Author: maxcowan

The Bungool Picnic

This is Cowan’s description of what happened when the players were given the news that their pay would be “short”. This was taken directly from the manuscript.

We decided to go ahead with the picnic and pay the players half their contracts in the hope that we would be able to pay more later. When I turned up at the picnic, I found I was the only person from the football committee there. Everyone else, including Cartwright and the club’s president, had suddenly found they were unable to attend. It was up to me to explain to the players.

Most were OK with it, until it came to a player called Billy Tonkin. He was a terrific football player – big, tough, strong – and I’m sitting down. Billy’s next in line, and I say, “Bill, I can only give you half your money.”

Billy growls, “Yeah, Cowan, bullshit! You write my cheque out.”

I say, “Bill, I can only give you half.”

“Write the cheque for the full amount”, says Bill in a very menacing tone, leaning across the table.

The next bloke in the queue is Cec Reddy, who used to play hooker for us. Cec was only slightly built but he was a real pug. He used to box in the ring. Some people used to joke that he should sell advertising on the soles of his shoes.

Cec walks up to Bill and says, “Look, he said he can’t pay you, so leave him alone”. These two proceeded to have a big argument across the picnic area, but in the end, Bill did accept his half pay.

Max’s Notes

The drive to Bungool at Cattai — and back — felt long. The Club’s monthly journal even published directions for members to follow, a reminder of how different travel was at the time.

When I first read Roger’s account, I assumed it referred to the 1964 or 1965 season — certainly before Penrith entered the major competition in 1967. I can remember, even as a child, him returning home frustrated by events at the football club. This felt like one of those occasions, although there were many.

However, the reference to Billy Tonkin complicates that assumption.

Bill Tonkin (pictured right) was signed to Penrith in 1967. He is Player #11 and played in our opening game against Canterbury-Bankstown. Bill played 18 1st grade games in his two seasons (1967-8), scored 2 tries and kicked a goal for a total of 8 points. He was a lock forward who’d previously played for Balmain, Wests, and Souths.

If the player in Roger’s account was indeed Tonkin, the incident must have occurred in either 1967 or 1968 — suggesting it took place after Penrith’s admission to the competition. Alternatively, and almost certainly, the identity of the player has been misremembered.

Either way, the underlying issue remains clear.

The club had committed to player payments it could not meet. Those responsible for managing the football budget failed to address the situation in advance, and were not present when the consequences had to be explained.

Roger, a rookie then, was left to do so alone.

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Growth · Governance · Licensed Club

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The Bungool Picnic and Unpaid Players

Part 6 of 70 — Original Chapter: Chapter 4: Insolvency to First Division in One Year

This article forms part of the serialised republication of Panthers, Passion & Politics – The Roger Cowan Years.

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Penrith in the 60s was, in many ways, still a country town. Some of the trains were still steam hauled, and holidaymakers would pass through on their way to the Blue Mountains – or stop off and catch the Bales’ bus out to one of the many guesthouses at Wallacia, some ten miles out of town.

Through 1963-64, Roger Cowan continued teaching while acting as honorary treasurer of the football committee. What started out as an amicable relationship with Merv Cartwright gradually deteriorated into frequent clashes.

The registered club’s main function in those days was to finance rugby league.

In 1964, the registered club committee had agreed to a football budget of £10,000 and player contracts were agreed within that budget. Payday for the players was planned for the traditional end of season picnic on the banks of the Hawkesbury River — Bungool1.

When Cowan went to the club administration to organise the cheques for the players, he was informed that they didn’t have the money. He had no warning of the problem. Merv Cartwright who sat on the registered club committee and was also secretary of the football club, would known much earlier that the Club was in financial trouble — yet the football club had been allowed to proceed on its merry way without any warning.2

Before this Cowan had never thought about getting into club politics. It was this failure — the inability to meet its obligations to the players — that first motivated him to stand for election onto the committee of the licensed club – ‘to understand how £10,000 could be promised and not paid’.

He was elected, and soon after asked to take on the role of treasurer. It quickly became apparent that the club had virtually no systems of control. Dishonesty was widespread, enabled by the absence of basic procedures.

