Legacy: The Autobiography of Tim Cahill
Legacy: The Autobiography of Tim Cahill
Tim Cahill
The story of international football star Tim Cahill, one of the most admired Australian sportsmen of all time.Tim Cahill was born in Sydney to a Samoan mother and English father. He grew up in the city's western suburbs playing football with his brothers and for his local club sides. As a teenager, Tim's parents took out a loan so that he could travel to England and chase his dream of becoming a professional soccer player. It was an act of faith repaid with a stellar international career and the legacy of one of the most admired Australian sportsmen of his generation. With his trademark honesty and directness, Tim reflects on what it takes to make it to the top - the sacrifices, the physical cost, the mental stamina, the uncompromising self-belief and self-determination, the ruthlessness, but also the decency, the integrity, and the generosity. An autobiography that is more than a record of the goals and the games, Tim Cahill's story is a universal reminder of the importance of making your moment count.
Copyright (#u7aee4e41-b7c0-5049-9061-9c7a109184ea)
HarperSport
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 77-85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015 FIRST EDITION © Tim Cahill 2015 A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library Front cover image by Adrian Cook Back cover image: The Under-8s Balmain PCYC team in 1986, with Tim at right of the goalkeeper (courtesy Fairfax Syndication/Balmain Police Citizens Youth Club) While every effort has been made to trace the owners of copyright material reproduced herein and secure permissions, the publishers would like to apologise for any omissions and will be pleased to incorporate missing acknowledgements in any future edition of this book. Tim Cahill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Find out about HarperCollins and the environment at www.harpercollins.co.uk/green (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/green) Source ISBN: 978-00-081441-73 Ebook Edition © November 2015 ISBN: 9780008144180 Version: 2015-11-06
In memory ofFaataualofa Tuato Born 3 April 1932, died 27 May 2005
The backbone of our family
The strongest person in my life, along with my mother Sisifo Tuato Cahill
Taught me everything about my culture, heritage and beliefs
And the most important lesson of all: family over everything
I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.
Nelson Mandela
Contents
Cover (#u854167d8-47a2-5c61-a026-e021a18342d0)
Title Page (#uf495b723-c6b9-5758-b39d-3500bac618cc)
Copyright
Foreword by David Moyes
Part 01: Beginning the Dream
Fearless
Reaching Higher
Golden Bicycles and Olympic Dreams
Lessons from Samoa
Beating the Odds
Part 02: No One Likes Us, We Don’t Care
Sacrifices
England
The Lion’s Den
Samoan Fire
Down But Never Out
The Cup Run
The Call-up
Part 03: Once a Blue, Always a Blue
Everton
Gladiators
One City, Two Colours
The Boys in Blue
Making History
All Good Things
Rolling Back the Years
Part 04: Glory
America
Brazil and Beyond
Green and Gold
New Horizons
Legacy
Acknowledgments
Plate Section
About the Publisher
FOREWORD (#u7aee4e41-b7c0-5049-9061-9c7a109184ea)
I’LL NEVER FORGET THE DAY I decided to sign Tim Cahill. Not simply because I was sure I’d spotted a fantastic raw talent. It was quite a day all round. It was 2 May 2002. In my last season in charge of Preston we’d been searching around for players of ability and seen Millwall a couple of times. This energetic, pugnacious Aussie in midfield stood out.
My first transfer market as Everton manager was about to open and, having seen Tim about the championship a couple of times, I persuaded chairman Bill Kenwright that we should go together to watch Millwall against Birmingham in the second leg of the play-off semi-final. I mentioned to Bill that we’d be looking at a couple of guys, including Steven Reid, but, privately, my main attention was going to be on this Aussie fella.
Bill picked me up in his old Jag and we drove down to the New Den in South London. I’ve seen some atmospheres in my time as a player and coach, but this was fearsome, let me tell you. Tight streets, low bridges, both sets of fans with a reputation for being a bit feisty; in fact, there was horrible rioting and fighting associated with this tie, and as we drove past the supporters in this elegant old motor they were thumping and banging on the roof and the windows. We had to want to be there.
Millwall lost 0–1 in the last seconds and thus missed the chance of going to the final in Cardiff. Tim hit the bar with one of what would become his trademark headers with Everton. Immediately after the game, as we drove north, I told Bill that we had to have this guy. What stood out to the naked eye was that he was tremendously effective in both boxes: defensively able and usually the first to head clear, but also with the hunger, ambition and engine to be up in the opposition penalty area quickly afterwards looking to do danger.
Right then, he brought to mind a guy I’d always admired—John Wark. John would often outscore the strikers at his club because he had this fantastic ability to time when he arrived in and around the box and the means to finish the physical work he’d put in to get there. I was sure that this Cahill fella was one from that production line.
When we finally got him to our offices for a meeting with me and the chairman something else happened. His personality knocked our socks off. Not only was I very impressed by this guy in whom I was about to invest a lot of faith and a lot of hope, but Bill was bowled over too. What oozed out of him was not only resolute self-belief but great character. To this day Tim has the ability to charm people, to make them like him or believe in him. In truth, he’s a very likeable guy who conducts himself well.
This won’t surprise you, but I’d mark him down as easily one of the two or three players who most helped me change Everton, one of the best signings I’ve ever made. He’s seen, I think, as a major Premier League footballer, but the fact that he came from the lower leagues to the very top and not only managed to bridge that gap with considerable ease but also help rebuild the fortunes and reputation of a leading Premier club is a terrific testimony to his personal and footballing talents.
Beyond his immense character, I’d pinpoint two things about Tim. Obviously the first is his world-class aerial ability. He’s among the best ever. But we’ll come back to that. The other is that he has this great tendency to “appear” when he’s most needed. Big games where a win is vital, a match where things are going against you, a draw turned into a single-goal win—Tim was the fella you’d always count on. Any manager—more importantly, any fan—will tell you that they treasure a player like that. Priceless.
We got a pretty quick return on our investment if you look at his first-season performance and his debut goal. That header past David James for an away win at Manchester City, just seconds before Tim was sent off, will live as long in the memory as the day we decided to buy him.
Whether he was scoring or not, what was an absolute constant throughout his years for us was that Tim was a real man in training. He trained as hard as he played, and my advice to younger players is to copy that. Train as you mean to play: compete, work, give everything and match day will not only see you perform better but win more. That’s what Tim always gave: 100 per cent, every day.
Physically he’d compete with you, mentally he’d look for ways to outsmart other players or find their weak points. Both in training and in matches, he’d leave a bit on you in the challenge if that’s what he felt was important in order to win. He never, ever hid.
Saying all that, what I guess most people will talk about is his remarkable leap. We often tried to figure out what were the elements behind it. He’s not got particularly massive thighs or calf muscles, and what we concluded was that it was a mix of innate timing, hunger to win the ball in all situations and the fact that he was very, very lean. With his extremely low body fat, he was light—as well toned as he was muscularly. Mix all that and getting above bigger men to head the ball becomes both feasible and a great art.
But I want to add to that perception: it’s one thing to get to the ball, quite another what you do with it. Tim was an absolutely phenomenal header of the ball. Once he got up, he was in a class of his own, whether heading it away from danger or putting it where a keeper couldn’t reach it.
Thanks for all those headers, Tim. One other little thing that people often forget is that it takes bravery. You had that in buckets.
However, I’ll dare to lift the lid on another side of you. When we completed the medical to sign this promising midfielder from Millwall, it was a massive, massive relief to Tim because of a nasty cruciate ligament injury he’d had about a year previously. Footballers sweat over medicals and deals can break down. So when he got the news that he’d passed with flying colours there were some tears of relief and happiness. I liked that. I saw it as determination and ambition and a need to push upwards to bigger challenges. Raw desire to win exhibits itself in different ways.
Tim leaving Everton was a terrible wrench for me. He’d been so much a fundamental part of what we’d constructed at Goodison. But we knew there would be a moment when he needed a change and going to the New York Red Bulls was a great move for him. I wasn’t in the least surprised that he proved himself important there too. I suspect he became really popular in New York, just as he was with Everton fans. In China he’s been scoring frequently since he moved to Shanghai and I think his career will, once again, find another level there.
Tim’s international career with Australia was always something of a difficulty for us when he was at Everton. Usually it meant travel to the other side of the world and international games midweek—not ideal for a Premier League star who’s a vital component in a hard-working team. Yet he’d always get himself back in time, by hook or by crook, no matter what the distance, no matter how inconvenient the travel, no matter how severe the jet lag or lack of sleep. He fought like a tiger to make sure he could star for his country and help Everton win.
He’s been just immense for Australia, I think. His goal in the 2014 World Cup against the Netherlands was the best in the tournament. Some achievement that!
