Legacy: The Autobiography of Tim Cahill

HarperSport

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 77-85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB 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 Source ISBN: 978-00-081441-73 Ebook Edition © November 2015 ISBN: 9780008144180 Version: 2015-11-06

In memory of Faataualofa 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

Title Page

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

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

FEARLESS

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.