Born in Prahran, Melbourne, I spent my early years in South Melbourne with a family obsessed with football. Unfortunately, though, it wasn't the round ball code — it was the local VFL variety. While we lived in one of the most diverse neighbourhoods in Australia, diversity at home meant my dad rooting for Collingwood and my mum supporting South. Looking back, I sometimes wonder how different my life might have been if we had stayed in South Melbourne. Could I have ended up playing street football with Ange Postecoglou, or maybe gone to school with Paul Trimboli?
From there, my family unknowingly moved us to Australia’s biggest football heartland—Wallsend. That’s where I first knowingly stumbled into football. How could I not though, it was everywhere. The NSL dominated so much that during primary school, I had no clue about the existence of the Rugby League, VFL, or cricket. KB United was the real deal. To us kids, they were like gods. We didn't just follow the team; we lived it—trading player cards, collecting every bit of memorabilia, especially the prized Col Curran cards, which were only second in coolness to those Kiss iron-on t-shirt transfers. Every kid was a fan and the world game was our universe.
Of course, I gave playing a go myself. While I was pretty fast, I lacked the technique and killer instinct that might have made more of my athletic ability. Instead, I found my stride in other areas—especially the arts. At the age of 9, I won my first national award with a poster I designed.
The next juncture on my footballing odyssey was Jamberoo — yes THAT Jamberoo. However, at the time, the only football they played was Rugby League. So to fit in, I switched codes and became a devotee of St George. I bought every kit and promptly forgot everything I knew about KB United. I was obsessed I even ripped up my favourite Dragons jersey when we lost the grand final in 82.
About this time I started my obsession. with cricket. This was not uncommon in country areas where the dominant culture was Anglo, so cricket was the sport of choice. As is my want, I dove in headfirst and gobbled up books, scrutinized statistics, and watched played every second of the day. Soon enough, I morphed into a bowling all-rounder. Sadly, my batting was a bit more like Bruce Laird than Kim Hughes, while I modelled my bowling on Malcolm Marshall. Through hard work, I got pretty good too. I played a bit of rep cricket and played in grades well above my age group. Football slowly slipped to the back of my mind, like how Andy forgot his favourite toy in Toy Story.
If summer was all about cricket, winter was all about rugby league. But I was a slight kid, so even my pace and side steps were not enough to compete against some of the oversized manchildren in my year, so I dropped out of the team and joined the 'soccer' team. I wasn't overly happy with this and to be honest it felt like a bit of a downgrade — particularly as this was the year I made it to the state as a 100m sprinter. What's worse, our football team played on a dusty patch of grass at the back of the school. Our coach was the English teacher. And while he sparked something inside of me with words, he was pretty clueless about Football.
Our team was a mix of misfits with last names with too many consonants, or too many vowels at the end who didn’t quite mesh with the Anglo kids who seemed to get all the breaks.
Admittedly, we were a pretty hopeless bunch on the field. We only scored one goal all season thanks to yours truly. Yet, among this motley crew, I found my tribe again, and it felt good.
As high school continued, I drifted away from sports, immersing myself in the arts and learning bar chords so my teen band could play punk and metal riffs. It still drives me crazy that all the while living there, I had no idea of Johnny Warren's connection to Jamerboo pub. For me, it was the place I bravely endured my first beer at 15, not the home of one of the most iconic Australian footballers of all time.
After school, I moved to Sydney and went to uni to study fine arts. Music, art and girls continued to be my obsession, so sports drifted away during this period.
After university, I worked double shifts in a restaurant in Darlo to save up enough money to jet off to Europe. Between girls and galleries, I dove headfirst into the local cultures, especially football. I picked up some choice German swear words in the stands of FC Köln games, watching them face relegation heartbreak. In Bologna, my Italian got a workout cheering on their team. I even joined in on street football games in Prague, Barcelona, and Bordeaux, soaking in the vibrant atmosphere. The noise, the diversity, the sheer passion—I was in heaven.