As a football nation Australia has continued to grow in importance and a big part of that has come from Tim and what he’s done for the country. Talent and personality. He and Harry Kewell, in particular, have been the standard bearers. Top European players. His legacy for Everton and for Australia will be that of quality, hunger, achievement and popularity. Of goals, thrills, fun, competitiveness and ambition. That will live on in the memory for a long, long time.
Tim joined me on the pitch when I said my own goodbyes at Everton and I was surrounded by some really special players – it was good of him to make that journey for me. I thought it was very fitting. In fact I was grateful and delighted.
Vital to me from the beginning, there with me at the end.
Thanks for everything, Tim. It’s been emotional.
David Moyes September 2015
PART 01 (#u7aee4e41-b7c0-5049-9061-9c7a109184ea)
FEARLESS (#u7aee4e41-b7c0-5049-9061-9c7a109184ea)
I CAN’T REMEMBER A TIME when I wasn’t dreaming of football.
I grew up in Sydney, in a football-loving home. My dad, a Londoner by birth, was fanatical about all things related to the game. From the time I was three or four years old, I didn’t need to play with toys. I was perfectly happy with something round that could be kicked.
Funnily enough, during my first competitive football match, I found myself scared out of my wits. We played Under-5s for a team called the Balmain Police Tigers. My brother Sean was five years old. I was four. I remember the match so clearly. I wore an orange kit with black shorts and orange socks. And when I ran out onto the pitch, I immediately started crying. The pitch was muddy, the other kids looked big and intimidating, and I didn’t want to get my kit dirty. But every time I tried to run off, my parents pushed me back from the touchline.
The kids on the team laughed at me. All the adults on the touchline did too, thinking it was cute, I suppose. But I wasn’t laughing. Tears kept streaming down my cheeks.
Maybe I wasn’t quite ready to play with the older boys, but it was like how a lot of kids learn to swim. You’re thrown in the water, you splash around, then dog-paddle over to the side of the pool—no adult is really going to let you sink—and that’s how you learn the lesson.
After that miserable first half, I realized I wasn’t going to be trampled. I touched the ball a few times and got into the flow of the game. I didn’t go after the ball so much as the ball was kicked against me by the other boys.
I was too frightened to be making any actual passes, let alone take a shot. But even that cold, muddy ball hitting my thighs and shins taught me something. The fear of what you imagine is often the worst part. With every ball that came to me, I learned I could withstand the impact, the surprising sting of the ball.
Touch by touch, I started to get better. As frightening as that first match was, my nervousness faded away—my passion for football began to grow.
My mum’s from a small village in Samoa. She grew up on a plantation that raised livestock and grew crops like taro and bananas. It was a simple life, and I don’t think she ever, in her wildest dreams, imagined she’d get married and live one day in a big city like Sydney, let alone have four Australian-born children.
My father left England by boat in search of a new life. He ended up stopping off in Samoa, doing some fishing, met my mum, Sissy, fell in love, and then had to steal her off the island before my Samoan grandfather could catch him. My dad and mum went on a massive adventure to Australia—and, from what I always heard as a boy, it was pretty hard times back then. Both worked long hours, crashing at friends’ places, until they could afford to rent their first home. When I speak to my mum, even to this day, I can hear in her voice how tough her life has been. Talk about a risk! She left behind the only world she knew, in that simple but happy village—Tufuiopa, Apia—where her father and grandfather were both chiefs, to start a family in Australia.
I have an older sister, Dorothy—we all call her Opa—an older brother, Sean, and then I came along in December 1979. We never had much money or security. We would rent a place for six or eight months, then pack up and move. It seemed like we were always hopping from one new neighbourhood and new bedroom to another, where we’d do it all over again.
Constantly moving homes had its difficulties, but the reason was always in the back of my mind—my parents were working hard to put food on the table and make our lives better, whatever it took.
I’m sure it was stressful and anxious at times for my mum and dad, but for me there was always an escape: football. My dad always watched the big English league matches, the FA Cups and the European Cups. I can remember it from when I was as young as three years old. Even at that age, I understood the passion for the game, if not all the rules and finer points.
West Ham United had been my father’s club and those allegiances never leave you, as I would later see myself in my years playing for Millwall and Everton. My father grew up in Rainham, Essex, where his dad, my grandfather, had played for the Rainham Working Men’s Club. He had been on the verge of getting signed for Colchester when he broke his leg badly, which ended his career. Dad often talked about his being coached by guys like the centre-back Charlie Hurley, from County Cork in Ireland, who ended up playing for Millwall and then had a long career as a top defender at Sunderland.
I remember being a tiny kid, waking up at silly hours of the morning because I could hear loud cheering in the lounge room, or could see flickering lights from the hallway—even hear the sound of the football being kicked—and I’d sneak out of my bedroom and not let my dad see me, just hide for the first fifteen minutes, until he’d finally notice and allow me to sit with him and watch the match.
Even though I had school the next day, Dad would let me miss sleep to watch all the highlights we could from England. Rarely were West Ham games shown in Australia, but we’d see the biggest clubs, like Manchester United, Arsenal, Liverpool and Chelsea, in what was then called the First Division (the Premier League didn’t come into existence until 1992 when I was already a teenager).
We’d also watch a lot of continental football, especially Italian teams. AC Milan playing Juventus—that was a big Italian league match I remember well. One of the most powerful experiences of my life was seeing that “golden age” Milan team made up of so many gifted players—greats like Marco van Basten, Ruud Gullit, Paolo Maldini.
Dad would also let me watch World Cup games into the early hours of the morning. I’d be too excited to sleep. As a kid, I remember dreaming of one day playing professionally. But I realized that was such a long shot.
By this point my kid brother Chris had been born and part of my realization was that with the size of our family—three boys and a sister—there was no way my parents would ever be able to meet the costs involved. Even at that age, I somehow understood that making it as a professional footballer wasn’t only about talent. Or even willpower. Maybe it was something Dad had said in passing, but I knew that money was often the biggest obstacle to getting the opportunity to play at the highest levels of the sport.
I kept watching big European and English matches on TV with my dad, playing in the back garden, in the hallway with my brothers, even in the tight spaces of the bedroom.
Everywhere I walked, I was basically kicking a football. In the bedroom, Sean and I used to kick the ball off the walls. The rule was you got one touch to volley it to the bunk beds. We’d take turns: five shots each from a fair distance. When we’d hear my mum walking down the hallway we’d instantly stop—“Sean and Tim, what are you up to?” My brother would rush to sit at the desk, I’d hop on the bed and pretend to be reading a book, because, like mothers everywhere, she didn’t want us banging a football off the walls or the bedroom furniture.
Sharing that time with my older brother was crucial. Despite the age difference, my father always had us placed in the same teams. Sean’s typical of big brothers, but especially of Samoan big brothers. He was always looking after me, protecting me, giving me little pointers and tricks. If some kid on the opposing team came in hard on a challenge and fouled me, well, Sean made sure that kid would never kick me again. Deep down, Sean has the kindest nature, but he could be a tough guy on the pitch—especially when it came to watching out for me.
By the time I reached eight or nine years old, my skills had improved a lot. I think that came from always playing in a higher age group. That was my mum and dad’s influence. Survival of the fittest, I suppose. If I was going to be the youngest and smallest boy on the field, forced to hold my own against larger, stronger opponents, my technique and confidence had to improve. I knew early on that I would have to be quicker, learn faster and outsmart the boys I played against. I couldn’t out-jump or out-muscle anyone, but I saw pretty soon that I might be able to out-think them.
Never in my entire youth football career did I play in my own age group. Part of it was logistics, too. Our parents were so busy working that Sean and I had to train on the same schedule. We couldn’t go to different pitches, have different pick-up times. It would be a huge inconvenience and cost Mum and Dad more in petrol.
We often say in a Samoan family that you’ve got to have a head like a coconut. Playing football or rugby in the back garden, you get more than a few knocks and kicks to the head. It’s just part of growing up. And Samoans are known for being rough and tumble. With us—with all islanders, really—when you have a fight at home, the kid who cries first is the one who gets the parental smack. That’s just the Samoan culture. Boys aren’t coddled much; they’re taught to hold their own, take a few knocks and get on with it.
Of course this meant I was always getting the smack, because there was no chance I was ever beating my older brother Sean, let alone some of my Samoan cousins—hulking guys twice my size, some of whom went on to play professional rugby.
Sean and I would often get into tussles. We’d stand there toe to toe, he’d be looking down into my eyes, I’d be looking up into his, defiant, and he’d always say, “Don’t let fear hold you back. If you want a shot at the title, I’m here.”
He’d say it with a smile, because he knew no matter how angry I got, how much I fought, I could never put him down.
“Don’t let fear hold you back, bro!”
I’d stare at him with anger, then charge him like a little bull. It was like hitting a brick wall—BOOM!—and I’d pop up and run at him again.
