Читать книгу Legacy: The Autobiography of Tim Cahill - Tim Cahill - Страница 13

THE BIGGEST STRIKE AGAINST ME at that age—and another reason I was often told I wasn’t being realistic about my dreams of being a professional footballer in England—was that I was still very small. In high school, I was only 165 cm tall and weighed only 55 kilos.

Some of the stars of the global game, whose pictures I clipped out of glossy magazines and pinned up on my wall, weren’t much bigger. The two Brazilian strikers of the 1994 World Cup—Bebeto and Romario—had pride of place on my wall and were hardly giants. Romario had a stockier build, but on the pitch Bebeto was so slight he looked like a teenager who’d stolen his father’s shorts for the game—and yet in that 1994 World Cup he was a superstar. He routinely beat defenders, had incredible touch, laid effortless passes for Romario, and together they formed the most beautiful strike partnership.

I was well aware that in the Australian mind-set of that time, I was nowhere near the height and weight and strength of a professional athlete—a striker who could outleap 183-cm tall central defenders to gain purchase on a header inside the penalty box. Australian coaches were scouting for the classic “target man” forward—a big No. 9 who could play with his back to goal in the mould of Gary Lineker or Marco van Basten.

I wasn’t that kid, but one of the brilliant things about football is that your skills, technique and passion can counterbalance your opponent’s advantages in size and strength. Picture Maradona famously dribbling through the entire England defence in the 1986 World Cup—a masterpiece of close control, change of pace, feinting and balance—to score that match winner voted the “Greatest Goal of the Century”.

To this day, people debate why football under-performs at the international level in certain countries—England is a prime example—and whether an emphasis on physical strength over technical skills at the youth development level is to blame. It’s a complex question, and I don’t claim to have all the answers. But I do know that when I was growing up, I played with quite a few smaller South American kids—gifted athletes with phenomenal touch and dribbling skills—who didn’t succeed in the Australian system. They quit football because they were told they were too small. It just wasn’t in fashion to favour technique over physique.

Fast-forward a couple decades and it’s almost inconceivable how much the game has changed. Nowadays some of the best players in the world are only 165 cm, 168 cm or 170 cm tall. Guys like Messi, Xavi, Tevez—some of the most talented players in the game. But had they been in Australia in my schoolboy days, players as short as Tevez or Messi, or as slight as David Silva, would surely have been told they were too small and not strong enough to make it. In my opinion, a kid’s size—or lack of size—should never be seen as an impediment to success at the highest levels of football.

Even at a young age I was aware that my size could be seen as a disadvantage, but I was determined that it would never stand in my way. By high school, I’d managed to gain a reputation as a top-club player; I also started to shine in school sport. I played in the Primary Schools Sports Association league. Then there came a chance to play for the representative school district team called Metropolitan East. This was a public school select team, in the same way that Canterbury Reps was a clubs’ select team.

Playing for Metropolitan East was a significant milestone in my development. The squad was drawn from dozens of schools—Canterbury, Eastern Suburbs and St George—but only one kid per school was chosen. Even though my talent was still a bit raw, being selected was a recognition of my hard work.

We played in an intense competition in Sutherland, in south Sydney, right next to Cronulla Oval, ten games going on at once against other district select squads.

On days like that, you try to keep your wits about you on the pitch, but it’s such a nervous moment—you know if you do well you could potentially be selected to represent your state: the whole of New South Wales.

We spent the entire day playing matches. Even at that age, I planned everything in my mind, hyper-analysing, trying to anticipate how to shape my performance.

What did I need to do to stand out in a tournament like this, where there were so many good midfielders? Did I need to score goals? Did I need to be unselfish and more creative? Should I allow myself a few minutes of dribbling, bossing the play, or immediately lay-off a clever through-pass?

One thing I knew: I had to impress. Youth football is a series of tests and trials, of potential opportunities and life-changing matches and tournaments, and I knew this was one of my first big chances to break through.

After hours of pounding, intense action, I found myself sitting at the end of the tournament with hundreds of other kids, cross-legged on one of the pitches. All our parents were there as well and all the coaches in their light-blue tracksuits, every one of them with a clipboard: “When we call your name, please come forward. You’ve been selected for the preliminary squad for the New South Wales PSSA Team.”

Various players would get called out, they’d stand—the adults would cheer.

I’d already done the calculations: I figured there were so many matches going on simultaneously, the odds were that the coaches had seen at least four or five highly skilled midfielders who were taller and stronger than me. I told myself I’d better accept that I wouldn’t be called.

A few of the lads from my representative squad had been chosen for their district teams and had played in the same tournament. Some of them had already been called and as their names were read, they stood up confidently, striding forward to form a line behind the coaches. They had an air that told me they’d known all along that they were head and shoulders better than the rest of us. It wasn’t cockiness; it was just confidence in their abilities.

