Round #02 - Loyalty
Nasiah Wanganeen-Milera
The poise with ball in hand, the shift of gears, the balance when changing direction, and most sublimely, his decision-making and kicking. Each disposal is a measured statement, an expression of tranquillity amidst the chaos.
The superpowers of the great players are generally apparent to even the most casual observer of our game, because more often than not, they look the part.
Watch any game of football, and your eyes will scan the field and the thirty-six players of varying shapes and sizes, but there is but one type who will halt your gaze.
It will be an archetype, the timeless vision of the gladiatorial athlete, revered for millennia.
So many, however, whilst they look the part, lack whatever intangible the game asks of them, to ever play the part.
Then there are those who will never look the part but certainly play the part.
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There is no more imperfect craft than predicting the future development of a young footballer as they prepare to enter the big league.
Yet it seeks to present as something far more certain, hindsight being a wonderful judge.
Having cut my teeth as a recruiter back in the day, I have a war chest of lessons to share.
One of the most common but least talked about is 'thin-slicing', as described by Malcolm Gladwell in his book Blink.
'Thin-slicing' allows for fast decision-making, particularly when there is no time to weigh up all available evidence. It favours intuition, looks for familiar patterns, and filters out what might be considered the superficial, but it can also play to our biases and stereotypes.
The lesson? Velocity is never the answer for complexity.
Judging human potential is nothing if not nuanced and complex, and we need to give ourselves much more than a ‘thin-slice’ from which to make such high-stakes decisions.
As Billy Beane famously said in Moneyball, "We're not selling jeans here."
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All of this comes to mind as I watch Nasiah Wanganeen-Milera glide across Marvel Stadium in a match-winning performance against Premiership fancies, Geelong.
In a matter of weeks, he has become the most talked-about player in the game.
All the talk now is ‘will he stay or will he go’, whereas when he was drafted a few years ago, it was ‘should he have been or shouldn’t he have been’.
When nominated with the 11th selection in the 2021 National Draft, the Saints were judged harshly in some quarters for taking a player from outside Victoria with his physical make-up, ahead of a local player who better fit the 'archetype'.
Weighing in at around 70kg wringing wet, Nas, as he is now universally known, would have failed the archetypal ‘thin-slicing’ test despite his many gifts.
He has proven to be the wisest of choices.
The poise with ball in hand, the shift of gears, the balance when changing direction, and most sublimely, his decision-making and kicking.
Each disposal is a measured statement, an expression of tranquillity amidst the chaos.
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For Saints supporters, the anxiety is palpable. Having watched this elegant youngster emerge from draft prospect to special talent, they've already invested their hearts.
Each precision kick, each moment of composure under pressure, becomes both a joy and a worry – the better he plays, the more they fear losing him. Supporters understand the business of football, but their connection to players transcends contracts and negotiations. It's personal, emotional, and impossible to quantify.
The South Australian product has emerged as the heartbeat of a rebuilding side. What he brings as a player is an anchor point for coach Ross Lyon's blueprint. But as contract discussions inevitably intensify, the whispers grow louder about eight-year deals being prepared back in his home state of South Australia.
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The modern conversation around loyalty in football, like so many, can often become binary and brutal. Stay, and you're a hero; leave, and you're a villain.
As with recruiting decisions, it is far more nuanced from the club's perspective and, of course, the player's.
Sport Performance Psychologist Dr Michael Gervais describes it as the sport's ‘invisible handshake'. As much as we seek to create all of the conditions for connection and belonging, there is an intrinsic understanding, whilst mostly unspoken, that the relationship is conditional on your capacity to bring a performance value to the team.
Loyalty can also be weaponised by clubs, a form of guilt-tripping someone into staying, potentially leading them to make a choice that is not in their best interests.
While the game seems to be growing beyond this approach at the administrative level, with more sophisticated list-management strategies, the remnants still linger in supporter culture. The booing of ex-players, even those who left at the club's behest, bears witness to this reality.
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Watching Nas, my mind drifts back to two players who carried this same contradictory grace – Melbourne's Robert Flower and the Western Bulldogs' Bob Murphy.
The x-factor of players such as Flower, Murphy, and now Wanganeen-Milera is subtle, almost inferred. They make subtlety their competitive advantage. Micro movements, both instinctive and studied, bewilder opposition players, somehow finding themselves in space, not just small spaces; it is like they have their own football and the ground to themselves.
For the Melbourne supporters of his era, Robert Flower was more than just their best player – he was their reason to believe. "At least we've got Robbie Flower" became the consolation as they left the MCG after suffering another loss during the club's most forlorn period. For the best part of 15 years, he was almost the only reason Melbourne supporters would go to the football.
I know Bob Murphy gets embarrassed by the comparison with Robbie Flower, but it was certainly there. It was more than their respective builds, slight frames never limiting impact, both with the capacity to change the natural order of the game with playmaking and a poet's sensibility.
When I asked Robbie Flower years ago why he never left Melbourne during their darkest period, his answer was disarmingly simple: "I always believed that one day we would get it right, and I couldn't live with myself if I wasn't a part of it."
Despite winning just 30% of his games across fifteen seasons, his belief in what could be never wavered. The Melbourne Football Club wasn't just where he played, it was where he belonged.
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For Nas, this crossroad approaches far earlier in his career. At just 22, with his potential still largely untapped, the decision carries a different weight. His relationship with St Kilda is still being written, still finding its shape.
Bob Murphy once wrote, "Loyalty in sport isn't dead, just a little misrepresented. It's not blind loyalty. Too much is at stake. The loyalty I've known in footy is a relationship – there must be an exchange of effort and goodwill."
This is what often gets lost in the conversation. Loyalty isn't simply staying put, it's the ongoing commitment to what's possible when people believe in each other.
Within a team, loyalty manifests through mutual growth, shared struggles, and collective development. The strongest teams understand that each player's evolution contributes to the whole, creating a culture where individual decisions are respected when made authentically.
Sometimes, the highest form of loyalty is to your own growth path, to becoming the player and person you're capable of being, knowing that your development, wherever it occurs, ultimately serves the game and the teammates who've shaped your journey.
For the young Saint with the silken skills, the road ahead should offer few wrong turns, only different possibilities.
In a game that honours both tradition and evolution, perhaps this is loyalty's truest expression, the honest pursuit of potential, wherever that leads.
Play on!
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