Constantly moving homes had its difficulties, but the reason was always in the back of my mind—my parents were working hard to put food on the table and make our lives better, whatever it took.
I’m sure it was stressful and anxious at times for my mum and dad, but for me there was always an escape: football. My dad always watched the big English league matches, the FA Cups and the European Cups. I can remember it from when I was as young as three years old. Even at that age, I understood the passion for the game, if not all the rules and finer points.
West Ham United had been my father’s club and those allegiances never leave you, as I would later see myself in my years playing for Millwall and Everton. My father grew up in Rainham, Essex, where his dad, my grandfather, had played for the Rainham Working Men’s Club. He had been on the verge of getting signed for Colchester when he broke his leg badly, which ended his career. Dad often talked about his being coached by guys like the centre-back Charlie Hurley, from County Cork in Ireland, who ended up playing for Millwall and then had a long career as a top defender at Sunderland.
I remember being a tiny kid, waking up at silly hours of the morning because I could hear loud cheering in the lounge room, or could see flickering lights from the hallway—even hear the sound of the football being kicked—and I’d sneak out of my bedroom and not let my dad see me, just hide for the first fifteen minutes, until he’d finally notice and allow me to sit with him and watch the match.
Even though I had school the next day, Dad would let me miss sleep to watch all the highlights we could from England. Rarely were West Ham games shown in Australia, but we’d see the biggest clubs, like Manchester United, Arsenal, Liverpool and Chelsea, in what was then called the First Division (the Premier League didn’t come into existence until 1992 when I was already a teenager).
We’d also watch a lot of continental football, especially Italian teams. AC Milan playing Juventus—that was a big Italian league match I remember well. One of the most powerful experiences of my life was seeing that “golden age” Milan team made up of so many gifted players—greats like Marco van Basten, Ruud Gullit, Paolo Maldini.
Dad would also let me watch World Cup games into the early hours of the morning. I’d be too excited to sleep. As a kid, I remember dreaming of one day playing professionally. But I realized that was such a long shot.
By this point my kid brother Chris had been born and part of my realization was that with the size of our family—three boys and a sister—there was no way my parents would ever be able to meet the costs involved. Even at that age, I somehow understood that making it as a professional footballer wasn’t only about talent. Or even willpower. Maybe it was something Dad had said in passing, but I knew that money was often the biggest obstacle to getting the opportunity to play at the highest levels of the sport.
I kept watching big European and English matches on TV with my dad, playing in the back garden, in the hallway with my brothers, even in the tight spaces of the bedroom.
Everywhere I walked, I was basically kicking a football. In the bedroom, Sean and I used to kick the ball off the walls. The rule was you got one touch to volley it to the bunk beds. We’d take turns: five shots each from a fair distance. When we’d hear my mum walking down the hallway we’d instantly stop—“Sean and Tim, what are you up to?” My brother would rush to sit at the desk, I’d hop on the bed and pretend to be reading a book, because, like mothers everywhere, she didn’t want us banging a football off the walls or the bedroom furniture.
Sharing that time with my older brother was crucial. Despite the age difference, my father always had us placed in the same teams. Sean’s typical of big brothers, but especially of Samoan big brothers. He was always looking after me, protecting me, giving me little pointers and tricks. If some kid on the opposing team came in hard on a challenge and fouled me, well, Sean made sure that kid would never kick me again. Deep down, Sean has the kindest nature, but he could be a tough guy on the pitch—especially when it came to watching out for me.
By the time I reached eight or nine years old, my skills had improved a lot. I think that came from always playing in a higher age group. That was my mum and dad’s influence. Survival of the fittest, I suppose. If I was going to be the youngest and smallest boy on the field, forced to hold my own against larger, stronger opponents, my technique and confidence had to improve. I knew early on that I would have to be quicker, learn faster and outsmart the boys I played against. I couldn’t out-jump or out-muscle anyone, but I saw pretty soon that I might be able to out-think them.
Never in my entire youth football career did I play in my own age group. Part of it was logistics, too. Our parents were so busy working that Sean and I had to train on the same schedule. We couldn’t go to different pitches, have different pick-up times. It would be a huge inconvenience and cost Mum and Dad more in petrol.
We often say in a Samoan family that you’ve got to have a head like a coconut. Playing football or rugby in the back garden, you get more than a few knocks and kicks to the head. It’s just part of growing up. And Samoans are known for being rough and tumble. With us—with all islanders, really—when you have a fight at home, the kid who cries first is the one who gets the parental smack. That’s just the Samoan culture. Boys aren’t coddled much; they’re taught to hold their own, take a few knocks and get on with it.
Of course this meant I was always getting the smack, because there was no chance I was ever beating my older brother Sean, let alone some of my Samoan cousins—hulking guys twice my size, some of whom went on to play professional rugby.
Sean and I would often get into tussles. We’d stand there toe to toe, he’d be looking down into my eyes, I’d be looking up into his, defiant, and he’d always say, “Don’t let fear hold you back. If you want a shot at the title, I’m here.”
He’d say it with a smile, because he knew no matter how angry I got, how much I fought, I could never put him down.
“Don’t let fear hold you back, bro!”
I’d stare at him with anger, then charge him like a little bull. It was like hitting a brick wall—BOOM!—and I’d pop up and run at him again.
We moved beyond those years, but Sean’s words always stuck with me. To this day it’s something Sean and I still share—more than an in-joke, it’s a brotherly bond. No matter where I’m playing—in England or New York or Shanghai, or representing the national team in World Cups—I’ll get a text from him, out of the blue, with those same words:
Don’t let fear hold you back.
After Balmain Tigers, my next club was Marrickville Red Devils. Marrickville was a community that simply loved football. Every weekend was like a carnival, with the different languages and cultures, the foods, smells and flags of so many diverse nations. Nowhere do you see the melting pot of Australia as clearly as in the faces of the families who are passionate about football.
I soon made a lot of great friends in Marrickville and, now that I had more technical skills, football actually became fun. I was no longer the frightened four-year-old who had to be shoved onto the pitch. In the ebb and flow of the match, I found my release. I wasn’t afraid to take on other players, dribbling, feinting and using the simple art of the one-two with the other midfielders and forwards.
Marrickville Red Devils holds a special place in my heart because it was where I scored my first header. I can still see it unfolding vividly in my mind—like a slow-motion movie. We’d won a corner. The ball was whipped in from the right, I timed my jump, keeping my eyes wide open. Three defenders around me flinched and shrugged at the ball. I climbed above them, saw my chance and took it. I headed it, clean on the forehead, directing it exactly where I’d intended—with power—into the goal.
When the net bulged, when my team-mates swarmed me and cheered, my confidence soared. I remember turning, even as the ball flew past the keeper,