The annual event at Yuendumu, in the Northern Territory, used to be a gathering of the clans, featuring dance, spear-throwing, corroboree and other ceremonies. Now it’s a sports carnival, with Aussie Rules, softball for the women, athletics for the kids, and a bit of didge and spear-throwing as a nod to the old ways.

Yuendumu and its surrounds are typical of communities from Gippsland to the Kimberley, Perth to Torres Strait. The youth are less interested now in the rituals of the elders. The European value system that now attempts to preserve their lifestyle also places little value on the respect for the aged – especially men – and their ways that was once a cornerstone of indigenous society. “Assimilation and removal,” says Brian McCallum, police sergeant with years of experience in indigenous communities, “have removed that respect line that was always there between the youngsters and the elders.”

Without the old ways, meaningful communication has disintegrated. The Garnduwa (“coming together”) sports carnival in the Kimberley was invented in acknowledgment of this development. Like it or not, sport has replaced many of the old reasons to get together.

This situation has its paradoxes. Advances – in sport and other areas – have been paralleled by unprecedented social breakdown. As the old way of life has disappeared, to be replaced by passive, dependent welfare and its accompanying woes, sport has presented itself as an entree to the full range of social opportunities. Key people now recognise its potential.

If the encroachment of sport upon Aboriginal society is irresistible, the best thing to do is to help Aboriginal kids grow where they’re planted. But to replace reasons for existing – is this too much to ask of sport? According to many close to the matter, it is not. Instead, it’s a doorway to every other reason for existing. Sport equals survival. The Australian Sports Commission is in no doubt about that. It formed the Indigenous Sports Program as a direct result of the Aboriginal Deaths In Custody Inquiry.

“I was a pretty troubled 16-year-old,” says Chris White of the Brisbane Lions. “There were two roads for me: Boggo Road (Queensland’s infamous gaol) or standing in the middle of the Gabba looking forward to a milestone game. I’m proud it’s the latter.”

Cheryl Kickett Tucker, former Perth Breakers basketball player and PhD student, has discovered in her research that sport “boosts self-esteem and encourages co-operation in Aboriginal children.” Gatjil Djerrkura, an Aboriginal leader, believes it has an even loftier role: “There are many attempts to create division in our society . . . on native title and other issues, but sport has shown it breaks down the barriers and divisions.”

The founder and organiser of ARMtours, which brings top sportspeople such as Lauren Burns, Chris Anstey and Tim Forsyth to communities, is John Van Groningan. “Sport’s a major focus for mainstream society and helps promote healthy lifestyle messages like diet, fitness, staying off grog and petrol sniffing. It’s a natural platform from which to spread these messages.”

Many sporting heroes now go to the communities, some under their own steam (Nathan Blacklock returns to Tingha regularly to put something back into the small community), and others as part of a program such as the Rio-Tinto-AFL “Kickstart”. Often, they are not Aboriginal, nor do they need to be for this type of program. In the Northern Territory in 1999, I spoke to quite a few Aboriginal kids in Darwin, Oenpelli and outstations in Arnhem Land. Kids were just as keen to talk about “King” Carey and “God” Ablett (they corrected me if I used the given names, as though the nicknames were bestowed from a higher source), as Long and Pickett.

Aboriginal role-modelling works best – if Michael Long says to kids they need to have a healthy lifestyle, they want to lead a healthy lifestyle. But neither the ARMtours nor Kickstart are designed to give support at the elite level.

 The strength of Aboriginal communities is their weakness. Aboriginal kids play sport because they love it. No visions of fame and fortune motivate them, but social problems await them when they get home, and don’t leave them when they reach the top level – if circumstances allow them to get that far.

Many realise now that more robust processes are needed, at the top club level and in local competitions. The Indigenous Sport Foundation’s forum addressed issues that any non-Aboriginal AFL player is equipped to deal with as a matter of course. But the cultural context of Aboriginal footballers makes even these issues so tricky that many have decided it’s all too hard.

Says Carlton great Syd Jackson: “You’ve got the problems players all face today: the red light areas, being patted on the back all the time, alcohol problems, keeping the family away because they’re professional now, and how to handle money.”

Aboriginal players don’t take the same things for granted as white players when they enter the world of AFL. “Some of the rights and responsibilities mentioned at that camp have been part of the players’ agreement for ten years,” says Jackson, yet many Aboriginal players have not known of them. They enter the game the same way anyone else does, but their experience leads them to take quite different things for granted. According to Jackson, clubs aren’t racist, but culturally ignorant. “It’s been frustrating clubs and committees for years.” Furthermore, non-Aboriginal players have a ready-made world to walk back into when they retire.

According to Bev Knight, the Essendon Director responsible for bringing Michael Long to Essendon and Richard Cole to Collingwood, “The ones who have made it are special. You have no idea what it takes to get to that level. They’re exceptional to start with.”