We moved beyond those years, but Sean’s words always stuck with me. To this day it’s something Sean and I still share—more than an in-joke, it’s a brotherly bond. No matter where I’m playing—in England or New York or Shanghai, or representing the national team in World Cups—I’ll get a text from him, out of the blue, with those same words:
Don’t let fear hold you back.
After Balmain Tigers, my next club was Marrickville Red Devils. Marrickville was a community that simply loved football. Every weekend was like a carnival, with the different languages and cultures, the foods, smells and flags of so many diverse nations. Nowhere do you see the melting pot of Australia as clearly as in the faces of the families who are passionate about football.
I soon made a lot of great friends in Marrickville and, now that I had more technical skills, football actually became fun. I was no longer the frightened four-year-old who had to be shoved onto the pitch. In the ebb and flow of the match, I found my release. I wasn’t afraid to take on other players, dribbling, feinting and using the simple art of the one-two with the other midfielders and forwards.
Marrickville Red Devils holds a special place in my heart because it was where I scored my first header. I can still see it unfolding vividly in my mind—like a slow-motion movie. We’d won a corner. The ball was whipped in from the right, I timed my jump, keeping my eyes wide open. Three defenders around me flinched and shrugged at the ball. I climbed above them, saw my chance and took it. I headed it, clean on the forehead, directing it exactly where I’d intended—with power—into the goal.
When the net bulged, when my team-mates swarmed me and cheered, my confidence soared. I remember turning, even as the ball flew past the keeper, to see people on the touchlines—my mum and dad and some of the other adults—already screaming.
It’s a big deal in a young footballer’s life when he scores his first header. We’d all scored goals with tap-ins or well-timed strikes, but leaping and directing a header with power was a more advanced skill.
Over the years, it’s become something of a signature for me. Five of the first six goals I scored for the Australian national team came from headers. People have said that I head a ball the way most other players kick it. That’s largely because when I see that cross come in, I’m fearless. Players often head the ball with reservation: they tuck their head in, flinch and squint—you even see this among some professionals. What that means, in effect, is that they’re letting the ball take control. You can see they don’t truly want to head it. With me, it’s the opposite.
Once I understood how to do it properly, I fell in love with heading. It felt, for some reason, very Samoan. Being fearless, athletic and powerful with your head is not something everyone has the ability to do on the pitch and I soon saw that as an avenue to success.
Confidence breeds more confidence. There was a natural progression from that moment; I started scoring a lot of headers regularly. My dad’s often said that even as a youth player I probably scored a good fifty or sixty per cent of my goals with my head. Crosses from the wing, free kicks and especially corners—I’d found I had a knack for leaping and getting good contact on the ball with my forehead. Still, at that age, I didn’t have much power in my shot, though I always had excellent timing: catching the ball as it bounced and volleying it over the goalkeeper’s head. We were still all relatively short kids, so lobbing over the net-minder was an effective way to score.
With the Red Devils, my vision, technique and ability to head the ball made me stand out, despite being a year younger than anyone else in the squad. And the more I scored with my head, the more I would train and train at heading. Some weeks, I spent hours just trying to perfect the angling and generate more power with my contact.
I see this change in confidence a lot in the youth academies I run in Australia, and it comes down to the basics. You have to take kids through the art of heading slowly, step by step, from square one, because sticking your head in the path of a flying object goes against common sense! To do it well you have to keep your eyes wide open and your mouth shut. You can’t be passive and let the ball hit the crown, but actually have to attack it with your forehead.
Now I teach my own son Cruz, who’s still only three—just as I’ve taught my sons Kyah and Shae and my daughter Sienna: “Head the ball the way Daddy does. Open your eyes, make clean contact!” I can already see the confidence growing in Cruz. When you breed that self-assuredness in a young kid, it makes it easier for them to do anything. Getting that parental encouragement and the first sense of confidence only snowballs and you inevitably get better.
I’m a firm believer that kids don’t truly find themselves until they experience that first moment of confidence. For me it came when I scored that first header for Marrickville Red Devils.
In the midst of all my outdoor team commitments, I started regularly playing indoor soccer, also known as futsal. Playing indoor soccer was important in my technical development because the spaces are tighter, the action quicker, and it requires a player to develop a greater sense of touch and ball control.
We played for a team called Banshee Knights. Our team identity was Irish but our close-knit group of friends—Ian Frenkel, Filimon Filippou, Vince Hansimikali and Nick Pizzano—were from loads of backgrounds. The name Banshee Knights was my father’s idea. Dad’s of Irish descent and loved those screaming banshees of Celtic legend. We wore the green and white with black shorts.
We were all talented individuals, and as a team we were fierce. We played in a lot of big competitions. Once we even travelled to Canberra for a tournament, though we lost in the finals to a team led by Nick and Leo Carle, two South American brothers who were also fantastically gifted indoor players. Despite that loss we continued to be known as the underdog team that seemed to do well on big occasions.
When I’m asked about my mentality as a footballer—what drives me so hard on and off the park—I always say it was seeing my parents get up at the crack of dawn, 5:30 a.m., to go to work. Mum always had two jobs: working at various hotels early in the day, then a second job at Streets Ice Cream factory that she would finish by 6 p.m. My dad got up early, too, to drive her to work—he’d suffered an injury on his job, but he became the best house-dad. He did all the cleaning, cooking, all the running around with the four of us kids—probably one of the hardest jobs in the world.
My family wasn’t well-off—my brothers, sister and I were never in a position to spend money frivolously with our mates, because that would affect the household budget. I was constantly aware of how hard both my mum and dad worked just to make ends meet.
Even at a young age I worried about how much my mum pushed herself: how many hours she worked, the lack of sleep, just to make sure we had the necessities like school books and school uniforms—not to mention those extras for football.
By the time I was ten years old, I fully understood and respected what my parents did to support our passion for the game. I understood how expensive it was for new boots and kit, plus the registration fees for clubs. I knew the sacrifices my parents were making. It wasn’t a hobby, even at that age, to join a club and play in tournaments. Football was a commitment and a major financial sacrifice for my family.
Often, I heard my mum get up in the morning and, just before she left, I’d hop out of bed and say goodbye to her because I knew I wouldn’t see her until very late that evening. Those memories left a mental scar that has stayed with me for life. Even at four years old I knew that life for my parents was a constant struggle.
After my indoor football games, we’d drive to a small Greek gyros shop in Marrickville. We’d go there on Thursday night, excited because it was our one treat for the week. I’d order a beef gyros with lettuce, onions and barbecue sauce, and many times my mum wouldn’t order: “No, I’m okay—I don’t want anything.”
I’d eat only half, handing the rest to my mum, saying, “Sorry, I’m full.” She’s a very astute woman, but to this day she probably doesn’t know that I understood the reason she didn’t order anything was because, first and foremost, she was always looking out for us.
And even now, regardless of how much I’m earning as a footballer, she hasn’t changed. Whenever we go to a restaurant in Australia, my mother will pick the cheapest item on the menu. I’ll smile and say, “Mum, go ahead, order whatever.” But it doesn’t matter—she’s still as economical as she was when I was a kid.
REACHING HIGHER (#u7aee4e41-b7c0-5049-9061-9c7a109184ea)
THE NEXT LEVEL UP IN my youth career was when I joined Lakemba Soccer Club and was selected to play for Canterbury Reps. Now I’d joined an elite group of boys. One of my best mates, even to this day, Anthony Panzarino, was to become a massive influence on my development. Anthony and I hit it off immediately and were soon inseparable. We played together for both Lakemba and the Reps. Canterbury had more than a dozen club teams; if you’d done well at your club, you’d receive a call up, but only one or two players from each club got the honour.
Only a few players from Lakemba were selected. Making it to Canterbury Reps was a pretty big deal; this was no longer football as recreation. If you made the team you’d travel all around Australia. We were ten and eleven years old, the age when we were starting to find ourselves as footballers, and travelling with Canterbury opened the world to us.
I remember during our Lakemba and Canterbury Representative days it seemed like we never stopped playing football. If we weren’t in class—or sleeping—we had a ball at our feet. I’d go round to Anthony’s house, kicking the ball with him for an hour before training, shooting and passing against the wall or along the side of his garage.
Anthony and I both had long hair down the back of our necks like so many of the great Italian and Latin American players in those days. We were trying to look like Redondo, the brilliant Argentine midfielder; just about everything else we did was an imitation of the big-time professional footballers: the way they walked, their mannerisms we’d seen on the TV, right down to how they wore their kit.
At home, Anthony’s dad, Mick Panzarino, always watched Italian league matches. Anthony’s mum, Beatrice, would put out a huge spread of food. His dad would sit at the head of the table and we’d feast on fresh-baked Italian bread, salads, pastas, meatballs and imported mozzarella, while watching those matches from Italy on the TV in the living room.
I used to love going to the Panzarinos’, especially after training when we were always ravenous. I’d never tasted better food in my life.
