To the Melbourne individuals who have spoken out, what you are doing is beyond brave.

You are lining up against the biggest business in town, and a culture that has eons of power and grift etched into its sinews and testosterone, which then wrap around itself as a protective shield when trouble comes calling. And calling it does, because it knows it can.

As a post-menopausal woman sitting in an AFL state, I’m not just tired of the “buyer’s remorse” and doubling down vomit from former players still given air-time to throw shade on alleged victims, I’m apoplectic.

Only this month I’ve had to cop Sam Newman behind the mic, starved of attention, wanting to defend another ‘mate’.

It wasn’t even about football. This was to demean women and victim-blame after a Victorian court lifted a three-year suppression order against his Sports Manager mate Ralph Carr, who is now a convicted rapist.

He said she must have had “buyer’s remorse”. Newman then doubled down on social media implying that she shares the blame for going to Carr’s residence and consuming alcohol and drugs.

It’s enough to make you vomit into the back of your throat.

Seriously AFL, “we” have had enough. We’ve also had enough of public statements like, “we’re extremely shocked and disappointed that this has taken place and that the players have found themselves in this situation.”

Found themselves in this situation? The players “found” themselves there? Like, were they meditating or something?

Now, before there’s a pile on, saying “they were groupies gagging for it”, or something worse, hold on.

This can and does happen to anyone.

While we are yet to hear the details of the latest allegations, it has unfortunately raised memories of what happened to me.

You might like

Sponsored

Australia’s escalating biosecurity crisis 

Opinion

Is this the mystery rival taking on Antic in SA Libs leadership war?

In the early 1990s I was a political journalist working in Canberra for the local Nine Network when Laurie Oakes and Peter Harvey ruled the press gallery, and Paul Keating the floor of parliament. They were my idols, along with Yana Wendt. I didn’t know one end of a rugby field from the other, the rules, the teams, and less so, the players.

I knew the diplomats, the foreign affairs officers, and ACT assembly MLAs and MLCs who were quaffing champagne with me under fairy lights at the back of the Canberra Hilton on a Friday night. That’s where the good stories came from.

So, when one of them asked me to go to the British High Commission for a cocktail party, one says “yes”.

At that said cocktail party there were a lot of men in black tie, whom I did not know or necessarily need to know. One of them came up to me with an English accent and asked me to go out, dancing, and I said ‘yes, if I could bring my friends’. Eventually, about 20 of us ended up at Canberra nightclub Bobby McGees having a wow of a time. I remember exactly how my suitor kept asking if I knew who he was, and I said I couldn’t care less: “Did he know who I was?”

That seemed to be quite enticing to said suitor who danced me all the way to my place.

This was Canberra in the winter of 1992, we immediately sat by my heater and proceeded to talk until 6am.

You might like

Sponsored

Australia’s escalating biosecurity crisis 

Opinion

Is this the mystery rival taking on Antic in SA Libs leadership war?

I learned a lot about the star blonde-haired English second-rower who was part of the touring Lions Rugby League team playing an Ashes series against Australia, and I had made him miss training that day.

Remember, this was the age before mobile phones or the internet, so hurriedly, on his way out of my Canberra flat we “exchanged” phone numbers (the old-fashioned way by writing it down on a piece of paper).

Even though I knew the Ashes series was about to kick off officially in Sydney then head to Brisbane, I had this feeling that this wouldn’t be the last time I saw Denis Betts.

Later that day, Denis rings me and invites me to join him in Sydney where he says I can stay with him, and he will get me tickets to sit with the British WAGS to watch the match.

I invite my best friend to join me for the rugby league game, and then she drops me off at the Sebel Sydney Manly Beach, where I believe I’m staying in a room with Denis Betts.

I walk in with my overnight bag and quickly ascertain that there’s another person sharing this room. I’m not happy and have words with Denis. He tells me he’s sorting it out with his roommate and teammate, where he will find alternative lodgings for the evening.

