40 years on… a MIND THAT NEVER SWITCHED OFF

PART 3…

When Obsession Became My Superpower

When Obsession Became My Superpower

Long before football became my life, I can now see that I had always found something that fuelled my obsessive drive to completely immerse myself in. The first thing I attached myself to was quite different from sport—it was books.

During my first few years of school, we had an annual charity reading competition. Students raised money based on the number of books they read. Each time we reached a reading target, we could return to the family member, friend, or other willing sponsor who had agreed to support us. They would sign our reading card, commit to a new target, and pledge another donation for every milestone we achieved.

Looking back, I genuinely enjoyed reading, and I wanted to raise money for the cause. But after a while, it wasn't the fundraising—or even the reading itself—that captured me. It was the challenge. I wanted to win. I loved the feeling of achievement.

I became consumed by the idea of reading just one more book, reaching the next target, and then setting an even bigger one. Without realising it, I had found my first obsession—one that gave me purpose, momentum, and an overwhelming desire to keep going.

Looking back now, I can see the same pattern that would repeat throughout my life. Once something truly captured my interest, I didn't just enjoy it—I immersed myself in it completely. Whatever that "thing" was became priority number one. All my eggs went into the one basket.

Reading gave me something to focus on. It quietened the constant stream of thoughts racing through my mind. For those moments, everything else disappeared. It was just me and the next page.

Literacy was a big focus at school in those days, long before laptops, texting and interactive technology found their way into classrooms. Handwriting mattered, and before long, cursive became my next obsession.

I spent hours with a cursive workbook, carefully tracing and rewriting every letter until it looked exactly how I wanted it to. Eventually, I developed my own handwriting style and continued refining it.

I loved seeing myself improve. Every page was a little better than the last. That sense of accomplishment built confidence, and that confidence became something I wanted to experience over and over again.

It simply became the next thing my mind latched onto.

Even today, if I slow down and take my time, my handwriting is still something I'm proud of.

Most people would probably wonder why a young boy would spend so much time practising handwriting. In fact, while writing this, I've found myself asking the same question.

Then another memory came back to me.

In my first year at school, I received excellent reports. I remember the praise from my teachers, but more than anything, I remember how proud Mum was. I can still picture her telling her friends how smart I was, and I remember how that made me feel.

It made me want to keep achieving.

Maybe cursive handwriting wasn't really about handwriting at all. Maybe it was another way of chasing that feeling of accomplishment and the encouragement that came with it.

Looking back, I can see these weren't just random childhood hobbies. They were clues. Once something captured my interest, I didn't just enjoy it—I immersed myself completely.

There were basketball cards to collect, organise and trade. Hours spent shooting a basketball, pretending to be Michael Jordan, the biggest sporting icon in the world at the time. I wouldn't go inside until I'd made that long-range shot.

Then there was rollerblading through the streets in true '90s fashion, carrying my street hockey stick and puck. The Mighty Ducks had just been released, and I must have watched it twenty times. I'd skate around imagining I was an ice hockey player, always trying to go a little faster or learn a new trick.

Then there was always a football.

The same little boy who had devoured books, practised handwriting for hours and worn out basketballs eventually found his greatest passion with a football at his feet.

Before long, I was juggling relentlessly, setting myself targets and refusing to stop until I reached them. My first goal was 100. I couldn't wait to tell my coach when I finally got there. Then it became 200. Then 500. Every milestone simply created another one.

The obsession never really stopped.

Well into my late teens, I'd put my earbuds in, press play, and disappear into my own little world. It was just me, the ball and the music.

The brick wall beside my grandparents' house still has a dent in it from the thousands of balls I kicked against it. I'd spend hours experimenting—one touch, two touch, one bounce, no bounce, standing close, moving further away, striking the ball with different parts of my foot. I wasn't just practising. I was experimenting, learning and chasing improvement.

Even as a teenager, I'd head to the local school or park, find a wall, put my headphones on and practise in complete solitude.

Looking back, those moments weren't lonely.

They were peaceful.

For the first time all day, my mind became quiet.

Looking back now, I realise football didn't create that obsessive drive.

It simply became the perfect place for it to live.

It became my outlet. My escape. My form of meditation before I even knew what meditation was. When I had a ball at my feet, the noise in my head disappeared. By the time I climbed into bed at night, my body was exhausted, my mind was calmer, and, for a little while, everything felt still.