I started to look into why the club wasn’t making any money. We were losing money hand over fist. The bank was threatening to take action. One of the first things I did was to install control systems for poker machines.  This included a monthly analysis of each of the 26 machines to ensure they were operating within carded percentages.

I also put as much time as I could into getting some systems operating. There was no system for stock control, no cash systems, there was nothing. I began with cash systems. We started to count the money, and balance it against the cash register tapes, and so on. Basic stuff, but it had never been done.

 Cash control was a simple system before then. When trading finished for a shift, the cash would be taken to the vault and tipped into a large container with all the cash from other cash registers. Nobody checked the cash register tapes to see if there was a balance. Each morning the money in the container would be counted and banked.

Rumour has it that one employee boasted that he never bothered taking less than a twenty pound note when he wanted some cash. He bought a new car in less than 12 months working as a bar steward.  After getting a system started, I came in one Sunday morning and discovered a £1,700 discrepancy between the cash register tapes and the money we had. That was a lot of money in those days for such a small club.’

At a special meeting, the board decided that the Secretary-Manager Rocky Davis wasn’t managing things properly, and asked for his resignation. There was no suggestion of dishonesty, only mismanagement.

The Club immediately advertised for a replacement. But the small size and low profile of the Club meant that the quality of candidates was not very high. After three months of advertising, they had still found nobody suitable. In the meantime, Cowan continued holding things together in his spare time – evenings and weekends – and continued to improve the systems.

I was doing the job anyway, as well as teaching. I was convinced in my own mind that I could put systems in place to make the place work. So I just said to the committee one night, “I’m prepared to resign from teaching. I’ll take the job for a trial period if you want to give it to me. And I’ll give you a guarantee that if I’m not making a profit within three months, I’ll resign and you can keep looking”. I agreed to commence on a very low salary.

That was October 1965. The Board agreed, and Cowan remained in the position continuously for almost 40 years.

There is a logical question here, of course. Here is a young man – 29 years old, married, four young kids. He’s a schoolteacher, which is a reasonably secure job for life. He suddenly decides to turn his whole life upside down. There is no contract, no security of tenure – just ‘give me three months to make a success of it. If not, I’ll go’.

Phyllis Cowan says it was the challenge.

He loved school teaching, he was an excellent teacher, but he didn’t like the system. I don’t think he wanted to be doing that for the rest of his life. Many people advised him against it at the time. But he always could have gone back to teaching, she said –- it was easier back then.

It was the challenge that attracted him, and kept him there, she said. He was being successful, the club was making money, it was growing, and he was introducing all these new measures. She spoke of a couple of nights in the early days when he took a blanket and pillow and sat on a roof where he could watch for the people that he knew were stealing stores from the club.

Under Cowan’s stewardship, the club began to more stable financially. The systems he implemented, some while acting as treasurer and others when he took the management role, had already begun to have an impact on the profitability of the business.

Within a year, the club had moved out of the red. For the first time, it had the financial stability needed to think beyond survival.

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  1. Bungool’s location was at Cattai on the Hawkesbury River where Riverside Oaks Golf Resort is today. ↩︎
  2. This failure became evident at the end-of-season Bungool picnic, when players could not be paid in full.
    See Beyond the Book: The Bungool Picnic. ↩︎

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Commentary and Contributions

From Tin Shed to Taj Mahal — Scale and Contrast in 1963

In 1963, Penrith and St George Rugby League Clubs each opened new premises. The contrast between them — in scale, cost, and ambition — highlights the gap between an emerging club and one already established as a powerhouse of the game.

To describe Penrith Rugby League Club as a minnow compared to St George Rugby League Club in the early 1960s is no exaggeration.

In 1963, the St George Dragons had already secured seven consecutive premierships, a run that would extend to eleven.

In 1963, both clubs opened new premises.

In March, Penrith Leagues Club opened a new building adjacent to the old Boys Club, at a cost of approximately £150,000.

Official Opening Program PRLC 1963

In July, St George Leagues Club opened its new premises at Kogarah, with construction costs approaching £1,000,000.

William “Bill” Buckley (1906–1973), Chairman of the Australian Rugby League, officially opened both clubs. During a tour of the new St George premises, struck by its scale and extensive use of marble, he is said to have remarked: “This reminds me very much of the Taj Mahal.”