Then one of the coaches read out: “Metropolitan East. Tim Cahill …”

My eyes shot open wide, I jumped to my feet and half-ran toward the rest of the guys who’d formed up in the queue behind the coaches. I had worked so hard for this, I was nearly in tears.

Some of the guys selected were on a different planet. They were the best physical specimens, not just from our local schools or New South Wales, but in all of Australia. They were fast and strong. Some were enormous for that age: they looked like men with full moustaches, dark hair over their legs and arms, muscles like they were eighteen or nineteen years old.

We have team photos of that NSW select squad—I look like a baby compared to some of them. We had one striker in the NSW team whose body was so well developed that when midfielders kicked the ball over the top to him, he’d burst onto it like an Olympic sprinter. He terrorised defenders, thundering down on them with that pace and his legs churning.

The NSW team was in great form and we ended up winning the entire tournament. And yet, for some of those well-built kids, that select team was the pinnacle of their careers. Many of them stopped developing at fifteen or sixteen years old and never went further in football than that NSW representative team.

It’s a lesson I learned only in hindsight: nothing is ever predetermined. It’s a constant reminder to work hard, stay focussed and never believe that your future is assured.

My obsession with football was so complete at that age that it felt as if I went from game to practice to trial, to another team and another tournament, and back again. By this point Sydney Olympic was home; I’d been there five years. I’d learned Greek, made great friends, become part of the culture. Now, after my experience with the NSW select team, I dreamed of making Olympic’s first team and playing for them in the NSL.

The way the system worked, each year—regardless of how many years you’d played in the youth teams—you had to try out again. In my fifth year, I went to trial for the Olympic youth team, but despite my best efforts, I was not selected.

When he asked why, my dad was told by one of the coaches, “Tim’s too small and not fast enough.”

“Yeah?” my dad said. “Alright—we’ll see …”

As it sank in, I realized that the coaches had essentially determined that I would never shine in the NSL, so they decided to drop me and develop younger team players they felt had more potential.

I don’t want to fault the coaches completely. It could have been the case that at fourteen I was still too undeveloped physically, but all I knew at the time was that, emotionally, I was crushed.

All my mates played in the team. I knew I was getting better every year; I knew I was giving my all in every match and in every training session. I knew I was progressing, but with their rejection I felt as if everything I had worked for was being closed off to me.

My dad remained upbeat. He said we’d just hit a bump in the road and we’d continue the private training with Johnny Doyle. But it kept echoing in my mind: Too small. Not strong enough. Not fast enough …

I said to my dad, “There’s got to be somewhere I can go to get stronger.”

My parents did some looking around, then decided to send me to the Institute of Sport in Lidcombe. The institute is a world-class facility, set up to test athletes in every facet of their ability: speed, reaction time, vertical jump. I did a fifty-metre run; they timed it, but also made a video so we could review my form. They taught me how to jump more explosively and, for the first time, I had nutritionists analysing my diet. I was looking for a reason—some scientific explanation—as to why the hell I didn’t get picked for Sydney Olympic.

It may have been nothing more than bad luck, but I’m not a big believer in blaming things on luck—good or bad. To this day I often say, “Luck is great, but if I want to be lucky I’ll go buy a lottery ticket.” If things don’t go your way, sometimes you have to do everything in your power to put yourself back in the position of achieving your goals.

My failure to make the next level at Sydney Olympic filled me with doubt, had me believing, rightly or wrongly, that perhaps I wasn’t ready, that perhaps what the coaches were saying was true—I wasn’t tall enough, strong enough or fast enough.

After completing the initial assessment at the institute, I was given a program to rework my body mechanics. “We’re going to change the way you run,” one of the instructors told me.

They replayed the video of me, showing me how my arms flew out too wide, how my thigh movement could be improved. They had me change my running style by keeping my arms and legs in tight, close to my body, moving like a track-and-field sprinter: right-knee left-arm, left-knee right-arm.

In reality, you don’t need blazing speed over distance to be a top footballer. Very rarely in open play are you covering fifty metres of the pitch at a full sprint. You only need to have explosive pace in those first ten or fifteen metres.

That’s where the scientific analysis of my running paid dividends. Being quicker off the mark helped me beat my opponents and put me in position to receive a pass.

Changing my running style didn’t come easily, but by working tirelessly on my coordination and rhythm, I made my running style more complete.

My parents bought a small trampoline, which the instructors told me I should put in my bedroom, in front of the mirror, so I could watch myself. They recommended this as a way to study my form, running until I was out of breath. I also did lunges and sit-ups and push-ups and box-jumps—the basics of plyometrics.

I went a bit crazy with it, I suppose. I did this same bloody routine every day until I was drenched in sweat. I can be an extremist when I’m trying to improve something and I reckon my friends and brothers, maybe even my parents, were looking at me saying, “Timmy’s finally gone round the bend.” While other kids were off doing what normal teenagers do after school—watching TV, hanging out at shopping centres—I was working out in the bedroom, sweat pouring off me.