Anthony and I didn’t have one single day in the week when we weren’t playing football. Talk about a time commitment: there were loads of driving and logistical arrangements for our parents. During the indoor season our schedules were packed. Lakemba matches on Saturday, Canterbury Reps on Sunday, indoor matches with the Banshee Knights on Thursday afternoon.
Add in practices for all those teams and there was really not a single day of the week when I wasn’t either in training or playing a competitive match. Football consumed my entire life, but I didn’t want anything else. I didn’t want to hang out and do what the other kids from school were doing. And, outside of games and practices, Anthony and I would put in hours training on our own at his place. Looking back on it now, it’s obvious we were little machines who were completely in love with the game.
By this time in our lives we were getting a reputation as an elite group, and I was lucky to be among such skilled young players. My parents still have a clipping from one of the Sydney papers that referred to us as “the Maradonas of tomorrow”. For a kid my age, at that time, there was no higher compliment.
Such a fantastic age, too. We had so much energy, jumping fences, meeting up after school. My mates and I would quickly ring each other after school and go to the park with my brothers Sean and Chris. We’d play three v. three. I remember getting into punch-ups because one team had lost 1–0 or 2–3 or some such foolishness—I mean, we took those kickabouts that seriously. We’d fight over who scored, or who fouled whom. Whether it should be a throw-in or a corner kick—any little thing. Then we’d run home to our own houses. And the next day—it didn’t matter that we’d fought the day before—we’d ring each other up and do it all over again.
Those are priceless childhood memories. I could never stand losing at anything. Not with my brothers, not with my mates. Just wasn’t acceptable. Years later, funnily enough, when I was playing for Everton, I’d find myself having a similarly competitive friendship with one of the most gifted footballers of the Premier League, the Spaniard Mikel Arteta.
Some days Anthony’s dad would take us to training, other days it would be my dad’s turn. But no matter who was driving there was no small talk: these were serious football lessons. The whole way to training, our dads would talk tactics and strategy: how we were going to play and link up together as midfielders. If it was a game day, the talk would be more motivational—“How badly do you want to win, boys?”—right down to the level of asking us if our boots were clean. It’s those details that show your level of passion, pride and commitment to the sport.
When it came to football both our dads knew what they were talking about. With my father, it was bred in the bone: that hard-core working-class Londoner’s love of the game. With Anthony’s father, there was more Italian flair, but he was equally passionate.
Anthony and I usually huffed and puffed and muttered under our breath: “Bloody hell, our dads don’t know nothing …” But I can see now how much they did know, and how deeply they affected our lives.
I can still hear Anthony’s father’s voice as we’d drive to the Lakemba training sessions.
“Anthony, you need to shoot more—you’re taking too long on the ball” or “Anthony, you need to get the ball wide to the wing, so Tim can meet the cross. And you both need to link better together.”
Anthony and I formed a solid partnership on the pitch. We both played in midfield. Sometimes I’d play slightly in front of him. We each had our strengths. He had a really powerful shot. I had strong heading ability and vision.
Still, I was a long way from a finished article at that age. Some of the other kids had better shots, great touch and control of the ball. At that stage in our lives, I often played with kids who were more polished and technical. I wasn’t discouraged if I saw one of my mates, or one of my brothers, had a better shot, though I’d sometimes shake my head in amazement when he’d strike a precise volley into the back of the net. If anything, my admiration for that skill fuelled my own ambition. It inspired me to improve my own shooting. I’d find myself studying everything my mates did to generate that same power.
By the time I was playing with Lakemba and Canterbury Reps, my dad’s expectations for me had grown. He’d always been this way, but, as I got older, he kept raising the bar and the scrutiny got more intense.
Back when we lived in Annandale, Dad would take all three of us brothers—Sean, Chris and me—down to the park at the back of Johnson Street for training. These weren’t casual kickabouts: he had us looking like little professionals, running through cones, doing sprints against each other, various triangle passing drills. He’d also make us work hard on our heading. He kept a ball inside a net-bag, hooked to the branch of a tree. Talk about an old-school trick. You rarely see anyone practising headers that way anymore. Each one of us in turn would run as fast as we could, leap up and head the ball, learning how to make good contact and get proper direction. And we’d better get it right, or Dad would make us do it over and over again.
Because he always stressed the importance of being two-footed, Dad would sometimes have us take the boot off our stronger-kicking leg—in my case the right—and have us shoot only left-footed. It’s a simple technique but a highly effective one.
Dad would also regularly take videos of my matches and then show them to me on the TV at home, focussing not on what I’d done well, but on what I could improve.
“Look, Tim, I know you scored three goals but you could have had four.” He used to stress that I needed to develop more power in my legs. He would also tell me that I was arriving in the box too early. He would freeze-frame the video and show me. “Look, here: if you’d held up your run a bit, see how much better positioned you’d be for the open cross?”
My dad was an instinctive motivator. He was never one for patting you on the back. No hugs after matches. And I’d never—or very rarely—hear him say, “Well done, son, you were terrific out there today.”
Still, I’d occasionally catch him, when I’d scored a nice goal—a well-timed header or difficult volley—and there’d be a momentary flash of pride. A glance that expressed words he’d never say, just for a second in his eyes.
That was priceless to me. Even as a kid, that’s all you need: to catch that fraction of a second of pride in your father’s eyes. I never needed anything more than that. The fact that he withheld praise, I think, prevented me from becoming complacent. He gave me enough praise to keep me going—and held back enough to keep me hungry.
In fact, I think my parents’ tough motivational style, more than anything else, is what made me into a top-flight footballer. So many times after a match, when I’d done alright on the pitch, I’d get in the car and my mum would take the sandal off her foot and smack me on the back of the head—not to hurt or anything, just chiding me, because that’s the Samoan way of doing things. My dad, meanwhile, was peppering me with his criticisms: “Why are you smiling, son? You could’ve won 5–0 instead of 5–3. Why weren’t you tracking back from the midfield? Helping out the back four? Letting in those late goals is nothing to be proud of.”
The funny thing was, when my parents said something similar to my brothers Sean and Chris, their response would be to nod and shrug: Yeah, so what? Not bothered. Yet each of my brothers in his own way was very gifted. Sean was an incredible goalkeeper and Chris, five years younger than me, was technically superb. My dad has often said that Chris had better footballing attributes than I did at his age. He was the more complete player, with better skills and a more developed body.
Where my brothers would shrug off our father’s critique of our playing, I’d go home and dwell on it. Yeah, you know, Dad’s right, I’d say to myself. If only I’d taken a better touch, and simply passed the ball into the net, instead of trying to smash it—two feet wide of the post! I missed that chance—missed it …
It would actually keep me awake at night, obsessing over the littlest mistakes my dad had scolded me for in some regular Under-10 or Under-11 game. It didn’t matter that I’d scored. I’d lie there angry at myself for the ones I hadn’t put in the back of the net. If a missed opportunity had meant a draw instead of a win, because I’d made the decision to go for power rather than simply pass the ball into the net, I’d beat myself up over it. I know that sounds ludicrously perfectionist for a kid of ten, but you’ve got to have that kind of drive to succeed in football. My commitment and passion were on a different level from either of my brothers’—and to this day, no one in the family knows exactly why.
I wasn’t a normal kid. I’m the first to admit it. I was definitely not normal. I was so obsessed with football that when I got up in the morning, the first thing I did was look at my boots, making sure they were clean and spotless. Not a speck of dirt or a grass stain better be on them. They had to look brand new. I had various official team kits. I especially loved the Manchester United kits—the green and yellow away shirt and the classic red home kit with the tie-up front. I’d make sure they were all hung up, clean and neat in the closet, looking just like they were in a shop window.
Before I left for school, I’d have my Lakemba or Canterbury Reps kit all laid out for when I got home, knowing I’d have after-school training. Boots spotless, shin pads perfect, my socks neatly laid out across the bed. When it was time to leave I had my trainers on, my boot bag ready, my water bottle filled—my parents didn’t have to do a thing. I already had that focussed mind-set of a full-time footballer.
At a very young age I was self-disciplined and an extreme perfectionist. I can’t recall a time when I wasn’t this way: my brother Sean used to tease me about it. He still does, because I’m known as the one of the three boys who can’t stand clutter, disorganization or anything out of order in my home or with my clothes.
I realize now, in hindsight, that in the six or seven years since I’d started playing football, a combination of my perfectionist personality, good role models, opportunities to play—even my mum’s Samoan whacks with her sandal and my dad’s post-match analysis—all of it turned a passion for the game of football into an obsession that would soon consume my life.