I go to the bar to wait for him while he sorts this.

I’m nervous, surrounded by big beefy English blokes I’ve never met, and when I do meet them (about half dozen), it seems the joke is on me, when they start singing, “you gunna lose that girl (then in reprise) ya, gunna lose that girl” – you get the gist.

I’m only one drink in, but I get it, I’m not the only girl: hmmm

As you do when you’re young. You go with the flow, with a handsome foreigner wooing you on the dance floor like no Aussie ever did.

Then he says, let’s go:

That’s when I discover alabaster translucent skin I’ve never seen or touched and the time of my life I didn’t know existed.

Then the walls came tumbling down. Literally.

4am – and the door to the room nearly caves in from drunk players trying to rugby tackle the door to the ground.

I am not kidding. Someone had a key, so the door was ajar with just the latch holding it, and six blokes on the other side yelling and grunting like they were in a huddle.

I was petrified. Denis flew to the door and put his full weight against it and started yelling at full voice, over and over again – “Nooooooooooooooooo”.

It was at that moment, I knew, if it wasn’t for that stance, I was done for. There was something dark here. Something in the knowing between these players, about women on their own in hotel rooms. I had to think this had been done before. Sharing. Without consent.

Denis Betts protected me in that moment.

He went into battle for me. And it was real.

I curled into a ball, then immediately started to put my clothes on to flee. How could I get away from them all. Through that tiny passage to the door, they were encompassing. How? How?

After much yelling and physicality at the door, pushing and shoving that seemed to go on and on, there was quiet talking, things suddenly calmed down and Denis gently walked back in the room, the heat was out of the moment, breathe Kelly, breathe … then, I realised someone else was therein the darkness.

I froze.

Still huddled like a frightened rabbit in the corner of the room, Denis approached me gingerly and said, “it’s okay, there’s nowhere for my roomie to sleep. He will sleep on the floor. They’ve all gone now. Don’t worry.”

I couldn’t help but worry. Who was the stranger sleeping on the floor? Why didn’t he just sleep in the single bed next to our bed, and pull the covers up?

Because apparently, an hour later, “we weren’t done”.

I kept saying, “no Denis, your mate is right there, he’ll hear us, or see?” To his cries of denial.

I was making it worse, by making a fuss, I thought. Just be quiet. Get it over with. It didn’t happen like that. It started and I wondered if it would ever stop. My embarrassment curdled. My muffled screams, weren’t.

Of course, his mate saw. Of course, his mate heard. It was early enough in that soft morning light that he could look in the mirror facing our bed from his vantage point on the floor and see everything that was happening – again and again.

And this is what I’m saying. It’s a culture and it’s been going on for a long, long time.

No one deserves to be that little rabbit in that room.

I was there with an open mind and an open heart, if I’m absolutely honest about it. You are when you’re young. You think anything can happen. Love at first sight. Chemistry. Blah blah.

I was so love struck by his love making that I put all of the horrible stuff out of my head.

We even went on a date to the Oaks Hotel after breakfast before I had to drive back to Canberra with my girlfriend, with potential plans to see him again in Brisbane for the last test.

And on saying goodbye, as I jumped in the car on the esplanade at Manly, he reached out saying “Oh, I forgot to give you my number, here’s my home phone number”. I leaned out the window and said, no, I don’t need it, you’ve given that to me already, remember?

Of course, that international number rang out, much like my distaste for misogyny in all forms, but by god, I’m fierce about defending those who now have a voice to call it out. It’s about time. And, first, let’s forensically tackle one big breeding ground for it: male dominated sport.

I’m all about naming and shaming. Take down those monikers from hero status football halls in equal measure, not just the brothers.

While true leadership needs to be seen front and centre from all clubs showing empathy towards everyone involved.

After this latest incidence, let’s see if the AFL has “found itself in this situation”, #enough

Kelly Nestor is an SA communications specialist, former TV newsreader and reporter.

1800 RESPECT (1800 737 732)