Whistleblower leaks the catastrophe plan

THE golden retriever's ears pricked. She lifted her head, looked at the door and began a frightened bark.

As she cautiously approached the front door a black paper file appeared on the floor. It had been slipped under the door. The retriever urinated in fright. So did her owner.

Then the early morning fell silent again but for the faint sound of retreating footsteps. To a trained AFL ear it sounded like an umpire, the distinctive rhythm of feet running backwards unmistakable.

The noise of a whistle and a 50m penalty awarded against the next door neighbour for pushing his rubbish bin over the mark confirmed it. There was the screech of spinning wheels as the little ambulance truck from the MCG signalled the umpire's getaway. In another 40 minutes he had reached the end of the street.

The file was marked top secret, highly confidential and to whom it may concern. There was little doubt this had come from the AFL inner sanctum, a raw, sensitive document that might unlock what Andrew Demetriou and his staff had in mind for the future.

Slowly we splashed our way to the door and picked up the file. Folding back the cover, the body chilled and the retriever urinated again. Inside the file were documents that detailed the agenda for the AFL executive and club chief executives meeting set down for tomorrow. Initially it appeared to be written in a baffling code that, if broken, promised to expose the AFL's grand plan.

It was damn clever stuff and only after we realised we were holding the documents upside down did it begin to make some sort of sense.

It appeared most of the day would be taken up with discussion about the Gold Coast and west Sydney franchises. The CEOs would be asked did they want a 17th team to start on its own or would it be better to start the 17th and 18th teams at the same time.

Given that nobody knows how any of the teams will be established, manned or funded it seemed impossible to make a considered judgment on the timing of the licences. This has never stopped the CEOs before.

Further down the agenda and the real, horrifying reason for tomorrow's meeting became clear. Under a heading that read AFL issues and marked as the last three items for discussion were the explosive topics that threatened to wipe away forever the AFL's image of a sporting code under control.

First item: Update on Personal Conduct Policy.

Second item: Responsible use of Alcohol.

Then the sure sign that the AFL expected neither the code of conduct nor the alcohol policy to have any effect.

Third item: Player Catastrophe Management Plan.

Trembling with fear and faint from the smell of urine, we decided this was too big a story to waste a moment. We rang the AFL and asked to speak to Colin McLeod, the league's general manager, marketing, communications and public affairs.

McLeod answered promptly and we exchanged pleasantries. Then we said it: "Colin, what is the Player Catastrophe Management Plan?" Silence. A long eerie silence.

Eventually McLeod spoke, no, whispered: "Dear God, how do you know about that? Who told you?" He was barely audible.

Naturally, we said he would never get that information from us. We would rather go to jail than reveal our sources. He offered two grand final tickets and we offered an umpire driving the little MCG ambulance. Then in the background we could hear a familiar whirring sound. McLeod had activated the cone of silence.

The whirring continued until we heard a plea for help, a horrible scream followed by a squashing sound and the unmistakable clatter of a desk being crushed into 1000 pieces. Damned cone of silence. He had been a good man, McLeod.

Panicked and terrified, we then rang Brian Walsh, manager of corporate affairs. Again the pleasantries. Again the silence when we asked about the catastrophe plan. Finally: "Can't talk over the phone," said Walsh. "Come to the office now."

Less than an hour later we were in AFL House. As we walked towards reception a voice whispered "over here".

It was Walsh, hidden behind a pillar and dressed in a long black overcoat, black gloves and a black felt hat. "Follow me," he said in a heavy, contrived German accent. He was fooling no one. Not even with the goose step.

We walked past three or four meeting rooms - they were all named after great AFL administrators including Allen Aylett and Jack Hamilton. Then Walsh pushed open a door and pulled us in. It was the Max Mosley Room.

"He used it during the Grand Prix," Walsh explained. A series of chains hung from the ceiling and walls. Whips, handcuffs, face masks littered the floor. Six young women in nuns' habits and wearing high heels pleased themselves in the corner of the room. "Where's Max?" one of them asked. "He's tied up," said another.

Walsh, his German accent becoming more guttural, said the Player Catastrophe Management Plan was not a fallback position if the code of conduct and drink policy failed.

"Nothing to do with that. It is what the AFL would do if a club lost players in an accident or a plane crash. It's the logistics of how we get players into that club to cover for the losses. We don't want to talk about it because it is all a bit ghoulish," he said.

He stopped talking momentarily as his tongue was caught on the sharp corner of his black face mask. "Ithmm theeling theth trufth," he repeated.

We didn't believe him. We grabbed a whip and lashed him with it. "Oh, ffthank you," he said.

It was only when we told him we would recommend him for the West Coast public relations job that he weakened. He ripped off the mask. "All right, all right. You win," he screamed. "The Player Catastrophe Management Plan has got nothing to do with cars or plane crashes. It is the Melbourne Football Club's play book."