Knight discovered a young, talented and explosive Michael Long at a grand final in Darwin as she sat on the bonnet of her car sipping VB. It wasn’t until the mid-1990s that his transformation into the Long we know today – family man, hero, mentor, superstar – became complete. “The AFL deserves credit. With racial vilification, they were up to here, but they dealt with it. Not that they’re getting everything right, but they’re doing everything they can to encourage Aboriginal sportspeople.” Knight believes the process won’t be complete until we see Aboriginal men and women as administrators and decision-makers. “What an Aboriginal person wants to see when they go into a club is an Aboriginal person at the computer, or doing something else, not just out on the ground kicking a ball, or working in an indigenous office.”

Essendon is in the vanguard thanks mainly to the individual efforts of people like Knight and Kevin Sheedy. The cross-cultural awareness sessions now being held at all levels shows that the AFL and the Players’ Association see the need for more clubs to follow the Dons’ lead. The Players’ Association has taken the cross-cultural awareness issue further, engaging speakers to inform to players about the deeper implications of racist abuse.

The Chairman’s Program is a link between Collingwood and ATSIC, with players visiting communities and role-modelling. But, as Eddie McGuire told Bev Knight the day a proud Richard Cole got his Collingwood jumper, even three years ago it was unlikely to happen at Victoria Park.

West Coast and Fremantle have long worked at drawing and supporting the local Aboriginal population, as have the North Queensland Cowboys in rugby league.

Some sporting clubs have always been more enlightened than others. Nicky Winmar and Sean Charles’ family concerns dragged them down, and the “culture” at St Kilda did little to help either. Compare this to Essendon’s handling of the most recent Dean Rioli disappearance, this time after a split from his partner. Once, this would have spelt the end of his AFL career. The Bombers managed to make him want to come back. But Essendon are experienced. “When you go into the rooms,” says Knight, “black people aren’t strangers. There’s always someone visiting. Kevin welcomes Aboriginal kids.”

“Sheedy’s looked at the Longs of this world and thought, ‘If I’m going to deal with them, I need to know more’.” Says Sergeant McCallum: “He’s spent time living in Darwin with Long’s family. If you really want to understand them, you’ve got to sit down with them.”

The Dons have had their share of peculiarly “indigenous” troubles but, according to Godwell, “Sheedy’s figured that the best way to help make the transition is to get three or four together, fabricate a peer group and a community around them.” Michael Long has played an important role in Rioli’s life, retrieving him from Melville Island, and sharing his house with him during that traumatic rookie year.

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When it comes to Aboriginal recruitment, NRL outstrips AFL. But Godwell believes the NRL takes the advantages it has in the area of indigenous participation for granted, and will neglect them “at its peril.”

David Liddiard, former Parramatta, Penrith and Manly player, founded the National Aboriginal Sports Corporation Australia. They run three programs: netball, golf (“Hunt For A New Tiger”) and rugby league (“We Will Find You”). The backer, Lend Lease, loved the concept, but believed there had to be a message of life after sport, “because after they finish, they’re just as bad off as when they started. We want to achieve outcomes, not just go to a community, kick a football, sign an autograph and leave. We go back time and time again; to have a relationship with the community; to get their trust. We run development camps and identify talented athletes. Once we’ve got hold of them, we run different programs, and if they get scholarships or whatever, we can feed them into clubs and the mainstream.”

Liddiard has worked with the communities and families of Dean Withers, Lee Hookey and Willie Gordon. “In our golf program, we had a fella from Darlington Point. The manager of the club in Bowral thought this kid had potential. He could hit a ball 300 yards. We worked for six months with his community. Now he’s doing his PGA traineeship. It’s a lot of work, but you get great results. Trust is important to Aboriginal people, and they’re very wary. But that’s a time thing.”

Liddiard emphasises the need to see sport as a “whole of life” matter for Aboriginal kids. “Ewan McGrady’s brothers all came down from Moree and made the backline up for Easts. The coach wanted to sign them right then, but they ended up going back. The big smoke was too much. There are guys out there as good as any top-line players, but they’re scared to leave their community. The commitment to full-time football’s pretty full-on. These guys aren’t used to that type of treatment.”

Liddiard understands that clubs need the most work, and intends to follow Victoria’s lead. “I’d like to talk to the NRL about Cultural Awareness. Some clubs have five Aboriginal players, like Souths and Saints. Andrew Farrar and Robert Stone attended Nathan Blacklock’s dad’s funeral in Tingha, so they’re aware of what’s going on. But a lot have no idea. I’d like to get ten corporate executives and take them out to Wilcannia or Bourke to show them how Aboriginal people really live.”

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Some programs are even more ambitious. On an oval in Richmond, Phil Krakouer’s students are out for a skills session. He watches the spirited mob with paternal patience, knowing how far they have to go in their journey, concerned only that they take each step properly. A young bloke earmarked for Richmond Tigers has the homeboy thing going, and the peak of his cap pecks at the nape of his neck as he thrusts a forefinger at anyone within earshot. “I’m tellin’ you, and you, and you – I’m goin’ all the way to the top.” The Man Mundine is his hero.

