In 1974 I was nine years old and we had been in the country for only four years. My parents were struggling to come to terms with a new country, while my sister and I were trying our hardest to fit in and understand the culture we had been injected into.

My father, like most migrants, would be off to work before I was up and would not return until late at night, exhausted and ready for bed.

For a young boy, my father's attention was what I craved most, and it became clear to me early on that football was the only thing that would allow my father a release from the daily grind.

Training nights were special, not just because I could play, but also because of the car ride there and back where the discussion was always about the game.

The most special times however came late at night when, because of the time difference, it seemed the whole world was in bed and it was just my dad and I watching the Socceroos take on the world. A small black-and-white TV was our world and we rode every goal, miss and emotion and for me it seemed the greatest time ever. This happened for many years after, watching FA cups, European games and always the Socceroos. As the years unfolded and my passion for the game even exceeded my father's. Footballwas a social and human glue for the family.