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Tim Cahill
The story of international football star Tim Cahill, one of the most admired Australian sportsmen of all time.Tim Cahill was born in Sydney to a Samoan mother and English father. He grew up in the city's western suburbs playing football with his brothers and for his local club sides. As a teenager, Tim's parents took out a loan so that he could travel to England and chase his dream of becoming a professional soccer player. It was an act of faith repaid with a stellar international career and the legacy of one of the most admired Australian sportsmen of his generation. With his trademark honesty and directness, Tim reflects on what it takes to make it to the top - the sacrifices, the physical cost, the mental stamina, the uncompromising self-belief and self-determination, the ruthlessness, but also the decency, the integrity, and the generosity. An autobiography that is more than a record of the goals and the games, Tim Cahill's story is a universal reminder of the importance of making your moment count.
Copyright (#u7aee4e41-b7c0-5049-9061-9c7a109184ea)
HarperSport
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 77-85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015 FIRST EDITION © Tim Cahill 2015 A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library Front cover image by Adrian Cook Back cover image: The Under-8s Balmain PCYC team in 1986, with Tim at right of the goalkeeper (courtesy Fairfax Syndication/Balmain Police Citizens Youth Club) While every effort has been made to trace the owners of copyright material reproduced herein and secure permissions, the publishers would like to apologise for any omissions and will be pleased to incorporate missing acknowledgements in any future edition of this book. Tim Cahill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Find out about HarperCollins and the environment at www.harpercollins.co.uk/green (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/green) Source ISBN: 978-00-081441-73 Ebook Edition © November 2015 ISBN: 9780008144180 Version: 2015-11-06
In memory ofFaataualofa Tuato Born 3 April 1932, died 27 May 2005
The backbone of our family
The strongest person in my life, along with my mother Sisifo Tuato Cahill
Taught me everything about my culture, heritage and beliefs
And the most important lesson of all: family over everything
I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.
Nelson Mandela
Contents
Cover (#u854167d8-47a2-5c61-a026-e021a18342d0)
Title Page (#uf495b723-c6b9-5758-b39d-3500bac618cc)
Copyright
Foreword by David Moyes
Part 01: Beginning the Dream
Fearless
Reaching Higher
Golden Bicycles and Olympic Dreams
Lessons from Samoa
Beating the Odds
Part 02: No One Likes Us, We Don’t Care
Sacrifices
England
The Lion’s Den
Samoan Fire
Down But Never Out
The Cup Run
The Call-up
Part 03: Once a Blue, Always a Blue
Everton
Gladiators
One City, Two Colours
The Boys in Blue
Making History
All Good Things
Rolling Back the Years
Part 04: Glory
America
Brazil and Beyond
Green and Gold
New Horizons
Legacy
Acknowledgments
Plate Section
About the Publisher
FOREWORD (#u7aee4e41-b7c0-5049-9061-9c7a109184ea)
I’LL NEVER FORGET THE DAY I decided to sign Tim Cahill. Not simply because I was sure I’d spotted a fantastic raw talent. It was quite a day all round. It was 2 May 2002. In my last season in charge of Preston we’d been searching around for players of ability and seen Millwall a couple of times. This energetic, pugnacious Aussie in midfield stood out.
My first transfer market as Everton manager was about to open and, having seen Tim about the championship a couple of times, I persuaded chairman Bill Kenwright that we should go together to watch Millwall against Birmingham in the second leg of the play-off semi-final. I mentioned to Bill that we’d be looking at a couple of guys, including Steven Reid, but, privately, my main attention was going to be on this Aussie fella.
Bill picked me up in his old Jag and we drove down to the New Den in South London. I’ve seen some atmospheres in my time as a player and coach, but this was fearsome, let me tell you. Tight streets, low bridges, both sets of fans with a reputation for being a bit feisty; in fact, there was horrible rioting and fighting associated with this tie, and as we drove past the supporters in this elegant old motor they were thumping and banging on the roof and the windows. We had to want to be there.
Millwall lost 0–1 in the last seconds and thus missed the chance of going to the final in Cardiff. Tim hit the bar with one of what would become his trademark headers with Everton. Immediately after the game, as we drove north, I told Bill that we had to have this guy. What stood out to the naked eye was that he was tremendously effective in both boxes: defensively able and usually the first to head clear, but also with the hunger, ambition and engine to be up in the opposition penalty area quickly afterwards looking to do danger.
Right then, he brought to mind a guy I’d always admired—John Wark. John would often outscore the strikers at his club because he had this fantastic ability to time when he arrived in and around the box and the means to finish the physical work he’d put in to get there. I was sure that this Cahill fella was one from that production line.
When we finally got him to our offices for a meeting with me and the chairman something else happened. His personality knocked our socks off. Not only was I very impressed by this guy in whom I was about to invest a lot of faith and a lot of hope, but Bill was bowled over too. What oozed out of him was not only resolute self-belief but great character. To this day Tim has the ability to charm people, to make them like him or believe in him. In truth, he’s a very likeable guy who conducts himself well.
This won’t surprise you, but I’d mark him down as easily one of the two or three players who most helped me change Everton, one of the best signings I’ve ever made. He’s seen, I think, as a major Premier League footballer, but the fact that he came from the lower leagues to the very top and not only managed to bridge that gap with considerable ease but also help rebuild the fortunes and reputation of a leading Premier club is a terrific testimony to his personal and footballing talents.
Beyond his immense character, I’d pinpoint two things about Tim. Obviously the first is his world-class aerial ability. He’s among the best ever. But we’ll come back to that. The other is that he has this great tendency to “appear” when he’s most needed. Big games where a win is vital, a match where things are going against you, a draw turned into a single-goal win—Tim was the fella you’d always count on. Any manager—more importantly, any fan—will tell you that they treasure a player like that. Priceless.
We got a pretty quick return on our investment if you look at his first-season performance and his debut goal. That header past David James for an away win at Manchester City, just seconds before Tim was sent off, will live as long in the memory as the day we decided to buy him.
Whether he was scoring or not, what was an absolute constant throughout his years for us was that Tim was a real man in training. He trained as hard as he played, and my advice to younger players is to copy that. Train as you mean to play: compete, work, give everything and match day will not only see you perform better but win more. That’s what Tim always gave: 100 per cent, every day.
Physically he’d compete with you, mentally he’d look for ways to outsmart other players or find their weak points. Both in training and in matches, he’d leave a bit on you in the challenge if that’s what he felt was important in order to win. He never, ever hid.
Saying all that, what I guess most people will talk about is his remarkable leap. We often tried to figure out what were the elements behind it. He’s not got particularly massive thighs or calf muscles, and what we concluded was that it was a mix of innate timing, hunger to win the ball in all situations and the fact that he was very, very lean. With his extremely low body fat, he was light—as well toned as he was muscularly. Mix all that and getting above bigger men to head the ball becomes both feasible and a great art.
But I want to add to that perception: it’s one thing to get to the ball, quite another what you do with it. Tim was an absolutely phenomenal header of the ball. Once he got up, he was in a class of his own, whether heading it away from danger or putting it where a keeper couldn’t reach it.
Thanks for all those headers, Tim. One other little thing that people often forget is that it takes bravery. You had that in buckets.
However, I’ll dare to lift the lid on another side of you. When we completed the medical to sign this promising midfielder from Millwall, it was a massive, massive relief to Tim because of a nasty cruciate ligament injury he’d had about a year previously. Footballers sweat over medicals and deals can break down. So when he got the news that he’d passed with flying colours there were some tears of relief and happiness. I liked that. I saw it as determination and ambition and a need to push upwards to bigger challenges. Raw desire to win exhibits itself in different ways.
Tim leaving Everton was a terrible wrench for me. He’d been so much a fundamental part of what we’d constructed at Goodison. But we knew there would be a moment when he needed a change and going to the New York Red Bulls was a great move for him. I wasn’t in the least surprised that he proved himself important there too. I suspect he became really popular in New York, just as he was with Everton fans. In China he’s been scoring frequently since he moved to Shanghai and I think his career will, once again, find another level there.
Tim’s international career with Australia was always something of a difficulty for us when he was at Everton. Usually it meant travel to the other side of the world and international games midweek—not ideal for a Premier League star who’s a vital component in a hard-working team. Yet he’d always get himself back in time, by hook or by crook, no matter what the distance, no matter how inconvenient the travel, no matter how severe the jet lag or lack of sleep. He fought like a tiger to make sure he could star for his country and help Everton win.
He’s been just immense for Australia, I think. His goal in the 2014 World Cup against the Netherlands was the best in the tournament. Some achievement that!
As a football nation Australia has continued to grow in importance and a big part of that has come from Tim and what he’s done for the country. Talent and personality. He and Harry Kewell, in particular, have been the standard bearers. Top European players. His legacy for Everton and for Australia will be that of quality, hunger, achievement and popularity. Of goals, thrills, fun, competitiveness and ambition. That will live on in the memory for a long, long time.
Tim joined me on the pitch when I said my own goodbyes at Everton and I was surrounded by some really special players – it was good of him to make that journey for me. I thought it was very fitting. In fact I was grateful and delighted.
Vital to me from the beginning, there with me at the end.
Thanks for everything, Tim. It’s been emotional.
