, like a Dockers fan watching their team play consistently for all four quarters. It was probably just the moon's glare off his hair.
His smile was colder now: "I didn't take you as a believer in Twitter gossip. Rugby league is the enemy of all humanity! Accusations we'd deal with such scum would be outrageous if not so laughable."
There was real anger in his voicd as added: "I've dedicated my entire life to destroying the NRL! So I would be careful what you say."
I was clearly as welcome as Toby Greene anywhere.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the back pocket thug from the front door make his way towards me. I figured I should disappear quicker than a Sydney Swans fan when their team drops out of the eight. I headed to the interchange bench before they had a reason to perform a HIA.
But not before I grabbed two more glasses of high quality champers. My chat with the AFL supremo had left me a little thirsty.
* * *
I stood in the cold of the Marvel car park, which despite its name oozed Hollywood glamour like the Gold Coast Suns oozed fans. I thought about the situation.
McLachlan talked big about defending civilians from the horrors of rugby league. Did the AFL truly care? Or do they just want enough cash to keep the wild parties going?
But would they really stoop to deals with the NRL? And where did the contentious new Tasmanian stadium fit in?
This case was making less sense than an AFL tribunal decision involving high contact.
"PSSST".
There was real anger in his voicd as added: "I've dedicated my entire life to destroying the NRL! So I would be careful what you say."
I was clearly as welcome as Toby Greene anywhere.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the back pocket thug from the front door make his way towards me. I figured I should disappear quicker than a Sydney Swans fan when their team drops out of the eight. I headed to the interchange bench before they had a reason to perform a HIA.
But not before I grabbed two more glasses of high quality champers. My chat with the AFL supremo had left me a little thirsty.
* * *
I stood in the cold of the Marvel car park, which despite its name oozed Hollywood glamour like the Gold Coast Suns oozed fans. I thought about the situation.
McLachlan talked big about defending civilians from the horrors of rugby league. Did the AFL truly care? Or do they just want enough cash to keep the wild parties going?
But would they really stoop to deals with the NRL? And where did the contentious new Tasmanian stadium fit in?
This case was making less sense than an AFL tribunal decision involving high contact.
"PSSST".
The voice came from behind nearby bushes.
A man approached, his face mostly obscured by a yellow and green scarf that had become very familiar. The FIFA Women's World Cup had been underway across country for about a week now and Matildas' fever was running riot.
"I overheard your little talk with him," the man in the Matildas scarf said in an especially nasaly voice that was strangely familiar. "He's lying, Carlo. And I got the proof."
He thrust a stack of papers into my hands.The title page read: "Insufficient Intent: The Secret AFL-NRL Deal Exposed."
The author was indentified as one Barry Winger.
"The evidence is all in there," the man said. "Proof the two major codes are working on a peace deal to divide this country between them and exclude all other sporting codes. This deal goes through, it's the final whistle for any kid who ever dreamed of playing football."
It was an interesting choice of words. For most Aussies, "football" meant rugby league on the north east coast and Australian Rules everywhere else. The World Cup crowds were huge in what was a pretty stunning advance for women's sport, but most filling the stadiums would still be posting to social media about their night at "the soccer".
"Where's Barry now?" I asked.
"In hiding." The man slipped me a card with an address in Carlton.
I sighed. "How will he know he can trust me?"
"The secret code is 'The World Game'". And then he retreated back into the bleakly dark night.
***
Carlton was never a place I was keen to visit, but I had too speak to Winger.
I arrived at the address on the card, a red brick house as fully detached as a Collingwood fan from reality when an umpiring call goes against them.
As I approached the front door, I could hear a TV playing inside. I knocked. No one answered.
A man approached, his face mostly obscured by a yellow and green scarf that had become very familiar. The FIFA Women's World Cup had been underway across country for about a week now and Matildas' fever was running riot.
"I overheard your little talk with him," the man in the Matildas scarf said in an especially nasaly voice that was strangely familiar. "He's lying, Carlo. And I got the proof."
He thrust a stack of papers into my hands.The title page read: "Insufficient Intent: The Secret AFL-NRL Deal Exposed."
The author was indentified as one Barry Winger.
"The evidence is all in there," the man said. "Proof the two major codes are working on a peace deal to divide this country between them and exclude all other sporting codes. This deal goes through, it's the final whistle for any kid who ever dreamed of playing football."
It was an interesting choice of words. For most Aussies, "football" meant rugby league on the north east coast and Australian Rules everywhere else. The World Cup crowds were huge in what was a pretty stunning advance for women's sport, but most filling the stadiums would still be posting to social media about their night at "the soccer".
"Where's Barry now?" I asked.
"In hiding." The man slipped me a card with an address in Carlton.
I sighed. "How will he know he can trust me?"
"The secret code is 'The World Game'". And then he retreated back into the bleakly dark night.
***
Carlton was never a place I was keen to visit, but I had too speak to Winger.
I arrived at the address on the card, a red brick house as fully detached as a Collingwood fan from reality when an umpiring call goes against them.
As I approached the front door, I could hear a TV playing inside. I knocked. No one answered.
Something didn't feel right.
I went around the back and when no one answered my calls, I threw a rock at a window with the accuracy of Joe Daniher 10 metres out straight in front. It bounced harmlessly off a nearby tree.
Realising the door was actually unlocked, I walked in and followed the noise to the living room.
Barry Winger was on the coach. He didn't get up. The bullethole in his head told me he'd permanently retired and it didn't look voluntary. Someone had given him the tap on the shoulder.
I realised it wasn't a TV he was watching but a laptop on the coffee table. It showed a YouTube playlist of Sam Kerr goals. One backflip celebration after another.
What was a hardbitten AFL journo doing watching clips from the round ball game?