Leaning over a railing on the boundary, Phil shakes his bowed head, smiling. “He’s a good kid,” he tells me. “I reckon if this course was around before, a lot of kids might not have killed themselves or ruined their lives.”

The course he refers to is the Aboriginal Footballers Development Program at Melbourne’s Kangan Batman TAFE. Upon completion, the kids get a Certificate of Sport and Recreation. “This is a two-year course, so it’s a commitment. If you don’t turn up, you don’t pass.” He also recognises the complexity and sensitivity of his position. “You can’t take away their dream. The community’s dreaming that one day their boy will play AFL football. But they’ve got to come to terms with the possibility that it might not happen. Two or three out of 20 might make it. But they still might make top suburban sides and bush sides instead of dropping out of sight, and a lot more will go on with education. There’s not that fear of failure if they can do well somewhere else.”

Back in the classroom, the kids tell me they were surprised that the course was not just about playing footy, and see it as a growth experience. Some are urban kids who have had problems with the law. Some are from remote areas. Engaging with society in normal, functional ways is foreign to most of them. “It’s the basic skills we take for granted”, says Sengeeta Alex, Manager of Sport and Recreation, “Like picking up a newspaper and reading it. Shopping. Knowing how to work out a percentage on a sale.”

Phil, who along with brother Jim was a North Melbourne great, is “Not really into the culture.” He brought up his children in European society, sent them to a good school, and, the job done, turned back to the world that gave him the best and worst experiences of his life back in the predominantly Anglo-‘70s and ‘80s. The world of football. He approached Terry Kildea, Head of Koori Programs at the TAFE, and they pooled their ideas. “We wanted to show the nieces and nephews that everything’s possible with hard work.”

Like Jackson, Phil knows that Aboriginal society needs to incorporate the more productive white man’s ideas. In their word-of-mouth culture, a powerful story is seachange; their “bush telegraph” is a powerful message-bearer; a role model means more than an admirable figure, and an extraordinary story from an ordinary person will move a mountain of obstacles. If these kids succeed, says Phil, “their younger brothers, nieces or nephews will do the same.”

“Ordinary people doing extraordinary things. That’s our motto,” adds Kildea.

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Close focus on adaptation has been the most significant development. Athletics Australia is funding transition from rural to metropolitan areas. The Victorian Soccer Federation, as part of their “Living In Harmony” program, uses Archie Thompson as a role model.

The ACB is trying to rectify cricket’s shameful, largely unpublicised, history with Aborigines, with a number of pilot programs. Through the Indigenous Sports Program, they’ve set up scholarships and provided coaching and equipment. They now have a plan for grassroots development in places like Cununnurra, Thursday Island and Moree, and projects like the Eddie Gilbert Program (Qld) and Culture Cricket (Tas).

Megan Smith from the ACB sees the broad applications of cricket for the future: “We’d like to see it as a vehicle to achieve other things – keep up retention rates at school and keep them off the drugs.”

The desired long-term effect if all these efforts succeed will be well-administered sport in the communities, with a vision and a connection to elite competition. By the time the next generation comes along it is hoped that there will have been enough examples for kids to follow, and that these examples will have pointed to a world bigger than sport.

Co-ordination at a national level is still lacking in many areas, but there is a revolution going on, in minds and on dusty tracks all over the country, by tireless and patient people who might never see the result they’re after, at least not in their own lifetime.

Seamless transition will always be difficult, but there are precedents. Says Darren Godwell, “That’s the mother lode for all sports. To reach out and grab as many kids as possible, and make the transition as easy as possible.” For those who have succeeded, there had often been “an intervening period where they’ve either gone to school in Darwin, or Alice or Perth, and spent time living outside that community. It’s a fork in the road, and they’ve got to be supported to go to the next point. Aboriginal parents, though, don’t necessarily know who or what they’re sending them to. There’s notions of responsibility there – who’s going to look after them?”

To this end, people like the Ella brothers and Shaun Swan, former rugby league player, give management support. But, as Bev Knight told me, “that doesn’t mean indigenous managers is an easy solution. If you lump (all Aborigines) together, you’re in strife”. Syd Jackson’s words had better be heeded: there are just as many complications “on the black side”.

Brian McCallum believes we have a lot to learn. He grew up with Aboriginal families in Healesville, and mourns the loss of the time when the Aboriginal race was the most independent on earth, before dependency was introduced. Our society measures a man’s worth in dollars. This may always be foreign to Aboriginal people. It’s possible that, in the dollar-driven world of sport, the chasm between European society’s expectations and theirs will widen. Expectations will need to change. The parties will need to meet halfway if we’re to continue to enjoy the contribution Aboriginal sportspeople can make to sport. Making them “more like us”, to paraphrase Allan McAllister, the former Collingwood president, is not an option. But where is the “halfway” point? Who needs to change most? According to McCallum, the answer is obvious. “If we could learn some of their ways, Australia would be a better place.”

We’ll never eliminate the worst of both worlds, but one day sport and its fans may be able to enjoy the best of them.