David Moyes September 2015
PART 01 (#u7aee4e41-b7c0-5049-9061-9c7a109184ea)
FEARLESS (#u7aee4e41-b7c0-5049-9061-9c7a109184ea)
I CAN’T REMEMBER A TIME when I wasn’t dreaming of football.
I grew up in Sydney, in a football-loving home. My dad, a Londoner by birth, was fanatical about all things related to the game. From the time I was three or four years old, I didn’t need to play with toys. I was perfectly happy with something round that could be kicked.
Funnily enough, during my first competitive football match, I found myself scared out of my wits. We played Under-5s for a team called the Balmain Police Tigers. My brother Sean was five years old. I was four. I remember the match so clearly. I wore an orange kit with black shorts and orange socks. And when I ran out onto the pitch, I immediately started crying. The pitch was muddy, the other kids looked big and intimidating, and I didn’t want to get my kit dirty. But every time I tried to run off, my parents pushed me back from the touchline.
The kids on the team laughed at me. All the adults on the touchline did too, thinking it was cute, I suppose. But I wasn’t laughing. Tears kept streaming down my cheeks.
Maybe I wasn’t quite ready to play with the older boys, but it was like how a lot of kids learn to swim. You’re thrown in the water, you splash around, then dog-paddle over to the side of the pool—no adult is really going to let you sink—and that’s how you learn the lesson.
After that miserable first half, I realized I wasn’t going to be trampled. I touched the ball a few times and got into the flow of the game. I didn’t go after the ball so much as the ball was kicked against me by the other boys.
I was too frightened to be making any actual passes, let alone take a shot. But even that cold, muddy ball hitting my thighs and shins taught me something. The fear of what you imagine is often the worst part. With every ball that came to me, I learned I could withstand the impact, the surprising sting of the ball.
Touch by touch, I started to get better. As frightening as that first match was, my nervousness faded away—my passion for football began to grow.
My mum’s from a small village in Samoa. She grew up on a plantation that raised livestock and grew crops like taro and bananas. It was a simple life, and I don’t think she ever, in her wildest dreams, imagined she’d get married and live one day in a big city like Sydney, let alone have four Australian-born children.
My father left England by boat in search of a new life. He ended up stopping off in Samoa, doing some fishing, met my mum, Sissy, fell in love, and then had to steal her off the island before my Samoan grandfather could catch him. My dad and mum went on a massive adventure to Australia—and, from what I always heard as a boy, it was pretty hard times back then. Both worked long hours, crashing at friends’ places, until they could afford to rent their first home. When I speak to my mum, even to this day, I can hear in her voice how tough her life has been. Talk about a risk! She left behind the only world she knew, in that simple but happy village—Tufuiopa, Apia—where her father and grandfather were both chiefs, to start a family in Australia.
I have an older sister, Dorothy—we all call her Opa—an older brother, Sean, and then I came along in December 1979. We never had much money or security. We would rent a place for six or eight months, then pack up and move. It seemed like we were always hopping from one new neighbourhood and new bedroom to another, where we’d do it all over again.
Constantly moving homes had its difficulties, but the reason was always in the back of my mind—my parents were working hard to put food on the table and make our lives better, whatever it took.
I’m sure it was stressful and anxious at times for my mum and dad, but for me there was always an escape: football. My dad always watched the big English league matches, the FA Cups and the European Cups. I can remember it from when I was as young as three years old. Even at that age, I understood the passion for the game, if not all the rules and finer points.
West Ham United had been my father’s club and those allegiances never leave you, as I would later see myself in my years playing for Millwall and Everton. My father grew up in Rainham, Essex, where his dad, my grandfather, had played for the Rainham Working Men’s Club. He had been on the verge of getting signed for Colchester when he broke his leg badly, which ended his career. Dad often talked about his being coached by guys like the centre-back Charlie Hurley, from County Cork in Ireland, who ended up playing for Millwall and then had a long career as a top defender at Sunderland.
I remember being a tiny kid, waking up at silly hours of the morning because I could hear loud cheering in the lounge room, or could see flickering lights from the hallway—even hear the sound of the football being kicked—and I’d sneak out of my bedroom and not let my dad see me, just hide for the first fifteen minutes, until he’d finally notice and allow me to sit with him and watch the match.
Even though I had school the next day, Dad would let me miss sleep to watch all the highlights we could from England. Rarely were West Ham games shown in Australia, but we’d see the biggest clubs, like Manchester United, Arsenal, Liverpool and Chelsea, in what was then called the First Division (the Premier League didn’t come into existence until 1992 when I was already a teenager).
We’d also watch a lot of continental football, especially Italian teams. AC Milan playing Juventus—that was a big Italian league match I remember well. One of the most powerful experiences of my life was seeing that “golden age” Milan team made up of so many gifted players—greats like Marco van Basten, Ruud Gullit, Paolo Maldini.
Dad would also let me watch World Cup games into the early hours of the morning. I’d be too excited to sleep. As a kid, I remember dreaming of one day playing professionally. But I realized that was such a long shot.
By this point my kid brother Chris had been born and part of my realization was that with the size of our family—three boys and a sister—there was no way my parents would ever be able to meet the costs involved. Even at that age, I somehow understood that making it as a professional footballer wasn’t only about talent. Or even willpower. Maybe it was something Dad had said in passing, but I knew that money was often the biggest obstacle to getting the opportunity to play at the highest levels of the sport.
I kept watching big European and English matches on TV with my dad, playing in the back garden, in the hallway with my brothers, even in the tight spaces of the bedroom.
Everywhere I walked, I was basically kicking a football. In the bedroom, Sean and I used to kick the ball off the walls. The rule was you got one touch to volley it to the bunk beds. We’d take turns: five shots each from a fair distance. When we’d hear my mum walking down the hallway we’d instantly stop—“Sean and Tim, what are you up to?” My brother would rush to sit at the desk, I’d hop on the bed and pretend to be reading a book, because, like mothers everywhere, she didn’t want us banging a football off the walls or the bedroom furniture.
Sharing that time with my older brother was crucial. Despite the age difference, my father always had us placed in the same teams. Sean’s typical of big brothers, but especially of Samoan big brothers. He was always looking after me, protecting me, giving me little pointers and tricks. If some kid on the opposing team came in hard on a challenge and fouled me, well, Sean made sure that kid would never kick me again. Deep down, Sean has the kindest nature, but he could be a tough guy on the pitch—especially when it came to watching out for me.
By the time I reached eight or nine years old, my skills had improved a lot. I think that came from always playing in a higher age group. That was my mum and dad’s influence. Survival of the fittest, I suppose. If I was going to be the youngest and smallest boy on the field, forced to hold my own against larger, stronger opponents, my technique and confidence had to improve. I knew early on that I would have to be quicker, learn faster and outsmart the boys I played against. I couldn’t out-jump or out-muscle anyone, but I saw pretty soon that I might be able to out-think them.
Never in my entire youth football career did I play in my own age group. Part of it was logistics, too. Our parents were so busy working that Sean and I had to train on the same schedule. We couldn’t go to different pitches, have different pick-up times. It would be a huge inconvenience and cost Mum and Dad more in petrol.
We often say in a Samoan family that you’ve got to have a head like a coconut. Playing football or rugby in the back garden, you get more than a few knocks and kicks to the head. It’s just part of growing up. And Samoans are known for being rough and tumble. With us—with all islanders, really—when you have a fight at home, the kid who cries first is the one who gets the parental smack. That’s just the Samoan culture. Boys aren’t coddled much; they’re taught to hold their own, take a few knocks and get on with it.
Of course this meant I was always getting the smack, because there was no chance I was ever beating my older brother Sean, let alone some of my Samoan cousins—hulking guys twice my size, some of whom went on to play professional rugby.
Sean and I would often get into tussles. We’d stand there toe to toe, he’d be looking down into my eyes, I’d be looking up into his, defiant, and he’d always say, “Don’t let fear hold you back. If you want a shot at the title, I’m here.”
He’d say it with a smile, because he knew no matter how angry I got, how much I fought, I could never put him down.
“Don’t let fear hold you back, bro!”
I’d stare at him with anger, then charge him like a little bull. It was like hitting a brick wall—BOOM!—and I’d pop up and run at him again.
We moved beyond those years, but Sean’s words always stuck with me. To this day it’s something Sean and I still share—more than an in-joke, it’s a brotherly bond. No matter where I’m playing—in England or New York or Shanghai, or representing the national team in World Cups—I’ll get a text from him, out of the blue, with those same words:
Don’t let fear hold you back.
After Balmain Tigers, my next club was Marrickville Red Devils. Marrickville was a community that simply loved football. Every weekend was like a carnival, with the different languages and cultures, the foods, smells and flags of so many diverse nations. Nowhere do you see the melting pot of Australia as clearly as in the faces of the families who are passionate about football.
