Legacy: The Autobiography of Tim Cahill. Tim Cahill

going to sit about the house reading magazines or watching TV. My dad always told me that being a professional footballer was a job—no different from being a bricklayer, teacher or doctor. I had to treat my training as serious work. I’d get my football, head out to the local park—about a five-minute jog—lace up my boots, juggle the ball, do some laps, then some sprints. I’d pretty much follow the set routine I’d followed since my assessment by the Institute of Sport.

      I felt like Dartford was in the middle of nowhere. While everyone my age was off at school, there I was alone in that little park running wind sprints and juggling the ball and taking practice free kicks.

      Truth be told, it was miserable. Coming from Sydney’s hot climate, my first weeks in England seemed so bloody cold. Many days the skies were completely grey or filled with a cold, lashing rain. It made me realize how lucky I’d been growing up in a city like Sydney, with its green landscape and beaches.

      It was more than cold—the atmosphere of that season and the park itself felt almost eerie. The park was immense—it had eight training pitches—but none of them were in use in the middle of a work and school day. I was completely alone out there, and sometimes I’d get this otherworldly feeling, picturing what I must have looked like to a plane passing overhead: a solitary figure practising football, lost in a sea of green.

      Day after day, that was my routine. Even to the housewives and postmen in the neighbourhood, I must have seemed mad.

      I can tell you, if it had gone on much longer, I would have been.

      I realized how important it was for me to have more in my life than solitary training. I needed to be part of a community. I was doing what I had to do, yes, but it was vital for me to have the Stanley kids, as well as Glenn and Lindsey and my new mates on Glenn’s adult touch-rugby team.

      After six weeks, football pre-season started in earnest, and at last I got a phone call from Allen Batsford.

      “Lad, it’s time,” Allen said. “You ready? Can’t promise you anything but let’s have a look at you.”

      Allen made a phone call to Bob Pearson, the head scout of Millwall at that time. Because I was so nervous that day, I wore the socks and shorts of two different clubs, and my favourite Manchester United jersey—such a crazy look. I was a ball of energy.

      I got picked up to meet Allen and Bob for the first time face to face.

      “Son, nice to finally meet you, what’ve you been up to?” Bob asked.

      I described my daily regimen of training solo, jogging down to the park, even some of the more advanced exercises I’d learned back home at the Institute of Sport in Sydney. And keeping up my cardio fitness with the touch-rugby league.

      That was all well and good, but they both wanted to know about my footballing. When was the last time I’d played in a match?

      “I suppose it’s been … well, nearly three months ago.”

      “You think you’re fit for trial?” Bob asked, looking a bit concerned.

      “I’m fit,” I said. “I can run all day. I’ve been training hard. No doubt in my mind I’m match-fit.”

      “Alright then. We’re going to take you to the training facilities in Bromley, throw you in with a few of the new boys. Some of the older boys as well. You’ll have a run around. We’ll see where you’re at.”

      It seemed all very matter-of-fact to them, but for me this was one of the biggest mornings of my life. I knew my future—at least whatever career I might have as a professional footballer—was dependent on what I did in the next sixty or ninety minutes. What they’d casually called a run around …

      Millwall’s home is the famous South London stadium known as the Den. But the Millwall first team, reserves, youth team and academy all trained at a facility six-and-a-half miles further south, in Bromley, right near Beckenham Place Park.

      As we drove up that first time, I saw it was a beautiful area: there was a glade up the road, a nice shopping centre, and little well-kept family homes across the street on Calmont Road. The training ground itself had four or five pitches in use and clubhouses, with one whole side fenced in by the car park, the other side open to the forest behind us.

      I’m not going to sugar-coat it. The first morning of my trial was bloody scary.

      Here I was—an unknown face, some teenager from Australia. Why on earth were these English kids going to give me a chance, trying to take one of their spots?

      I knew that on the park I could play to the best of my ability, but if the other lads wanted to make me look bad, it was easy enough to do. Just don’t pass me the ball properly or send in a high cross for a header that no one could reach. Trust me, skilled players can make any