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Lachie Neale has what boxers call “ring geometry” – an intrinsic, spatial understanding of safe spots and danger zones. He has fast feet that can dance, decelerate and drive out of a stoppage. But all the things that make him such a magnificent footballer – his timing, judgment, diligence and ability to extricate himself from trouble were apparently absent in his private life. A Lions grand final hero in September, he was tabloid fodder by Christmas.
What follows isn’t some sermon from the puritanical pulpit. I’m more interested in the media’s willingness to cross lines they wouldn’t have once dared, and our voracious appetite for these stories. If the mainstream media had pursued these scandals in the 1970s, 80s and 90s, the printing presses would have short-circuited. If our best sportspeople had been at the mercy of the British press in that same era, their careers would have gone the way of their marriages.
There were exceptions, of course. The Herald Sun devoted 14 consecutive front pages to the Wayne Carey affair. It was a soap opera, but it was very much a football story too. Carey was never the same player again, and North Melbourne have probably not been the same club since.
The Neale story has unfolded differently. It’s peered into a world where careers, brands, emotions, marriages and entire reasons for being play out on social media. Someone “breaks their silence” every day. There are articles about disgruntled former partners taking the bins out. It wouldn’t be the Australian media if there wasn’t some sort of real estate angle. All that’s missing is the implications for private school fees. Even Brisbane teammate Will Ashcroft, with his leonine mane and two Norm Smith medals, was dragged into the spotlight with news that he had split from his partner. Ashcroft is 21.
It’s not as though there isn’t a market for this stuff. Millions of Australians tune in four nights a week to watch a bunch of self-loathing, fame-hungry strangers pretend to be married. Indeed, so much of the discussion, whether from the media or from old mate at the water cooler, is people saying words to the effect of “I can’t believe we’re still talking about this” and then going on about it unbidden for the next half an hour. Exhibit B is the whole Luke Sayers dick pic saga.
Both are very much stories for our age, where attention spans are shortening, newsrooms are operating on an increasingly thin line, and the personal is public. For media organisations, it’s heaven sent. Why employ an investigative journalist to spend months pursuing a story that actually matters when you can get 100 times the clicks by scrolling Instagram for 10 minutes?
It’s just as confounding for the clubs themselves, who act as their own media arms, and who have never had a tighter hold on who they allow in and what they pump out. At this time of year, they’re selling hope and memberships. Many will wine and dine prominent journalists, imploring them to say and write positive things about the club culture.
But one social media “like” or eyeroll emoji can torpedo the entire media management infrastructure. The reporters writing these stories don’t have to worry about incurring the wrath of clubs and losing access. All they need is an Instagram account and a functioning computer. Indeed, the most intrusive reporting when it comes to footballers is from journalists who aren’t on the AFL beat. We saw it last year when Hawthorn livewire Jack Ginnivan was ambushed at Adelaide airport like he was one of those shonky roof tilers on A Current Affair.
When it comes to bridging this divide between athletes and media, some of the nonsense emanating from clubs and players doesn’t exactly help. It’s especially evident during trade period. Look at some of the interviews conducted by Zach Merrett, his club, his manager and his teammates last year. It was just spin and counter spin. Charlie Curnow’s comments in the same period were just as bad. It was like listening to a real estate agent 48 hours out from an auction.
It’s why, when Neale fronted the media late last year, it was a strangely raw and honest moment. He wasn’t selling anything, and he wasn’t festooned with sponsors logos. He was confronting something very human – something that plays out every day in families, in workplaces, in bars and on apps.
But then he started talking like a footballer who was having a lean patch. He would “do the work”, “put measures in place” and be “the best version of myself”. Here Neale was, the hero of last year’s grand final, a master compartmentaliser, an athlete who can enter and exit a stoppage in a dozen different ways. In this instance, in this era, and in this media environment, there was no escape, and there were no winners, except for those counting the clicks.
