Legacy: The Autobiography of Tim Cahill. Tim Cahill

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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.

       GOLDEN BICYCLES AND OLYMPIC DREAMS

      FOOTBALL BECAME MY WHOLE WORLD. I fell hopelessly in love with the game. The only friends I had were my footballing friends. I had mates at school, but we didn’t get together after school. I really didn’t have a spare minute. I was so engrossed in the game that I watched it and trained every day. More importantly, I was learning to respect the game.

      At the age of seven, my dad took me to meet a key figure, a man who was to play a pivotal role in transforming my game. His name was Johnny Doyle. Johnny Doyle was the local guru of football, a former player turned coach, who was known for bringing out the best in players though private clinics and lessons.

      Before we even met, my dad told me about Johnny Doyle’s past: born in Ireland, he came to Australia and played professionally at centre-forward for various teams like South Sydney Croatia, Pan Hellenic, APIA Leichhardt and Canterbury-Marrickville Olympic. He’d even been called up for the Australian national team in 1970. After his playing days he became a coach at a high level for football teams in Australia.

      Johnny had the build of a classic No. 9—the strong centre-forward. A big dominating presence. He also had a schoolteacher’s mentality. He was a mathematics teacher at Kingsgrove North High School, where I would be enrolled a few years later.

      I started doing sessions with Johnny Doyle at the age of seven and continued until I was fifteen. Meeting him for the first time, I was excited but nervous. Here was this coach who’d made dozens of good players into great ones. And, according to my dad, there were even some players who used to train with Johnny Doyle right before they went overseas to trial with professional clubs.

      That was my dream. Somehow getting an overseas trial. Johnny was like the finishing act: the master trainer before any kid—any good Sydney-based player—jetted overseas. My dad’s opinion, at least, was that the only way I was going to make it as a professional footballer was under the tutelage of Johnny Doyle.

      He held his lessons on the little home pitch of St George Football Club. Simple clubhouse, locker room, three pitches. We used to park the car, jump over a little fence, then walk down this pathway to where Johnny Doyle would be waiting with his sack of footballs and his equipment. We’d do private lessons, just me individually, but also small group sessions of two or three. Those were usually with my brother Sean, and with a young player named David James who in later years would become СКАЧАТЬ