Ken Hinkley was in his element. He was in the Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens, flicking the journos to third man and fine leg. He already sounded like a local. He was already trafficking in the “we”, in the “us against the mainland”, in the “ich bin Tasmanian”. His handover at Port Adelaide had been so scripted, so corporate, so Koschy. He had impressed, and probably burnished his coaching credentials, during his brief stint in the media. But he always seemed raring to get back into the real stuff.
To understand why Hinkley was chosen as Tasmania’s first coach, it’s worth looking at the men who missed out. Nathan Buckley was the firm early favourite, but perhaps lacked the ability to be a salesman, to charm the birds from the trees, to “spruik the gospel” as Devils CEO Brendon Gale says. John Longmire has taken a team to five grand finals, but has a cushy role at the Sydney Swans, and seems more relaxed than he has in two decades. Both Buckley and Hinkley always seemed more prepared to upend their lives, to move to the island, and to start a team from scratch.
The announcement felt like a love-in this week. We heard dozens of times what a father figure and master connecter he is, none of which can be disputed. But his coaching has been a source of contention over the years, and not just from Port supporters waving placards. When he was hired, the club was in disarray, and the team had won eight of its past 44. Hinkley made them relevant and watchable again. He won nearly 60% of his games at Port Adelaide. He convinced a lot of them that they were better footballers than they actually were. But he never quite reached the mountaintop – partly because of his own rigidity, partly due to forces beyond his control. His teams were always lacking something – an ounce of luck, another key defender or forward, a more flexible gameplan. In big games, there was always a Clarkson, a Hardwick or a Beveridge standing in their way – a cannily coached team able to pick holes and pinpoint weaknesses.
Hinkley was a gloriously attacking footballer and the quintessential Malcolm Blight player – to hell with your opponent, back your instincts and your talent. And the wild spirit of Blight coursed through his coaching veins, sometimes to his detriment in big games. They pressed high, they played on emotion, and they were an easy team to scout. The closest they came was a nerve-shredding, rain-drenched, low-scoring preliminary final loss to Richmond in 2020. They went in as warm favourites against the Western Bulldogs the following year, but were torpedoed in the opening 10 minutes.
None of that disqualified Hinkley from the Tasmania job. The role demanded someone who could win over the locals, which he did in about 20 minutes. It demanded someone who could foster a siege mentality, an edge that the Gold Coast Suns never had and still don’t have. And it demanded someone who could connect with young footballers – who could identify them, nurture them and retain them. It demanded someone who could sell them a story and a purpose. Not only that, it demanded someone who could sell the same story to managers, to parents, to partners and to an entire island. And Hinkley is a very persuasive man in that regard.
When Hinkley told Blight that he wanted to be a coach, his former mentor told him to take on the worst country team he could find, to see if he really had the passion. This job is a far cry from that. He’ll get a lot of generous draft concessions and he’ll be coaching in a state where football matters. But it won’t be an easy role. The training and administration centre will not be built when the 2028 preseason starts. Tasmanian politics is unpredictable and indecipherable. Considerable uncertainty remains around the stadium, the roof, the economic climate, and the capacity of the state to actually pay for it.
When it comes to senior coaches, it’s a buyer’s market right now. Three former premiership coaches are available. There’s also Buckley, who took his team to a grand final and a preliminary final. There’s a strong pool of assistants who have been in the mix for other roles. And there’s James Hird, who’s in an entire category of his own. Each club is looking for something different. Essendon wants an Essendon person. Carlton wants to avoid the mistakes of the past. Richmond and North Melbourne may eventually want someone who can build on the drudge work of the rebuild.
Tasmania wanted something else altogether. “I’m a football coach,” Hinkley told Gale when they first met. “I don’t know too much else.” He was selling himself short there, and both of them knew it. This role demands much more than being a football coach, which is precisely why Hinkley was a right man for the job.
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