I used to love going to the Panzarinos’, especially after training when we were always ravenous. I’d never tasted better food in my life.
Anthony and I didn’t have one single day in the week when we weren’t playing football. Talk about a time commitment: there were loads of driving and logistical arrangements for our parents. During the indoor season our schedules were packed. Lakemba matches on Saturday, Canterbury Reps on Sunday, indoor matches with the Banshee Knights on Thursday afternoon.
Add in practices for all those teams and there was really not a single day of the week when I wasn’t either in training or playing a competitive match. Football consumed my entire life, but I didn’t want anything else. I didn’t want to hang out and do what the other kids from school were doing. And, outside of games and practices, Anthony and I would put in hours training on our own at his place. Looking back on it now, it’s obvious we were little machines who were completely in love with the game.
By this time in our lives we were getting a reputation as an elite group, and I was lucky to be among such skilled young players. My parents still have a clipping from one of the Sydney papers that referred to us as “the Maradonas of tomorrow”. For a kid my age, at that time, there was no higher compliment.
Such a fantastic age, too. We had so much energy, jumping fences, meeting up after school. My mates and I would quickly ring each other after school and go to the park with my brothers Sean and Chris. We’d play three v. three. I remember getting into punch-ups because one team had lost 1–0 or 2–3 or some such foolishness—I mean, we took those kickabouts that seriously. We’d fight over who scored, or who fouled whom. Whether it should be a throw-in or a corner kick—any little thing. Then we’d run home to our own houses. And the next day—it didn’t matter that we’d fought the day before—we’d ring each other up and do it all over again.
Those are priceless childhood memories. I could never stand losing at anything. Not with my brothers, not with my mates. Just wasn’t acceptable. Years later, funnily enough, when I was playing for Everton, I’d find myself having a similarly competitive friendship with one of the most gifted footballers of the Premier League, the Spaniard Mikel Arteta.
Some days Anthony’s dad would take us to training, other days it would be my dad’s turn. But no matter who was driving there was no small talk: these were serious football lessons. The whole way to training, our dads would talk tactics and strategy: how we were going to play and link up together as midfielders. If it was a game day, the talk would be more motivational—“How badly do you want to win, boys?”—right down to the level of asking us if our boots were clean. It’s those details that show your level of passion, pride and commitment to the sport.
When it came to football both our dads knew what they were talking about. With my father, it was bred in the bone: that hard-core working-class Londoner’s love of the game. With Anthony’s father, there was more Italian flair, but he was equally passionate.
Anthony and I usually huffed and puffed and muttered under our breath: “Bloody hell, our dads don’t know nothing …” But I can see now how much they did know, and how deeply they affected our lives.
I can still hear Anthony’s father’s voice as we’d drive to the Lakemba training sessions.
“Anthony, you need to shoot more—you’re taking too long on the ball” or “Anthony, you need to get the ball wide to the wing, so Tim can meet the cross. And you both need to link better together.”
Anthony and I formed a solid partnership on the pitch. We both played in midfield. Sometimes I’d play slightly in front of him. We each had our strengths. He had a really powerful shot. I had strong heading ability and vision.
Still, I was a long way from a finished article at that age. Some of the other kids had better shots, great touch and control of the ball. At that stage in our lives, I often played with kids who were more polished and technical. I wasn’t discouraged if I saw one of my mates, or one of my brothers, had a better shot, though I’d sometimes shake my head in amazement when he’d strike a precise volley into the back of the net. If anything, my admiration for that skill fuelled my own ambition. It inspired me to improve my own shooting. I’d find myself studying everything my mates did to generate that same power.
By the time I was playing with Lakemba and Canterbury Reps, my dad’s expectations for me had grown. He’d always been this way, but, as I got older, he kept raising the bar and the scrutiny got more intense.
Back when we lived in Annandale, Dad would take all three of us brothers—Sean, Chris and me—down to the park at the back of Johnson Street for training. These weren’t casual kickabouts: he had us looking like little professionals, running through cones, doing sprints against each other, various triangle passing drills. He’d also make us work hard on our heading. He kept a ball inside a net-bag, hooked to the branch of a tree. Talk about an old-school trick. You rarely see anyone practising headers that way anymore. Each one of us in turn would run as fast as we could, leap up and head the ball, learning how to make good contact and get proper direction. And we’d better get it right, 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