The nickname endured.

St George Leagues Club — Photo: Joan Hatton

Both developments marked a move beyond earlier, more modest beginnings — the kinds of facilities often remembered, and sometimes simplified, as the “tin shed” era.

For St George, that transition had already occurred.

For Penrith, it was only just beginning.

The scale of the St George club did more than impress. It set a benchmark — one that emerging clubs like Penrith could not yet match, but would, over time, seek to close.

From the Narrative

This contrast sits alongside the developments described in Part 4 — From Small Beginnings, where Penrith’s early structures begin to take shape against a backdrop of more established clubs.

A Little Extra

Here is the complete 1963 Opening Program for Penrith Rugby League Club — it was a big day, starting with lunch, then evening and supper — and lots of dancing! And plaudits to the Penrith Rugby League Orchestra who must have exhausted by night’s end.

PRLC Official Opening 1963

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Financial Management · Growth

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The Tin Shed — Myth and Memory

In telling the history of Penrith Rugby League Club, one phrase appears again and again — the “tin shed.”

It is often used to describe the club’s early years: humble, under-resourced, and far removed from the scale of the modern Panthers organisation.

Like many origin stories, the reality is both more specific — and more revealing.

What Was the “Tin Shed”?

As former director Max Connors recalled, the so-called “tin shed” was not a clubhouse in the way the term is now understood. It was, in fact, a kiosk at the showground where the team played.

The tin shed that people talk about was actually a kiosk on the showground where they used to play. It was run by the ladies, and the players used to get three free tickets each, and the supporters could buy three tickets for two shillings.

The structure doubled as a dressing area for players, reflecting the limited facilities available at the time.

Penrith’s “Tin Shed” Mark II

Many would label this building as the “tin shed” of Penrith’s history.

Panthers first clubhouse in Station St, Penrith

It would be a fair label, for this too is a far cry from the building that, in 1963, opened along side it. But this second “tin shed” was already multi-functional, and efficiently so. Dining room, function room, gymnastics (see feature image), boxing, calisthentics, jiu-jitsu, weights and of course, the club staples of bar and poker machines.

A Familiar Story

The idea of a club beginning in a “tin shed” is not unique to Penrith.

Across New South Wales, the history of registered clubs abounds with stories of “tin shed” origins — always small, improvised buildings, often constructed from basic materials and supported by volunteer labour.

Whether literally accurate or not, the phrase has become a kind of shorthand for humble beginnings and community effort.

In that sense, the “tin shed” is as much a cultural expression as a physical description.

How Myths Take Shape

Over time, the image of the “tin shed” has taken on a broader symbolic meaning — shorthand for:

  • hardship
  • simplicity
  • and the idea of a club built from nothing

This kind of simplification is very common in tales of sporting and community history. The details are simplified, merged, or reshaped into something more easily remembered and retold.

The result is not necessarily inaccurate — but it is selective.

The Penrith Version

At Penrith, the story is slightly more nuanced.

While the original “tin shed” referred to the showground kiosk described by Connors, later early facilities — including the original Station Street club building — were also modest in scale and construction.

In practical terms, they fit very well with the image the phrase now conveys.

The mythology, in that sense, is not entirely misplaced — but it is an interpretation crossing several realities.

Why it Matters

Understanding the reality behind the “tin shed” does not diminish the achievement of those early years.

If anything, it clarifies it.

The club did not begin in abstraction or myth, but in a very real, very practical setting — a showground, a kiosk, and a community effort sustained by volunteers, financiers — lenders and donors — players, and supporters.

That distinction matters, because it grounds the story of Penrith not just in adversity, but in structure, place, and people.

One of the people who helped Penrith Rugby League Club move beyond tin shed was Mr John Scott who provided the Penrith Junior Rugby League with a loan of £20 in 1955. The Scott family have supported the Club from its very beginnings, have seen many changes, great growth, challenges and remain firmly part of the Panthers family today.

In the Narrative

The reference to the “tin shed” appears in Part 4 — From Small Beginnings, where it helps frame the scale of the club’s early operations, and the distance between those beginnings and what would follow.

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Growth · Culture

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From A Child’s Eyes

One day the boy sat in the car, watching Roger drive. The Chev had a crash gearbox, the gear stick rising from the floor. The boy studied the movement — the hand on the stick, the timing, the sound of gears that didn’t always quite meet.

