Legacy: The Autobiography of Tim Cahill. Tim Cahill

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      I nodded, but I really didn’t care what she was saying. She thought I was being a smart-arse—when in fact I was only being honest. I’m sure somewhere, jotted down in red ink in a teacher’s notebook in Kingsgrove North is the assessment:

      Timothy Cahill—unrealistic. Has his mind set on being a professional footballer.

      On that final day of school at Kingsgrove North, I finally found Rebecca.

      “Bek, I don’t know if I’ll see you again for a long while. I’m leaving in a week.”

      “What are you on about, Tim?”

      “I’m leaving school today,” I said. “It’s my last full day. Next week I’m flying to England.”

      “For what?’

      “I’m going to be a professional footballer.”

      Again she thought I was clowning around, but then she saw the changed look in my eyes.

      “Well, good luck, Tim. Hope you make it.”

      I told her that early that day, I’d tried to ring her at her house to give her the news and spoken briefly to her great-grandfather, Lou. He was originally from London, a massive Tottenham supporter. When I told him I was leaving for England, hoping to get a trial at Millwall, Lou was so enthusiastic. “Millwall—great club,” he said. “I hope you make the team, son. If you can play at Millwall, you can play anywhere.” That was a powerful statement and it stuck with me for years.

      I could never have imagined the life I’d later have with Rebecca. She was someone I had a strong connection with through high school. But looking back, I suppose it was already the kind of bond that would later become the basis for something deeper.

      I completed my goodbyes and, unlike Rebecca, most of my teachers and schoolmates met my news with eye-rolling and a bit of sarcasm. To be fair, a few did wish me well at chasing my dream, even if deep down they thought it was a long shot.

      Like my career studies teacher, a few of the staff cautioned me to be balanced.

      “You’re a good player, Tim,” one teacher told me, “but make sure you keep up with school work.” As if to say: it’ll likely not work out for you, chasing this footballer’s dream—so please, son, have something to fall back on.

      I didn’t have a fall-back plan, because I had no intention of falling back.

       ENGLAND

      I WAS STILL A CHILD when I made the trip to England in late-1997. I remember saying a tearful goodbye to my parents at the airport, but I was also filled with excitement.

      I’d never been on a flight alone, even a short one within Australia. My trips to Samoa had always been with Sean or Mum and Dad. During that long flight from Sydney to London, I had no idea how to occupy myself, given all the excitement I felt. I watched movie after movie after movie. Between films, I read football magazines about the Premiership. I read the statistics of every team and player from the First Division and Second Division, trying to memorize the details as if I had to pass an examination upon my arrival in London.

      Halfway through the flight, in the middle of watching Meet Joe Black, my mind started racing again. I wasn’t even in England and I was already feeling homesick. I suppose it was only now beginning to sink in—the massive leap into the unknown I was about to make.

      When the plane landed at Heathrow, Glen and Lindsey Stanley were there to meet me. They were so welcoming that not even for an instant did I feel like a stranger. Glen immediately treated me like a son—gave me a big powerful hug—and straightaway I felt his warmth. Lindsey’s from New Zealand, a Kiwi girl—just brilliant. We drove to their home in Dartford and met their kids: the boys Ben, Michael and Sam, and their youngest, daughter Olivia.

      Everyone who knows me can tell you I’m never happier than when I’m surrounded by a bunch of kids. That’s another very Samoan trait. Throw five kids in a room with me, and a baby in my lap, and that’s when I’m most relaxed. Had the Stanley kids been older than me, who knows? Perhaps I might have felt a bit ill at ease—but now, in this house with three boys and a girl all various ages, and all younger than me—yes, I felt right at home.

      The Stanleys lived in a three-storey terrace house. Space was pretty tight already, with two parents and four kids—now five, including me. There was a small kitchen and lounge room, a sliver of a backyard. I shared a room with the boys—double bunk beds—and Olivia had her own room.

      Soon as I sorted things out, I called my mum and dad. I couldn’t have sounded happier, and I remember hearing the relief in my mum’s voice.

      “Yeah, I’m running around with the kids,” I said. “No worries, Mum. Glen and Lindsey are fantastic, they’ve welcomed me with open arms …”

      Looking back on it, I can see how lucky I was to be in that Samoan atmosphere, in that communal island-style environment. There was never a moment of isolation. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, we were together. It was a bit like being in camp on Samoa during the build-up to the tournament in Fiji, where we all ate together and helped out with the cleaning up and doing the chores.

      Finally, after a day or two settling in, I made the call to Allen Batsford, the former Wimbledon manager, whom my dad had been talking to about coordinating my trials.

      “Heard good things about you already, Tim,” Allen said when I rang him. “Just give me some time. Could take weeks, could take months, but we’ll get you sorted.”

      Months? Months sounded like an eternity to me—I was so eager to get on with things—but I’d been well warned by my dad that nothing was guaranteed. I hoped for a trial with a professional club, but things had to run their course, in their own time.

      I’d come so early, it wasn’t even pre-season yet for the professional clubs. That was over a month away, so what was I going to do? I needed to stay fit.

      The Stanleys, like a lot of Samoans, were a big rugby family. Glenn’s brother, Joe Stanley, is a legend in New Zealand rugby and is also known as Smokin’ Joe. He was the centre in the All-Blacks side that won the Rugby World Cup in 1987. He and his brothers and cousins are sometimes called the “Stanley Rugby Clan”, which includes Joe and Jeremy Stanley. Michael, Ben and Sam all played for the local youth rugby team. In fact, all three boys would go on to have distinguished careers playing rugby at youth, club and international levels.

      When I’d go out to watch them play with their local rugby clubs, it didn’t take long to catch the bug. No way was I going out and getting into a scrum with some of those giants, but I decided to join the touch-rugby team.

      Touch rugby—it’s mainly known in Australia as “touch football”—is a variation of rugby with six rather than fifteen players. Its rules are similar to standard rugby league, minus the scrums and hard tackling. As soon as you’re tagged with two hands you stop running and put the ball on the ground just as if you’d been tackled.

      I joined up for touch rugby as part of my fitness regimen. Being so much older than the Stanley kids, I ended up playing with Glenn on the adult touch team, and soon made some friends. We’d all hang out in the pub, muddy and sweaty, after running around СКАЧАТЬ