At the institute, they shot more video and we analysed it. I returned home and kept working on my form, kept telling myself, “I’m going to be a machine.” The institute, the plyometrics, the trampoline workout—they all helped.

But I still needed to play football. Since I couldn’t play for Sydney Olympic, we had to find a club that would take me. My dad found yet another Greek club, Belmore Hercules, which played two divisions lower.

Belmore Hercules is not quite as well known as Sydney Olympic, but it is still a proud club, founded in 1971. My dad and I went to Belmore for the trial and I told them I’d been playing for five years for Sydney Olympic. A few of the players and staff recognized me.

By now, to be honest, Olympic’s rejection was a massive blow to my confidence, but it was also a reality check. I said to myself, “If you make it through trials, you’re playing here, in a lower division, because this is your proper level.”

Luckily, I was selected. Once again, I was much younger than all the other players. At Hercules, there were Under-18s, Under-21s and then the adult first team—and at the age of fifteen I was by far the youngest kid in the Under-18s.

My dad volunteered as one of the assistant managers, which I found a bit uncomfortable. I’d seen it plenty of times where one of the coaches was a parent of a kid in the team. People would snicker when the kid was named captain or played all ninety minutes just because his dad was on the touchline with a clipboard and a whistle. I didn’t want anyone thinking I’d made the starting squad because my dad was pulling strings. It was in fact quite the opposite, since my dad didn’t volunteer until I’d already been selected at trials. In the end, it didn’t matter—I knew that my work rate and quality on the pitch would speak for itself.

Sean was our starting goalkeeper; I played as an attacking-midfielder, sometimes as an outright striker. It was one of the best footballing seasons I ever had. I started scoring a lot of goals, then after one particularly good match with the Under-18s, I was called in by the coach. “Tim, if you’re not too worn out, I think we should play you in the Under-21s as well.”

I wanted the opportunity and played with both the Under-18s and the Under-21s. The season roared along until I suddenly found myself on a goal record and my name, for the first time, started appearing in the local press. The Greek papers were writing about me. The local Sydney sports writers were noticing me.

And again, a lot of what had got me noticed was my heading: “Cahill jumps like a kangaroo.”

I had never stopped training in how to head the ball, and would still practise with my dad, with Johnny Doyle and with friends. Those explosive jumping drills, squats, and lunges I’d been doing in my bedroom had made my natural leaping ability all that much more powerful. Even at less than 167 cm in height, I was often able to jump higher than defenders who were over 183 cm tall. It was due to a combination of factors: vertical leap, timing and desire. No one was going to out-leap me or out-muscle me as I planted my head on that cross.

John Xipolitas was the first-team coach for Belmore Hercules. They had some big players from the NSL who’d come to play for Belmore’s first team during the off-season, because it was their old club. I played in one Under-18s game and was gearing up to play for the Under-21s when Coach Xipolitas said to me in his heavy Greek accent: “Tim, you won’t play with the Under-21s today.”

“What do you mean?”

“Today I want you to play in first team.”

The Hercules’ first team played at Belmore Oval, right across the road from Canterbury Boys School. Everyone—all the fans and the families of the players—sat on the hill or stood behind the clubhouse and huddled around the souvlaki stand. It was a big deal on the weekends for the Hercules faithful to gather at Belmore Oval for the first-team matches.

To this day, I’m still the youngest player ever to lace his boots for the Belmore first team. I was a small fifteen-year-old, playing with grown men. At one point, late in the match, the coach waved me on as a substitute at a set-piece. I ran on just as one of our midfielders was about to take a corner. The way the play unfolded, it took me straight back to my days with Marrickville Red Devils—the first time I’d ever scored in a match with my head.

The ball came over from the right, I jumped with three other defenders—men who were much bigger than me. I managed to climb out of the pack: not using vertical leap, but proper timing of my run.

There was no luck involved. I saw the ball, knew I was going to get my head on it but now the quality of the contact was the most important thing. Eyes wide open, I opened my body up a bit, my right shoulder squared, then I headed it down, aiming for the bottom right corner. The grass was a little wet, and I turned and watched as the ball skipped past the goalkeeper, billowing the net.

I was swarmed by my team-mates! Even the other team—after the match—came over to congratulate me on the quality of the header that won us the league.

I was named top scorer in the league that year: thirty goals in all competitions for all three teams—Under-18s, Under-21s and first team—the most goals ever scored in a season for Belmore Hercules.

I’d been cut by Sydney Olympic for the Under-18s squad—wasn’t considered good enough—but I could start for the first team of Belmore Hercules, albeit two divisions below, and win the championship and the overall scoring record.

That was one of my proudest moments growing up as a footballer in Australia. I had spent that entire season trying to recover from being dropped by Sydney Olympic, but I made something of the setback. I had scored big goals practically every week for Hercules with the Under-18s and Under-21s, and now I’d come on in a big match to score the winner with the first team.

At Hercules, I blossomed and found my niche. In the end, being dropped by Sydney Olympic might have been the best thing that could have happened to me.