AN OPEN LETTER to DOUBTING THOMAS Chelsea Roffey
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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 play- ers?’ 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 chal- lenges 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 the result of priming 26 FROM THE OUTER 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 ‘neuroen- docrinological 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 under- mines 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, with- out 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 CHELSEA ROFFEY 27 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 inadequa- cies 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 impos- sible, 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 28 FROM THE OUTER was the occasional kick- to- kick with Dad and my two broth- ers. 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 mathemat- ics 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 had 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 roller- coaster 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 CHELSEA ROFFEY 29 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 pro- ceed with extreme caution. In my case, channelling the voice and stern words of a mother brandishing the wooden spoon has been a success- ful 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 knock- ing 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, 30 FROM THE OUTER 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 play- ers treat me like any other ‘white maggot’ out on the field. But being typically clumsy (hormones, again!) can be prob- lematic 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 high- lights 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 ath- lete 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 con- fidence 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 CHELSEA ROFFEY 31 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.