I soon made a lot of great friends in Marrickville and, now that I had more technical skills, football actually became fun. I was no longer the frightened four-year-old who had to be shoved onto the pitch. In the ebb and flow of the match, I found my release. I wasn’t afraid to take on other players, dribbling, feinting and using the simple art of the one-two with the other midfielders and forwards.
Marrickville Red Devils holds a special place in my heart because it was where I scored my first header. I can still see it unfolding vividly in my mind—like a slow-motion movie. We’d won a corner. The ball was whipped in from the right, I timed my jump, keeping my eyes wide open. Three defenders around me flinched and shrugged at the ball. I climbed above them, saw my chance and took it. I headed it, clean on the forehead, directing it exactly where I’d intended—with power—into the goal.
When the net bulged, when my team-mates swarmed me and cheered, my confidence soared. I remember turning, even as the ball flew past the keeper, to see people on the touchlines—my mum and dad and some of the other adults—already screaming.
It’s a big deal in a young footballer’s life when he scores his first header. We’d all scored goals with tap-ins or well-timed strikes, but leaping and directing a header with power was a more advanced skill.
Over the years, it’s become something of a signature for me. Five of the first six goals I scored for the Australian national team came from headers. People have said that I head a ball the way most other players kick it. That’s largely because when I see that cross come in, I’m fearless. Players often head the ball with reservation: they tuck their head in, flinch and squint—you even see this among some professionals. What that means, in effect, is that they’re letting the ball take control. You can see they don’t truly want to head it. With me, it’s the opposite.
Once I understood how to do it properly, I fell in love with heading. It felt, for some reason, very Samoan. Being fearless, athletic and powerful with your head is not something everyone has the ability to do on the pitch and I soon saw that as an avenue to success.
Confidence breeds more confidence. There was a natural progression from that moment; I started scoring a lot of headers regularly. My dad’s often said that even as a youth player I probably scored a good fifty or sixty per cent of my goals with my head. Crosses from the wing, free kicks and especially corners—I’d found I had a knack for leaping and getting good contact on the ball with my forehead. Still, at that age, I didn’t have much power in my shot, though I always had excellent timing: catching the ball as it bounced and volleying it over the goalkeeper’s head. We were still all relatively short kids, so lobbing over the net-minder was an effective way to score.
With the Red Devils, my vision, technique and ability to head the ball made me stand out, despite being a year younger than anyone else in the squad. And the more I scored with my head, the more I would train and train at heading. Some weeks, I spent hours just trying to perfect the angling and generate more power with my contact.
I see this change in confidence a lot in the youth academies I run in Australia, and it comes down to the basics. You have to take kids through the art of heading slowly, step by step, from square one, because sticking your head in the path of a flying object goes against common sense! To do it well you have to keep your eyes wide open and your mouth shut. You can’t be passive and let the ball hit the crown, but actually have to attack it with your forehead.
Now I teach my own son Cruz, who’s still only three—just as I’ve taught my sons Kyah and Shae and my daughter Sienna: “Head the ball the way Daddy does. Open your eyes, make clean contact!” I can already see the confidence growing in Cruz. When you breed that self-assuredness in a young kid, it makes it easier for them to do anything. Getting that parental encouragement and the first sense of confidence only snowballs and you inevitably get better.
I’m a firm believer that kids don’t truly find themselves until they experience that first moment of confidence. For me it came when I scored that first header for Marrickville Red Devils.
In the midst of all my outdoor team commitments, I started regularly playing indoor soccer, also known as futsal. Playing indoor soccer was important in my technical development because the spaces are tighter, the action quicker, and it requires a player to develop a greater sense of touch and ball control.
We played for a team called Banshee Knights. Our team identity was Irish but our close-knit group of friends—Ian Frenkel, Filimon Filippou, Vince Hansimikali and Nick Pizzano—were from loads of backgrounds. The name Banshee Knights was my father’s idea. Dad’s of Irish descent and loved those screaming banshees of Celtic legend. We wore the green and white with black shorts.
We were all talented individuals, and as a team we were fierce. We played in a lot of big competitions. Once we even travelled to Canberra for a tournament, though we lost in the finals to a team led by Nick and Leo Carle, two South American brothers who were also fantastically gifted indoor players. Despite that loss we continued to be known as the underdog team that seemed to do well on big occasions.
When I’m asked about my mentality as a footballer—what drives me so hard on and off the park—I always say it was seeing my parents get up at the crack of dawn, 5:30 a.m., to go to work. Mum always had two jobs: working at various hotels early in the day, then a second job at Streets Ice Cream factory that she would finish by 6 p.m. My dad got up early, too, to drive her to work—he’d suffered an injury on his job, but he became the best house-dad. He did all the cleaning, cooking, all the running around with the four of us kids—probably one of the hardest jobs in the world.
My family wasn’t well-off—my brothers, sister and I were never in a position to spend money frivolously with our mates, because that would affect the household budget. I was constantly aware of how hard both my mum and dad worked just to make ends meet.
Even at a young age I worried about how much my mum pushed herself: how many hours she worked, the lack of sleep, just to make sure we had the necessities like school books and school uniforms—not to mention those extras for football.
By the time I was ten years old, I fully understood and respected what my parents did to support our passion for the game. I understood how expensive it was for new boots and kit, plus the registration fees for clubs. I knew the sacrifices my parents were making. It wasn’t a hobby, even at that age, to join a club and play in tournaments. Football was a commitment and a major financial sacrifice for my family.
Often, I heard my mum get up in the morning and, just before she left, I’d hop out of bed and say goodbye to her because I knew I wouldn’t see her until very late that evening. Those memories left a mental scar that has stayed with me for life. Even at four years old I knew that life for my parents was a constant struggle.
After my indoor football games, we’d drive to a small Greek gyros shop in Marrickville. We’d go there on Thursday night, excited because it was our one treat for the week. I’d order a beef gyros with lettuce, onions and barbecue sauce, and many times my mum wouldn’t order: “No, I’m okay—I don’t want anything.”
I’d eat only half, handing the rest to my mum, saying, “Sorry, I’m full.” She’s a very astute woman, but to this day she probably doesn’t know that I understood the reason she didn’t order anything was because, first and foremost, she was always looking out for us.
And even now, regardless of how much I’m earning as a footballer, she hasn’t changed. Whenever we go to a restaurant in Australia, my mother will pick the cheapest item on the menu. I’ll smile and say, “Mum, go ahead, order whatever.” But it doesn’t matter—she’s still as economical as she was when I was a kid.
REACHING HIGHER (#u7aee4e41-b7c0-5049-9061-9c7a109184ea)
THE NEXT LEVEL UP IN my youth career was when I joined Lakemba Soccer Club and was selected to play for Canterbury Reps. Now I’d joined an elite group of boys. One of my best mates, even to this day, Anthony Panzarino, was to become a massive influence on my development. Anthony and I hit it off immediately and were soon inseparable. We played together for both Lakemba and the Reps. Canterbury had more than a dozen club teams; if you’d done well at your club, you’d receive a call up, but only one or two players from each club got the honour.
Only a few players from Lakemba were selected. Making it to Canterbury Reps was a pretty big deal; this was no longer football as recreation. If you made the team you’d travel all around Australia. We were ten and eleven years old, the age when we were starting to find ourselves as footballers, and travelling with Canterbury opened the world to us.
I remember during our Lakemba and Canterbury Representative days it seemed like we never stopped playing football. If we weren’t in class—or sleeping—we had a ball at our feet. I’d go round to Anthony’s house, kicking the ball with him for an hour before training, shooting and passing against the wall or along the side of his garage.
Anthony and I both had long hair down the back of our necks like so many of the great Italian and Latin American players in those days. We were trying to look like Redondo, the brilliant Argentine midfielder; just about everything else we did was an imitation of the big-time professional footballers: the way they walked, their mannerisms we’d seen on the TV, right down to how they wore their kit.
At home, Anthony’s dad, Mick Panzarino, always watched Italian league matches. Anthony’s mum, Beatrice, would put out a huge spread of food. His dad would sit at the head of the table and we’d feast on fresh-baked Italian bread, salads, pastas, meatballs and imported mozzarella, while watching those matches from Italy on the TV in the living room.
I used to love going to the Panzarinos’, especially after training when we were always ravenous. I’d never tasted better food in my life.
Anthony and I didn’t have one single day in the week when we weren’t playing football. Talk about a time commitment: there were loads of driving and logistical arrangements for our parents. During the indoor season our schedules were packed. Lakemba matches on Saturday, Canterbury Reps on Sunday, indoor matches with the Banshee Knights on Thursday afternoon.
Add in practices for all those teams and there was really not a single day of the week when I wasn’t either in training or playing a competitive match. Football consumed my entire life, but I didn’t want anything else. I didn’t want to hang out and do what the other kids from school were doing. And, outside of games and practices, Anthony and I would put in hours training on our own at his place. Looking back on it now, it’s obvious we were little machines who were completely in love with the game.
