My dad had already made calls to a man named Allen Batsford. He’d been the manager of Wimbledon and was now a talent scout for Nottingham Forest. I didn’t understand the details fully, but Allen Batsford had a relationship with the Millwall youth team as well. Dad had also been in touch with another guy named Bob Pearson, who at the time was the chief scout for Millwall Football Club.
Once I heard those names—Millwall and Nottingham Forest—I was sold on the idea. Just to have a shot at a trial for a professional football club in England was enough for me.
“But listen to me, Tim,” Mum said. “You’re the only one who can say if you’re ready to do it.”
“Ready to go off and live with Mum’s relatives all on your own?” Dad said. “Do you understand what that’ll mean?”
“Yeah, I understand,” I said, though I really hadn’t a clue.
Maybe my dad saw the uncertainty in my face, because he said: “There’s another route, you know. You can stay here, live at home, finish up your schooling and play in Australia.”
I thought about that—about not making it with Sydney Olympic, dropping to a lower division to prove what I could do with Belmore Hercules. That was a tough battle, and even though things were now going well for me at Sydney United, I sensed that having a career as a professional footballer at home—given the tastes of the Australian system at the time for strikers and attacking-midfielders who looked a lot different from me—just wasn’t going to happen.
“I’ll never make it here, Dad. I won’t get a chance to play in Australia. I want to go to England and at least give it a go.”
My mum had a few more tears in her eyes.
“Tim, listen to me,” she said. “It’s gonna be tough. You’ll be on your own.”
I turned and said to her, “I know it’s going to be tough. But if you’re telling me you’ve got a ticket for me to go to England, I’m saying I’m ready.”
“You’re going to be living in the middle of nowhere, you’re not going to have much money,” Dad added. “Pretty much the clothes on your back, not much else. And you’re going to have to wait for your trial, assuming Allen or Bob can even get you one.”
“I don’t care, Dad. I just want the chance.”
I understood at least some of the sacrifices I’d be making—less so the many sacrifices my mum and dad had already made, and would continue to make.
Suddenly, a hand was on my shoulder. I turned and saw Sean.
“Bloody hell—you ready, Tim?”
There was such pride in his voice.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I said. But looking up at Sean, I felt suddenly conflicted; I was thinking about Sean’s own football career.
In the preceding year, Sean had made one of the biggest sacrifices of anyone. Mum and Dad were prepared to take out a loan to finance my trip to England for a trial, but to allow me to continue my studies at Kingsgrove North and to keep playing football, Sean had left school to work as a mechanic and was bringing in money to help pay the household bills.
He didn’t complain, never said a word. He just went to work, contributing every week to help my parents cover rent and bills. Some of those bills were to support my dream of being a professional footballer.
Now, as a result of his sacrifice, I had an opportunity to go overseas—and he didn’t. I felt such mixed emotions, because I was trying to put myself in Sean’s shoes.
Why was I being given the chance and not him?
It’s not in Sean’s nature to be envious and resentful. He’s a true Samoan older brother—very protective—and he wanted me to succeed for the overall pride of the family.
All of this churned around in my brain at the kitchen table. He didn’t realize it at the time—and probably doesn’t know to this day that I ever thought about what that decision meant for him—but I did. It wasn’t that Sean wasn’t a good enough footballer to get the chance at the professional level. It was that in our Samoan family, culture and tradition meant that, as the oldest son, he had to make the hard sacrifice, so that I could have a chance at going the distance.
Sean was a hell of a goalkeeper and I knew he was good enough to warrant a trial. Could he have played in the English leagues, even made it up to the Premiership someday?
In hindsight, I can only say maybe—because so many factors come into play that are really beyond one’s control, one’s own ability and drive. Who would have had the better outcome between us? It’s an impossible question to answer, and I don’t think my dad ever made that calculation.
The truth was that the answer at that moment was the same for both of us. We were in it together. Could we make it? Were we good enough?
In the end, it was me who got the opportunity to go to England for trial and Sean who stayed in Sydney, going to work every day.
Thoughts about the sacrifices my family made have never left my mind. In fact, my career is built on the shoulders of loads of folks—my earliest coaches, Johnny Doyle, Mum and Dad, of course—but also my big brother, Sean. In the weeks before the trip, I remember going to bed at night and lying there with my eyes open for hours, thinking about Sean not getting a trial and me getting one. I’d think about my mum and dad taking out a loan to finance the trip. Tossing from side to side.
What if I didn’t make it? What if I didn’t even get the call for a trial? Nothing was guaranteed, Dad said …
My brain raced for hours with these sorts of worries. There were nights when, by 3 a.m., rather than feeling that the chance to go to England was a big break—and an opportunity to make the Cahill family proud—I felt enormous pressure. If I didn’t do everything just perfectly, we’d all be embarrassed … and Mum and Dad would be paying off some massive debt. Worse, I’d have screwed up everyone’s life, not just my own.
The time finally came to go to England. I’d done my intensive last weeks of one-on-one training with Johnny Doyle and everyone was in agreement: I was as prepared as I was ever going to be. On the day I had set aside to say my goodbyes to everyone at Kingsgrove North, I went looking for Rebecca Greenfield. She wasn’t my girlfriend—just a real cool mate. We often talked about our dreams and aspirations, what we’d both do when we were adults.
“What do you reckon you’ll do when you get older?” Bek would ask.
“Reckon I’ll play football.”
“No,” she’d laugh. “To make money, Tim. As a career.”
“I’ll play football. That’s how I’ll make my living.”
At that, Bek would almost double over with laughter.
“Can’t you ever be serious for once? What do you think you’ll really do?”
“Most likely in England. Yeah, I’m going to be a professional footballer in England.”
It had been like this for years, since Bexley North Public School. It had always been the same answer.
“What are you going to be when you grow up, Timmy?”
“Professional footballer.”
In fact, in my career studies course in Kingsgrove North, we’d been required to choose subjects and write them on a sheet of paper. Some were mandatory, of course: maths, English, science, history. I wrote down my electives as French, Italian, and Spanish. I remember the teacher’s reaction when she read that list.
“French?” she said.
“Just in case I play football in France.”
“And