The AFL chief executive, Andrew Dillon, would have to rank among the most wooden media performers I have seen or heard. Many in the industry speak highly of him and his ability to distil and diffuse, the sort of operator every leader wants by their side. But he is no frontman. Last week he did the radio rounds justifying the latest executive shakeup. As always, it sounded like he was reading off well-thumbed, suggested speaking notes. Look, he droned; crowds, ratings and revenue are all up – we’re doing so much right!
It was an AI response to a very human sport. The best of Australian rules football can’t be explained in media releases, or in org charts, or in SEN Fireball Friday hot takes. The best of this sport can be found at the grassroots level, or on hall of fame night, or in thousands of little moments around the country each weekend.
One of those occurred late on Saturday afternoon, in front of bugger all people, in a part of the country where footy hasn’t yet taken hold. The best of the sport was probably the worst moment of Callan Ward’s career. The GWS Giants inaugural co-captain lay on a massage table, sobbing. Lachie Whitfield, a teammate of 13 years, crouched down to Ward’s level, hugged him and kissed him on the cheek. Sentimental slop, you may say, and it is to a degree. But in an industry of grind and grift, it was a tender, human moment that said a lot about both the injured player and his club.
When Ward first went to Greater Western Sydney, some saw him as a traitor. He had grown up in Melbourne’s inner west, the son of a man who played VFA for Yarraville and the grandson of a former South Melbourne captain. He was booed by Western Bulldogs supporters when he was still playing for them. The Herald Sun devoted its front page to the story, under the headline “Money Rules”, with a photo of Ward’s mother Kerri and his three sisters holding a framed photo of their brother in action for the Bulldogs. Don’t blame Callan, his mum said. Blame the AFL. “The days of the one-club player are really dying out, particularly when you have clubs being set up like this where they come along and offer ludicrous amounts of money to play football.”
Inspirational.
— AFL (@AFL) May 31, 2025
Despite his injury, Cal Ward fires up his team before the final term.#AFLGiantsTigers pic.twitter.com/C4hJdIsbkW
But Ward was no cheque collector, no mercenary and no flight risk. There was a swagger, a competitiveness and a camaraderie at the Giants that was distinct from what the Gold Coast cultivated. No one personified that refusal to yield more than Ward. Even when they were being trounced by 20 goals, they’d be mouthing off, putting their heads over the ball, and rallying around one another. Yes, plenty of players left to return to their home state, but they never had the player drain of the Suns, especially among their leaders.
There were a lot of flashy, preternaturally talented players on that list. But Ward was a proper footballer. He didn’t do many interviews, didn’t rant or rave, and was a completely different personality to his co-captain Phil Davis. But he was the sort of leader people were drawn to and rallied around. He was rarely out of the top half dozen players. He was a reliable big game performer. He excelled in the often brutal Sydney derbies. But there was more to his game than a headfirst bulldozer. Martial artists often speak of “heavy hips and light feet” and Ward had the ability to get down low, to evenly distribute his weight over the ball, and accelerate out of a stoppage.
Ward has had some rotten luck. He played in five losing preliminary finals, and several of them could have gone either way. In the 2016 preliminary final, one of the best games of this era, his head collided with Zaine Cordy’s knee and he was left twitching on the turf. He wrecked his knee early in the 2019 season, the only year the Giants have played off in a grand final. Late in last year’s qualifying final, another classic, he charged through a stoppage, split a pair of Swans and banana kicked a goal to put them up by two majors. But the Giants lost that game and coughed up a seven-goal lead to eventual premiers Brisbane a week later, putting Ward’s retirement plans on hold. He’s been a remote footballer this year, living in separate states to his wife and his three gloriously named sons, Romeo, Ralfie, and Rex.
There have been better and more talented footballers than Callan Ward. There have been footballers with more accolades, blazers, votes and medallions. There have been footballers who racked up bigger numbers, who looked better on a stats sheet. But there aren’t many footballers who’ve been more admired, or meant more to a single club. His injury and his three-quarter time address summed up everything that is hard and wonderful and meaningful about the sport. They were moments where football spoke for itself, where nothing needed to be defended, or sold, or spun.
