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.
THROUGHOUT MY HIGH SCHOOL YEARS at Kingsgrove North I continued playing high-level football—now for Sydney United, a club as heavily influenced by its Croatian culture as Sydney Olympic was by its Greek origins.
Though I ended up staying less than a full season, Sydney United was another stepping stone, a club with a rich history where I had a chance to play with some fantastic youth talent like Joel Griffiths and David James—my old mate from the Johnny Doyle private training lesson. Phil Pavela, our coach, really believed in me, could see that I had potential even if I still needed some polish. That’d been the story of my life with some coaches: they either saw the future player I could become or they didn’t. Sydney United played at Edensor Park—a beautiful 12,000-seat stadium—against all the big teams like Marconi and Olympic. Coach Pavela gave me a lot of playing time with the Under-21s, pushed me hard in training, but also helped me a lot off the park, becoming close with my family.
Then one day, midway through Year 11, I got home from school and something was different in the house.
“Have a seat, Tim,” my dad said. “We need to have a chat.”
I put my things down and joined my parents at the kitchen table.
“I’ve made a few calls to England,” my father began.
Now I glanced at my mum and I could see she was upset. She’d been crying a few minutes earlier. I lost track of what my father was saying. Anytime my mum’s upset, I’m upset.
“… In any event, we think you’re ready,” Dad said. “We’ve got an opportunity to send you to England and we think it’s the right time …”
“What? England?”
“You’re just sixteen,” my mum said. “You have to tell us—is this something you really want to do?”
I sat there, silently mulling it over.
“It’s not going to be easy,” she continued. “You’re not going to be at home. You’re going to be …”
“Where will I live?”
“You’ll be staying with Mum’s relatives,” Dad said.
“Glen and Lindsey,” Mum said. “The Stanleys.”
I remembered seeing a photograph or two, but I really had no connection besides recognizing their names.
I asked what club I would have a trial with. What my dad said came as a bit of a shock.
“You