I went around the back and when no one answered my calls, I threw a rock at a window with the accuracy of Joe Daniher 10 metres out straight in front. It bounced harmlessly off a nearby tree.
Realising the door was actually unlocked, I walked in and followed the noise to the living room.
Barry Winger was on the coach. He didn't get up. The bullethole in his head told me he'd permanently retired and it didn't look voluntary. Someone had given him the tap on the shoulder.
I realised it wasn't a TV he was watching but a laptop on the coffee table. It showed a YouTube playlist of Sam Kerr goals. One backflip celebration after another.
What was a hardbitten AFL journo doing watching clips from the round ball game?
Suddenly a clip cut to a studio when a man in a Matildas scarf was speaking about the social signficance of the Matildas' success. In a particularly nasally voice.
Craig Foster, the former Soceroo, football commentor and famed human rights activist. The man who had approached me in the car park. He had been working with Winger to reveal the truth, but now the AFL had successfully shut down Foster's star recruit.
I had to get out of there. To find one dead body may be regarded as a misfortune, to find two invites unwanted speculation. I jumped in my sterotypical old bomb and hit the pedal. Like the Geelong Cats, it was old yet somehow kept performing.
An hour later, far from Carlton, I sat safely in a pub going over Winger's report.
Winger revealed a shocking conspiracy. Despite their public rivalry, the NRL and AFL were actually far more worried about the threat to their monopolies by the rise of what the likes of Craig Foster call "the world game".
About a decade ago, the A-League started attracting large, impassioned crowds, threatening to challenge the two traditional codes' dominance. In response, Winger wrote, the AFL and NRL secretly organised a take over of the competition to destroy it from within.
All of a sudden, the A-League's seemingly endless and mindboggling string of own goals started making sense. Only true enemies of the sport could fuck things up so spectacularly.
Winger had uncovered irrefutable evidence of the AFL-NRL plot to use their dominant market share, media access and influence over governments to lock out all other codes. The game the vast majority of the world calls football was to be relegated back to near joke status in this country.
It was all going swimmingly, with A-League crowds collapsing and the game turning on itself and its fans in a doomed bid to appease a hostile media. But the World Cup and enthusiasim for the Matiladas was threatening to upset this cozy agreement. Then some upstart footy journo had started posting tweets suggesting he may have uncovered the truth.
No wonder he had to die.
Well, they may have subbed Winger out of the game but I had his explosive report. It was time to apply a bit of scoreboard pressure.
***
AFL House looked a lot different in the cold light of day. It seemed smaller and largely lifeless.
I found McLachlan behind his desk. On his office walls were book shelves filled with an endless array of footy player autobiographies. I wondered if the AFL CEO had ever read a single ghost-written line.
"Carlo!", he said with a thin smile as he leant back in is chair. "So nice to see you again."
He sounded as sincere as an AFL club insisting they don't tolerate racism in the face of strong allegations to the contrary from their non-white players.
"I have the report," I said. "Peace with rugby league! All your talk of fighting Evil and standing up to Barbarism! You probably signed it over a few XXXX Golds!"
I could feel my disgust rising, but I tried focus. "You had better do exactly what I say or every major media outlet in the world gets a copy of this report. The truth will blare out as loud as those annyoing songs they play at GWS games after they kick a goal."
"I've always hated those songs." All humour had drained from his face, though his hair remained immaculate. "And what is it that you actually want?"
I had thought about this. As I saw it, each code should be as free as any other to provide for fans and seek to win new ones. Everyone had the inalienable right to have their heart broken repeatedly in soul destroying fashion in the sport of their choosing. I saw no reason to see that denied by some private-schooled born-to-rule twerp who spent more on hair products in a week than the average AFLW player earned in a season.
"I want the deal you signed with the enemy torn up. And your resignation. For real this time."
He nodded, looking defeated. I'd seen more hope in the eyes of a St Kilda fan.
He nodded, looking defeated. I'd seen more hope in the eyes of a St Kilda fan.
I added: "And an end to the AFL's conspiracy against Essendon that's denying us the success we so richly deserve."
He burst out laughing, humour well restored. Five minutes later, he finally brought it under control. He shook his head and looked at me with what seemed like genuine pity. "My friend, no one needs a conspiracy to hold the Essendon Football Club down. That heady mix of hubris and incompetence is entirely self-imposed."
I narrowed my eyes. "You kill the NRL deal and walk away, I shred the report and the issue of Barry Winger's demise never need be sent to the tribunal."
I turned to leave, then a thought struck me. "Who actually killed that Carlton-supporting insurance manager anway? And why?"
For a second, McLachlan looked genuinely baffled. Then he shrugged: "No idea, but who cares? A Blues supporter will hardly be missed."
I smiled as I walked out the door. That was the first sensible thing he'd said in quite some time.
Speaking of time, the Essendon game was starting soon and I hadn't watched them lose in an entire week. I headed to the nearest pub. There are some things you don't do sober.
He burst out laughing, humour well restored. Five minutes later, he finally brought it under control. He shook his head and looked at me with what seemed like genuine pity. "My friend, no one needs a conspiracy to hold the Essendon Football Club down. That heady mix of hubris and incompetence is entirely self-imposed."
I narrowed my eyes. "You kill the NRL deal and walk away, I shred the report and the issue of Barry Winger's demise never need be sent to the tribunal."
I turned to leave, then a thought struck me. "Who actually killed that Carlton-supporting insurance manager anway? And why?"
For a second, McLachlan looked genuinely baffled. Then he shrugged: "No idea, but who cares? A Blues supporter will hardly be missed."
I smiled as I walked out the door. That was the first sensible thing he'd said in quite some time.
Speaking of time, the Essendon game was starting soon and I hadn't watched them lose in an entire week. I headed to the nearest pub. There are some things you don't do sober.
