If Cristiano Ronaldo pontificates over every header with the ceremony and self-regard of an 18th-century monarch waving to the peasants from his palace balcony, Cahill heads the ball with something more like the nuggety resolve of a local politician giving a speech about pension cuts to a community hall filled with people called Norm and Bev. It’s all sh*t and sticks, small picture, borderline illegal stuff – a nudge here, a sharp-elbowed run there. And the goal, when it does arrive, always has an air of improbability about it, with only the faintest suggestion of a correspondence between what Cahill did in the lead-up and the ball hitting the back of the net.
Cahill’s great talent, if anything, has been to make himself inconspicuous; it’s been a non-telegraphed talent in the truest sense of the word. Unlike his more flashy contemporaries, 6ft-plus aristocrats of the front line towering above their competitors in a series of decorous leaps stage-managed for the highlights reel, Cahill’s headers have always emerged up and out of the tangle of bodies in the box, as if capturing the evolution of a collective kinetic mass rather than some deviation from it. The most typical of his goals have expressed less the exceptionalism of his talent than its utter normality; Cahill has stood out by not standing out at all.
In a way that’s appropriate, because along with Mark Bresciano – the other member of the golden generation being called to the national curtain in Brazil – Cahill captures the twilight of an era in which the defining feature of the Socceroos was a kind of ordinariness, and Australian football – struggling for recognition in a country dominated by the local football codes and unable even to cobble together a decent national club competition – still bore itself with a degree of humility.