Читать книгу Legacy: The Autobiography of Tim Cahill - Tim Cahill - Страница 9

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.