“I reckon I could drive this car,” he said.

They were on a bush track. Roger glanced across and replied, “Alright. Let’s see you try.”

—

That small moment in the narrative stirred my memory.

I can still see that gear stick rising from the floor, still hear the gears protesting as Roger guided it through. Sounds belonging to a time long ago, sounds that still resonate.

It was early — very early — when we set out. We left our home in Guildford Rd, Kingswood and travelled east — along the Great Western Highway, then only a single lane each way. past Kingswood. The road felt long then. The world felt larger.

The sun began to rise as we moved along Parramatta Road, the sun — an uncompromising orange glow spread across horizon and cut through the morning, piercing the windscreen. It is a scene I can still see clearly, even now.

We arrived while most of the city was still waking.

The Sydney Markets were already alive. Men in leather aprons moved quickly through the chaos, pushing wooden trolley with metal wheels, lifting bags of potatoes, hauling wooden crates of fruit. There were voices everywhere — loud, urgent, and often unfamiliar. It was noisy, physical, assured.

I knew where we were. I knew why we were there. I was only 5 years old!

Roger had left teaching. He was trying something else — something less certain. The trip was part of that. We were buying produce for the fruit shop in High Street, Penrith.

It was a long morning — felt like the entire day had passed. But I wasn’t tired. I felt… included. Trusted, perhaps. Part of something that mattered.

I understood what we were doing.

I just didn’t understand what it meant.

—

It was only much later that I began to see it differently.

At the time, it was a trip to the Markets. An early start. A day that felt bigger than most.

But it was more than that.

It was a man stepping away from something secure and into something uncertain — and doing so without hesitation. Treating it not as a risk, but simply as what needed to be done.

And without knowing it, I was seeing more than the work itself.

I was seeing where he stood in the world.

And, in some quiet way, something about where I stood as well.

—

To some, it might seem ordinary.

It was anything but.

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Roger Cowan

Part 5 of 70 — Original Chapter: Chapter 3: Roger Cowan

This article forms part of the serialised republication of Panthers, Passion & Politics – The Roger Cowan Years.

Start · Reader’s Guide · All Parts

Note for readers:
This Part presents a narrative portrayal of Roger Cowan as part of the unfolding story. A structured biographical overview is available on the Roger Cowan profile page.

Roger Cowan was born in 1935. His father, Norm, was one of seven children who grew up on a farm in Victoria. Norm married Mary Jamieson from West Wyalong, who was also raised on a farm. Mary had two sisters and five brothers. Both parents had left school early and had experienced the ravages of the Great Depression.

Norm was a proud man. Cowan says his Dad often recounted the humiliation of the day that he lined up to apply for a job to dig trenches with pick and shovel, and had to show his hands to the people recruiting the workers. If they were calloused sufficiently, it proved he was used to hard work. That someone had treated his father with such indignity stayed with Cowan. Even as a young boy, he knew it was a disgraceful thing to do. Most of the important values of an adult are developed in the earliest years. He made up his mind he would never act like that.

One of the main influences on the young Cowan was the dedication of both parents to make sure he was given better educational opportunities than they had. They coached and encouraged him to read and learn beyond what was being taught at school. Both were intelligent people who had succeeded in their studies as far as they were allowed to go. Norman Cowan could have been a professional working out of an office and earning a good wage had he been given the opportunities.

The Jamieson boys were horse breakers. They had a reputation for liking a bit of a brawl now and then, even within the family if nothing better was available. In an indirect way that would also influence the values developing in Cowan.

His mother had very strong values and she passed these on to her children at every opportunity. On the one hand she had a revulsion for fighting and violence. She was close to her brothers and was distressed by their willingness to resolve things with their fists. On the other hand, she was against any show of weakness. No matter what challenges might arise, they had to be met with determination and strength.

Cowan remembers one example of his mother’s attitude towards developing a tough approach. The Cowan family – Mary, Norm, Roger and his sister Clare – were living in the village of Hampton near the Jenolan Caves. On a cold winter day, his mother asked him to ride his bike to the shop to pick up some butter. He was nine years old.