After my money eventually ran dry in Rome, I moved to Britain and worked at the Edinburgh Festival, and painted murals around Scotland. While living in a youth hostel, the local cops would sometimes poke their heads in, offering us 20 quid to stand in police lineups—a fortune back then, so we were always game. The local guy who was charged wasn't quite as happy as we were though as he watched a bunch of olive-skinned foreigners line up beside him. It was in Edinburgh that I truly fell for football. My weekend days were spent watching Hibernian's home games, drinking Bovril and soaking in the local fervour. While at night I played in a band with my mate from Japan.
After my Scottish stint, I kept on travelling before settling down in Portland, Oregon. The Trailblazers were the big draw there, but I found myself drawn to the local football scene. Around this time, I also developed a serious fixation with the Socceroos. This was just before the internet, so tracking their matches was a challenge. I'd shell out 20 bucks for a week-old Sydney Morning Herald, devouring every word, along with The Guardian or the English Telegraph. I even bought a short-wave radio to catch the Socceroos battling it out, often ending in valiant defeats against teams like Scotland, Israel, or Maradona's Argentina. I was hooked.
My advertising career was booming, so I eventually moved back to Australia in the late '90s. By a stroke of luck, many of my colleagues were English, and we kicked off a workplace football team. Admittedly, I was a pretty average player, but my love for the beautiful game rose to a new level. One of the more memorable moments from that time was gathering all of my English workmates to watch the Socceroos take on England at Upton Park in the boardroom. What a thrill! Popping champagne at 8:30 in the morning after one of the Socceroos' biggest wins was truly unforgettable.
Around then, I moved up to playing club football. Sure, we weren't great players, but we were a great team and I made lifelong friends there. What I cherished most was how we celebrated our diverse backgrounds with every game ending with us all taking turns to serve food from our respective backgrounds. And trust me, no one ever missed the Brazilian boy's BBQ.
Together, my football obsession grew. My teammates and I lived through the heartbreak of 97 against Iran and the agonising first playoffs against Uruguay in 2001. Which made the ecstacy of being in the stands watching John Aloisi do the unthinkable even more special.
As for the World Cups, I've had my share of missteps. I bought a house and missed 2006. Idiot! In 2010 I had my kid, so South Africa was a no-go. And Brazil 2014? I missed this for no good reason at all—just dumb! So when the A-League kicked off, I was all in. I went to every game I could, soaking up the atmosphere. Football truly felt like it was having its golden moment, and I was there for every second of it.
Finally, in 2018, despite the ethical quandaries of a Russian-hosted World Cup, I made it to my first World Cup. Determined to stand out, my mates and I hunted for cool stuff to wear. But outside of all the official kits, everything was either cheap knocks off or generic designs. So I bit the bullet and designed my shirts. There was a superhero-themed "Super Timmy" celebrating Tim Cahill, and a type-only shirt with the slogan "Aussie Aussies Aussie, Mooy Mooy Mooy." Most popular though was a Soviet propaganda-style design featuring a sinister Mile Jedinak with the headline 'Supreme Leader". Of course, I loved them, but everyone we met over there loved them too, so I started selling them. From the get-go, it was never about money. Instead, it was all about making football more visible. Because, as the great sokkah scholar Ian Syson famously said, Football is the invisible game.
After the World Cup, I worked with an A-league club and challenged them about their lacklustre merch. Their response? "There's no money in it," so they didn't bother. As a brand guy, I thought this was pretty short-sighted. Surely every club would want their fans paying to advertise their product? I knew he was wrong, so I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands. With a bitter taste in my mouth, I decided to start my label and Strip Tees was born.
Five years on, I'm proud of the small niche we've carved out highlighting some of the lesser-known stars of the game — I mean who else has an Iain Fyfe tee? While we often get requests to create designs for other sports, my heart belongs to football. I'm equally proud of playing a small role in raising the profile of female players. Watching the Matildas rise to become one of the most bankable teams in the country has been incredible.
Working with legends like Simon Hill and supporting fantastic initiatives like the Moriarty Foundation has been deeply rewarding. Along the way, we've also appeared on Fox Sports, Channel 10, SEN, CNN, BBC England, and Bein Sports.
I'm grateful our little brand, with its bad pun of a name, has been able to contribute to the sport I love. Here’s to continuing this journey.
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