It was basic, but it was also so real. This was more than just playing football. As part of the process of building our bond as a team, we’d say a prayer before and after every game. This prayer, called the Toa Samoa, is a spiritual expression in the form of a song, a profound symbol of the country and people. We’d clap at the same time—passionate, aggressive, singing the Toa Samoa in harmony. It’s not exactly like the haka in New Zealand rugby, but there’s a similarity: you’d better sing it with everything you’ve got, because it’s seen as much more than an anthem.
My parents helped gather funds to send over all new kits and football boots. In fact, Sean and I brought over three suitcases between us and came home with virtually nothing in them. We ended up giving all our clothes away. Did we really need them? We had so much more than these island kids. We figured they’d appreciate jeans or trainers or jumpers more than us.
We used to jog together as a team, someone sitting on the back of the ute, singing a Samoan song, egging us on, and we’d run that way, three or four miles, to get to training. Some boys had holes in their shoes, a couple were actually running barefoot, while my brother and I wore perfect new trainers from Australia.
At the end of a month in Samoa, we went to Fiji and didn’t perform well at all in the Under-20 tournament—lost every single match, in fact, and I played for only a handful of minutes, coming on as a substitute late in a game that was already a lost cause.
Little did I realize the impact those few minutes would have later in my life. No one had a crystal ball when I was fourteen. No one knew that I was going to become a professional; no one knew I’d go to England and learn my trade. And certainly no one could have imagined that I might someday be called up to represent my country and that those few moments on the pitch in one game for Samoa would become a huge legal complication for me.
Despite the trouble it caused, I have absolutely no regrets about living there and playing for Samoa. On the contrary, it changed my whole outlook on life.
In Samoa, they grow up with virtually nothing: sun, sand, the plantation, a few livestock—it’s so bare-bones and simple. Virtually everyone visiting Samoa looks at these islanders and feels sorry for them. I did, myself, the first time I saw my family and their friends in Samoa.
But my mind-set changed. Today I don’t feel the least bit sorry for them. Why? Because they’re happy. Imagine being in Samoa, living in a fale with just four poles holding up the roof, where everyone you love sleeps together, eats together, gathers for family meetings. Imagine having nothing more than the sand, sea, food and family—all the essential things in life. What more do you really need?
In fact, now that I’m thirty-five and have had a successful career, have travelled the world, I can tell you: in general, those kids in Samoa—and most of the adults, too—are happier than a lot of millionaires in Sydney or Melbourne, London or New York, who live in mansions or penthouse apartments and drive luxury cars to the fanciest shopping malls.
The Samoan life is simple, it’s true, but they’re content. They don’t need the things we have; they haven’t grown soft and dependent on our culture of excess. They’re happy with the lifestyle that revolves around freedom and nature and love of one’s family.
That trip with my brother Sean to be with our grandmother was one of the greatest eye-openers for me. It helped me learn what’s really important—that life can be simple, without any luxuries, but still filled with satisfaction and fulfilment.
THE BIGGEST STRIKE AGAINST ME at that age—and another reason I was often told I wasn’t being realistic about my dreams of being a professional footballer in England—was that I was still very small. In high school, I was only 165 cm tall and weighed only 55 kilos.
Some of the stars of the global game, whose pictures I clipped out of glossy magazines and pinned up on my wall, weren’t much bigger. The two Brazilian strikers of the 1994 World Cup—Bebeto and Romario—had pride of place on my wall and were hardly giants. Romario had a stockier build, but on the pitch Bebeto was so slight he looked like a teenager who’d stolen his father’s shorts for the game—and yet in that 1994 World Cup he was a superstar. He routinely beat defenders, had incredible touch, laid effortless passes for Romario, and together they formed the most beautiful strike partnership.
I was well aware that in the Australian mind-set of that time, I was nowhere near the height and weight and strength of a professional athlete—a striker who could outleap 183-cm tall central defenders to gain purchase on a header inside the penalty box. Australian coaches were scouting for the classic “target man” forward—a big No. 9 who could play with his back to goal in the mould of Gary Lineker or Marco van Basten.
I wasn’t that kid, but one of the brilliant things about football is that your skills, technique and passion can counterbalance your opponent’s advantages in size and strength. Picture Maradona famously dribbling through the entire England defence in the 1986 World Cup—a masterpiece of close control, change of pace, feinting and balance—to score that match winner voted the “Greatest Goal of the Century”.
To this day, people debate why football under-performs at the international level in certain countries—England is a prime example—and whether an emphasis on physical strength over technical skills at the youth development level is to blame. It’s a complex question, and I don’t claim to have all the answers. But I do know that when I was growing up, I played with quite a few smaller South American kids—gifted athletes with phenomenal touch and dribbling skills—who didn’t succeed in the Australian system. They quit football because they were told they were too small. It just wasn’t in fashion to favour technique over physique.
Fast-forward a couple decades and it’s almost inconceivable how much the game has changed. Nowadays some of the best players in the world are only 165 cm, 168 cm or 170 cm tall. Guys like Messi, Xavi, Tevez—some of the most talented players in the game. But had they been in Australia in my schoolboy days, players as short as Tevez or Messi, or as slight as David Silva, would surely have been told they were too small and not strong enough to make it. In my opinion, a kid’s size—or lack of size—should never be seen as an impediment to success at the highest levels of football.
Even at a young age I was aware that my size could be seen as a disadvantage, but I was determined that it would never stand in my way. By high school, I’d managed to gain a reputation as a top-club player; I also started to shine in school sport. I played in the Primary Schools Sports Association league. Then there came a chance to play for the representative school district team called Metropolitan East. This was a public school select team, in the same way that Canterbury Reps was a clubs’ select team.
Playing for Metropolitan East was a significant milestone in my development. The squad was drawn from dozens of schools—Canterbury, Eastern Suburbs and St George—but only one kid per school was chosen. Even though my talent was still a bit raw, being selected was a recognition of my hard work.
We played in an intense competition in Sutherland, in south Sydney, right next to Cronulla Oval, ten games going on at once against other district select squads.
On days like that, you try to keep your wits about you on the pitch, but it’s such a nervous moment—you know if you do well you could potentially be selected to represent your state: the whole of New South Wales.
We spent the entire day playing matches. Even at that age, I planned everything in my mind, hyper-analysing, trying to anticipate how to shape my performance.
What did I need to do to stand