By this time in our lives we were getting a reputation as an elite group, and I was lucky to be among such skilled young players. My parents still have a clipping from one of the Sydney papers that referred to us as “the Maradonas of tomorrow”. For a kid my age, at that time, there was no higher compliment.
Such a fantastic age, too. We had so much energy, jumping fences, meeting up after school. My mates and I would quickly ring each other after school and go to the park with my brothers Sean and Chris. We’d play three v. three. I remember getting into punch-ups because one team had lost 1–0 or 2–3 or some such foolishness—I mean, we took those kickabouts that seriously. We’d fight over who scored, or who fouled whom. Whether it should be a throw-in or a corner kick—any little thing. Then we’d run home to our own houses. And the next day—it didn’t matter that we’d fought the day before—we’d ring each other up and do it all over again.
Those are priceless childhood memories. I could never stand losing at anything. Not with my brothers, not with my mates. Just wasn’t acceptable. Years later, funnily enough, when I was playing for Everton, I’d find myself having a similarly competitive friendship with one of the most gifted footballers of the Premier League, the Spaniard Mikel Arteta.
Some days Anthony’s dad would take us to training, other days it would be my dad’s turn. But no matter who was driving there was no small talk: these were serious football lessons. The whole way to training, our dads would talk tactics and strategy: how we were going to play and link up together as midfielders. If it was a game day, the talk would be more motivational—“How badly do you want to win, boys?”—right down to the level of asking us if our boots were clean. It’s those details that show your level of passion, pride and commitment to the sport.
When it came to football both our dads knew what they were talking about. With my father, it was bred in the bone: that hard-core working-class Londoner’s love of the game. With Anthony’s father, there was more Italian flair, but he was equally passionate.
Anthony and I usually huffed and puffed and muttered under our breath: “Bloody hell, our dads don’t know nothing …” But I can see now how much they did know, and how deeply they affected our lives.
I can still hear Anthony’s father’s voice as we’d drive to the Lakemba training sessions.
“Anthony, you need to shoot more—you’re taking too long on the ball” or “Anthony, you need to get the ball wide to the wing, so Tim can meet the cross. And you both need to link better together.”
Anthony and I formed a solid partnership on the pitch. We both played in midfield. Sometimes I’d play slightly in front of him. We each had our strengths. He had a really powerful shot. I had strong heading ability and vision.
Still, I was a long way from a finished article at that age. Some of the other kids had better shots, great touch and control of the ball. At that stage in our lives, I often played with kids who were more polished and technical. I wasn’t discouraged if I saw one of my mates, or one of my brothers, had a better shot, though I’d sometimes shake my head in amazement when he’d strike a precise volley into the back of the net. If anything, my admiration for that skill fuelled my own ambition. It inspired me to improve my own shooting. I’d find myself studying everything my mates did to generate that same power.
By the time I was playing with Lakemba and Canterbury Reps, my dad’s expectations for me had grown. He’d always been this way, but, as I got older, he kept raising the bar and the scrutiny got more intense.
Back when we lived in Annandale, Dad would take all three of us brothers—Sean, Chris and me—down to the park at the back of Johnson Street for training. These weren’t casual kickabouts: he had us looking like little professionals, running through cones, doing sprints against each other, various triangle passing drills. He’d also make us work hard on our heading. He kept a ball inside a net-bag, hooked to the branch of a tree. Talk about an old-school trick. You rarely see anyone practising headers that way anymore. Each one of us in turn would run as fast as we could, leap up and head the ball, learning how to make good contact and get proper direction. And we’d better get it right, or Dad would make us do it over and over again.
Because he always stressed the importance of being two-footed, Dad would sometimes have us take the boot off our stronger-kicking leg—in my case the right—and have us shoot only left-footed. It’s a simple technique but a highly effective one.
Dad would also regularly take videos of my matches and then show them to me on the TV at home, focussing not on what I’d done well, but on what I could improve.
“Look, Tim, I know you scored three goals but you could have had four.” He used to stress that I needed to develop more power in my legs. He would also tell me that I was arriving in the box too early. He would freeze-frame the video and show me. “Look, here: if you’d held up your run a bit, see how much better positioned you’d be for the open cross?”
My dad was an instinctive motivator. He was never one for patting you on the back. No hugs after matches. And I’d never—or very rarely—hear him say, “Well done, son, you were terrific out there today.”
Still, I’d occasionally catch him, when I’d scored a nice goal—a well-timed header or difficult volley—and there’d be a momentary flash of pride. A glance that expressed words he’d never say, just for a second in his eyes.
That was priceless to me. Even as a kid, that’s all you need: to catch that fraction of a second of pride in your father’s eyes. I never needed anything more than that. The fact that he withheld praise, I think, prevented me from becoming complacent. He gave me enough praise to keep me going—and held back enough to keep me hungry.
In fact, I think my parents’ tough motivational style, more than anything else, is what made me into a top-flight footballer. So many times after a match, when I’d done alright on the pitch, I’d get in the car and my mum would take the sandal off her foot and smack me on the back of the head—not to hurt or anything, just chiding me, because that’s the Samoan way of doing things. My dad, meanwhile, was peppering me with his criticisms: “Why are you smiling, son? You could’ve won 5–0 instead of 5–3. Why weren’t you tracking back from the midfield? Helping out the back four? Letting in those late goals is nothing to be proud of.”
The funny thing was, when my parents said something similar to my brothers Sean and Chris, their response would be to nod and shrug: Yeah, so what? Not bothered. Yet each of my brothers in his own way was very gifted. Sean was an incredible goalkeeper and Chris, five years younger than me, was technically superb. My dad has often said that Chris had better footballing attributes than I did at his age. He was the more complete player, with better skills and a more developed body.
Where my brothers would shrug off our father’s critique of our playing, I’d go home and dwell on it. Yeah, you know, Dad’s right, I’d say to myself. If only I’d taken a better touch, and simply passed the ball into the net, instead of trying to smash it—two feet wide of the post! I missed that chance—missed it …
It would actually keep me awake at night, obsessing over the littlest mistakes my dad had scolded me for in some regular Under-10 or Under-11 game. It didn’t matter that I’d scored. I’d lie there angry at myself for the ones I hadn’t put in the back of the net. If a missed opportunity had meant a draw instead of a win, because I’d made the decision to go for power rather than simply pass the ball into the net, I’d beat myself up over it. I know that sounds ludicrously perfectionist for a kid of ten, but you’ve got to have that kind of drive to succeed in football. My commitment and passion were on a different level from either of my brothers’—and to this day, no one in the family knows exactly why.
I wasn’t a normal kid. I’m the first to admit it. I was definitely not normal. I was so obsessed with football that when I got up in the morning, the first thing I did was look at my boots, making sure they were clean and spotless. Not a speck of dirt or a grass stain better be on them. They had to look brand new. I had various official team kits. I especially loved the Manchester United kits—the green and yellow away shirt and the classic red home kit with the tie-up front. I’d make sure they were all hung up, clean and neat in the closet, looking just like they were in a shop window.
Before I left for school, I’d have my Lakemba or Canterbury Reps kit all laid out for when I got home, knowing I’d have after-school training. Boots spotless, shin pads perfect, my socks neatly laid out across the bed. When it was time to leave I had my trainers on, my boot bag ready, my water bottle filled—my parents didn’t have to do a thing. I already had that focussed mind-set of a full-time footballer.
At a very young age I was self-disciplined and an extreme perfectionist. I can’t recall a time when I wasn’t this way: my brother Sean used to tease me about it. He still does, because I’m known as the one of the three boys who can’t stand clutter, disorganization or anything out of order in my home or with my clothes.
I realize now, in hindsight, that in the six or seven years since I’d started playing football, a combination of my perfectionist personality, good role models, opportunities to play—even my mum’s Samoan whacks with her sandal and my dad’s post-match analysis—all of it turned a passion for the game of football into an obsession that would soon consume my life.
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Tim Cahill
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Биографии и мемуары
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The story of international football star Tim Cahill, one of the most admired Australian sportsmen of all time.Tim Cahill was born in Sydney to a Samoan mother and English father. He grew up in the city′s western suburbs playing football with his brothers and for his local club sides. As a teenager, Tim′s parents took out a loan so that he could travel to England and chase his dream of becoming a professional soccer player. It was an act of faith repaid with a stellar international career and the legacy of one of the most admired Australian sportsmen of his generation. With his trademark honesty and directness, Tim reflects on what it takes to make it to the top – the sacrifices, the physical cost, the mental stamina, the uncompromising self-belief and self-determination, the ruthlessness, but also the decency, the integrity, and the generosity. An autobiography that is more than a record of the goals and the games, Tim Cahill′s story is a universal reminder of the importance of making your moment count.