She was honest to the limit of what that word means.
She was forthright to the limit of what that word means.
She was loyal to the limit of what that word means.
And she loved the AFL like no other I know … or have known.
Earlier this week, I spoke to the AFL staff about Jill. Our staff, all of them, without exception, loved Jill.
Monday was a difficult and emotional day for all of us.
I told them that her passing was hard to explain, that someone with so much to give was leaving us forever.
I said that we should all search for meaning, not from her death, but from her life.
We all felt that her contribution was, and will be everlasting, and that her personality is now part of the AFL's DNA.
I want to tell you a personal story that covers every part of that wonderful personality.
It was my first day in the job of football operations manager of the AFL.
Jill came to see me in that huge office bequeathed to me by Collo at the MCG.
She strode up to the desk, which was about five metres from the door and as she approached I said: "Hello Jill, I'm Andrew Demetriou."
She said: "You're the bloke who has (expletive deleted) the AFL."
The expletive was one that many of us in the room would have heard said by Jill - in frustration and in joy.
For those who missed those wonderful moments, it's that wonderfully versatile word that rhymes with ruck.
Her description of me came from the heart: she believed the collective bargaining agreement, forged between the AFL Players Association - my old job - and the AFL was too generous to the players, and would restrict the growth of the AFL and its clubs.
This was typical of Jill.
At the time, we hardly knew each other, but she was not about to be politically correct with her new boss: she was telling me that nothing will be held back between us, and there never was.
She was ... who she was.
Who else would sign emails as SHE?
I visited Jill in hospital a little over a week ago.
I spent a beautiful and memorable half hour with her.
We laughed together when I reminded her she had told me a million times that they'd have to carry her out of the AFL in a box.
We both knew we were making our last farewells, but she said she would not change one thing about herself, or about her life.
She told me she had loved her life.
She had loved her job.
She had loved the people she worked with, she had loved those she had ripped into along the journey.
Tough love applied in some cases, but honest love - a love based on the search for excellence.
She would love being here today, her last show, to see that this room is full to the brim.
It has started on time, the agenda is running smoothly, and there are no vacant seats in the Members'.
I am sure many of you have read the long list of tributes that have flowed in to the AFL website, to newspapers, on radio and television.
I have never seen such a heartfelt outflow of emotion and unabashed respect and love for a person who, in reality, preferred to just do her job, and leave any profile to others.
In a video playing on the AFL's website, we see Jill hamming it up with her long friend and great colleague Sandra Thomas.
Jill, with a big smile on her face, says to the camera: "It's ten past six, the season's over, and we're still here, hard at it."
The thing was there was never a day's end, or a season's end for Jill, never a time when work wasn't at the forefront of her mind.
In fact, there was not even a life's end for Jill, even though she's left us … who has ever heard of a person who would write her own farewell, and tell Craig how to deliver it?
Who has heard of a person who wrote the order of service at her own funeral?
Who has heard of a person who tells her CEO, from her deathbed, the things that are right and wrong in her department, and how to fix them?
We'll miss her so, in ways that I and we haven't even considered.
We'll find ourselves thinking, as a problem evolves, "I'll ask Jill."
I know we will.
I'll miss her annual Christmas card, in which she rated my year out of a mark of 10, and always, always wished the best to me and my family, and particularly my wife Symone.
Each time we became pregnant our first call came from Jill. We'll never forget that.
I'll miss her text messages sent from every game every week in the season, when she gave me the crowd figures, and a quick review of the Tigers' performance.
I'll miss our banter at the Brownlow as the votes were flowing through: unfortunately none of that can be repeated, even on this stage.
I'll miss the security that comes from knowing that whatever happens, Jill will know what to do. How did we get so much right with last year's grand final replay? Because Jill had been ready for that time for 20 years.
I'll miss that brutal honesty in moments when we did things wrong, but also when we did things right.
I’ll miss the memories of moments that remain priceless:
Like the time she abused the ground management staff at Homebush Stadium before the first ever AFL game there between the Swans and Essendon because the ground wasn’t ready.
The time she abused the ground staff at The Oval in London before an exhibition game.
The time that she showed such extraordinary compassion and empathy in preparation for the game between Richmond and Essendon in Mildura following the tragic roadside deaths of six teenagers.
I'll miss the fact that she, a latecomer to football, loved the game and protected it with all her might.
During that last visit, she said to me: "I've loved watching the game become what it has become."
Remember she was talking about something she had worked in for three quarters of her life, and more than a quarter of the life of the game itself!
"Look after the game" she said. "It means so much to so many people."
"The game means so much to so many people": words none of us should ever forget.
I'll miss her knowledge, her care, her respect, her humour, her teaching, her example, her spirit, the way she led her staff by example, and by offering herself, and I'll never forget her capacity to be doing 10 things at once, all with the same level of excellence.
She became a master of her own destiny, a spiritual giant in a world of footy that was not hers when she entered it, but was surely hers when she left it.
And I know that she had just this with her love of softball, and her brilliant mentoring and coaching of many of our great players, some of whom are here today.
Today we are celebrating a life of beauty and honesty, and must all remember the Jill we loved, and take some of that legacy and personality and spirit with us into our work life, and into our personalities.
Finally, I want to read to you a note sent to us from Ireland, from Fergal McGill of the GAA.
This is particularly heartwarming when you know that in a private dinner in Dublin, with the executive of the GAA, Jill started the conversation with the comment: "We know you're just a front for the IRA!"
Fergal was at that dinner. He wrote:
"Jill was a unique character.
I believe there was literally nothing she wouldn't say regardless of convention or perceived political correctness.
She just called it as it was.
A few minutes in her company could lift you out of even the darkest mood.
Her tremendous wit and kindness of spirit will be sorely missed.
On my first couple of trips to Australia she had an almost motherly regard for a naive Irish youngster and wasn't afraid to scold me if I showed up in the morning a little worse for wear!
To be honest, if you knew Jill for an hour, you felt you knew her all your life.
Please accept the deepest sympathies of everyone in the G.A.A. on your loss."
The Irish have a lovely saying at times like this in the Gaelic tongue.
Nil sí imithe uainn ach romhainn - She's not gone from us, just from around us, or from our sight.
I think that's the way it is with Jill; she mightn't just be there at work with you, but her spirit will always be with you.
Last year during the finals campaign, Jill's condition began to deteriorate.
The treatment wasn't working, Jill was in pain and she was becoming very tired.
Jill continued to work. She never missed a beat. Determined to serve at her 42nd grand final, Jill deferred her treatment and worked on the day doing what she did best.
Jill loved grand final day.
"It's the day we get to showcase our great game”, she would say to me.
We all remember the result of that game, one of the great grand finals - a draw.
Half an hour after the game, we met as a group, as planned by Jill.
But Jill was nowhere to be seen. With her body failing her, she had to go home.
But we sprung into action. We were so well drilled, so organised, so professional.
We were in fact doing what Jill had taught us.
Jill rang me that night to apologise for not being at the meeting but promised she would be at work on Monday, and be working on her 43rd grand final.
She then told me what a fantastic game of football we had witnessed.
Typical Jill - the game came first.
Jill knew the grand final replay would be her last grand final.
We made it special for her, but in truth, she made it easy for us.
Every grand final, I shall spare a thought for Jill. I know she will be watching, just checking to see if we're doing it right.
Rest in peace Jill.
I already miss you.
