Andrew Demetriou was at the vet, tending to his injured cat, when he phoned Gil McLachlan to congratulate him on becoming the new AFL CEO. They were two very different men. Demetriou came from humble stock. He was an old school bruiser. As the Essendon supplements scandal dragged on, he was increasingly irascible, and arguably out of his depth. His replacement would be more conciliatory, and a cooler head. Yes, he came from the polo set. But he understood grassroots football. He was willing to consult and listen. A canny negotiator, he was just the man to secure a monumental TV rights deal.
No one barracks for the AFL. They’re all too easy to bag, and to blame. Sometimes, we seem to expect more of them than our own elected officials. They’re invariably on a hiding to nothing. McLachlan certainly made his share of mistakes. He said as much at Tuesday’s press conference. He completely shilly-shallied throughout the Adam Goodes affair. On his watch, the AFL has had a desultory attitude to Tasmanian football. They continue to throw obscene amounts of money at the Gold Coast Suns. They still don’t seem completely sure of what do to with their women’s competition. And underpinning everything is the sense that the sport has been handed over to the host broadcasters. Indeed, at the announcement of the 2015 broadcast deal, on the same day James Hird was sacked as Essendon coach, McLachlan was flanked by Rupert Murdoch and Kerry Stokes. The AFL was now groaning with money. But at what cost?
To his credit, however, McLachlan worked hard to ensure football remained accessible to the average punter. Unlike his predecessor, he was always willing to engage with fans, to listen to their concerns and to make changes where necessary. He was always good at reading which way the wind was blowing. He would have been a fine politician. There was something disarming about him. He’d amble on to a show like AFL 360, field questions from a hyperventilating Mark Robinson, and be calm, coherent, and perfectly reasonable. Despite McLachlan’s corporate mumbo jumbo, the game was always foremost in his thinking. It’s why he baulked at the chance to become the CEO of the NRL. It would have been a chore. His heart lay with football. When he touched on that on Tuesday, his big eyes teared up.
When league chair Richard Goyder was asked what McLachlan’s biggest asset was, he answered: “His ability to see around corners.” When you’re running a football competition, you really don’t know what any given day will bring. One minute you’re negotiating with Rupert Murdoch, and the next minute a player has set fire to the hired entertainment on Mad Monday. McLachlan took it all in his stride. But the way he responded to the pandemic will be his greatest legacy. The AFL’s ability to duck and weave, to keep Covid at arm’s length, to upend an entire competition at an hour’s notice, and to somehow produce a half-decent product, was remarkable. Adhering to Covid protocols, finding sterile corridors, chartering flights at $100,000 a pop, and whisking compromised players out as they warmed up – they did it all.
But it took a toll. In 2020, he announced widespread job losses. All his staff gathered via webchat and the CEO addressed them from the front seat of his car. In the Gold Coast hub, a day after Richmond was embroiled in a kebab scandal, McLachlan had to give the various club leaders an almighty serve about the lack of adherence to Covid protocols. There were too many selfies, too much lounging by the pool, too much time at the bar. He was working 18-hour days, and the whole thing had worn him down.
Indeed, he looked like a tired man on Tuesday. He was teary. He raced through his prepared statement. And he still has lots on his plate. He has collective bargaining agreements to negotiate with both the men and women. There’s another broadcast deal looming. Hopefully there’s some sort of resolution on a new Tasmanian team.
When all that is done, Gil McLachlan will take a back seat. It’s reasonable to assume that life won’t be overly arduous. He’ll bob up at amateur football games at Melbourne University, with its white picket fenced oval. He’ll perch down on the fence, with his form guide and his pie, and his kids at his feet. When all the deals are done, and all the suits have left the building, the game itself is all that matters. McLachlan always understood that. It’s what brought him to tears as he announced his impending departure. Australian rules football, for all its faults, trifles and Faustian bargains, is still healthy, and he deserves credit for nurturing and protecting it.