As he rounded the bend near the school, an icy wind blew him off his bike. Sleet mixed with wind seemed to cut into his bare face, legs and hands. He picked up the bike and battled his way to the shop, walking it when he was unable to control it against the wind. He arrived home cold, sore, and distressed. He was in tears when his mother met him at the door.

But Mary was not about to encourage that sort of weakness. She told him she was surprised he wasn’t tougher than that. Instead of sympathy, it was a scolding and a reminder that he would have to face worse adversity than that in his life, and he had better get used to it.

Mary was a nagging but enthusiastic teacher, and her impact was considerable. Cowan remembers the principles that mattered to her – never start a fight, but never back away from adversity. Never deliberately hurt another person unless in defence. Be strong no matter what. And learn everything you can.

Norm’s constant struggle with asthma was another one of the influences that shaped Roger Cowan’s life. Norm was a labourer and there were no sickness benefits back then. Hearing their Dad sitting in a chair all night struggling for breath was distressing for Roger and his sister.

When he was sick, the loss of wages became an unbeatable handicap. He fared better in some climates than others, and his condition sometimes worsened if the family stayed too long in one place.

The move from Bathurst was detrimental to his education, but there were other effects that were not so obvious at the time.

The school at Bathurst was of a high standard, and there was plenty of competition to push the brighter kids to extend themselves. Cowan and another boy had competed for top position in the class all through second grade and were still locked in friendly competition in third class. When he heard of the plan to move him to a one teacher school in the bush, Roger’s teacher expressed his concern that a bright future would be jeopardized. Mary and Norm were concerned but had no choice.

Roger was nine years old and was just beginning fourth class when his mother became aware that the teacher sometimes asked him to take younger children out on the school verandah and help them learn to read. His younger sister Clare remembers that it was Roger who taught her to read when she was at the Hampton school.

Mary complained to the teacher that she was sending Roger to school to be educated, and not to educate others. The teacher agreed, but said he was a boy that needed to be challenged. Teacher and mother decided that he would do fourth class and fifth class in the same year. The effect of that decision was that he entered high school just after his eleventh birthday and completed his final year of school at fifteen.

It made a big difference, he says. He feels that with that the extra year, he would have been more mature and would probably have handled it better. Despite being quite a lot younger than most of his final year classmates, he was elected vice captain of the school.

He also captained the school’s first grade rugby league team and finished dux.

Cowan has some good memories of Hampton. It enabled him and his father to develop a closer relationship, he says.

Norm was a hard worker when he was free of asthma and was a contract timber cutter at Jenolan State Pine Forest. He was also a strong advocate of having a go. At one time, the family traveled out to the forest where Norm was working. In those days, timber cutting was very much a physical activity. Chain saws were still a long way off. Trees were felled by axe, and sawn into lengths using a bow saw. A horse pulled the logs onto tracks and men lifted them onto the back of trucks for transport to the sawmill.

By the time he was ten, he was using the bow saw to prepare the trees that his father felled for the sawmill. Often they would camp in a hut near the forest. Most days, they would have the first tree falling by 7am and return to the hut in time to cook an evening meal and sharpen the tools.

The family was renting a house eight miles from the forest. Norm would load up his pushbike with his tools and carry enough provisions for a week in a hessian bag roped over his back. He would ride to the forest early Monday morning and return Friday night.

After a year or so, he was offered a 1927 Chevrolet that was sitting on blocks in a local farmer’s shed. The old car was affordable, and they bought it.

One day the boy sat in the car studiously watching his father drive. The Chev had a crash gearbox and a gear stick from the floor. He said to his father, ‘I reckon I could drive this car.’ They were on a bush track and Norm’s response was ‘OK. Let’s see you try’.

Sitting on a cushion so that he could see over the steering wheel, the eleven-year-old put the car into gear and released the clutch. It took off like a kangaroo, the gears crashed, and his father’s patient lessons started. In a few weeks he was driving regularly, collecting loads of wood in the bush, driving when he went to work with Norm and grabbing every opportunity to get behind the wheel.

A personal reflection around this moment — From a Child’s Eyes — is available in the Beyond the Book section.

Those who know Roger Cowan would find it difficult to equate the confident, articulate man of later years with the extremely reticent and shy boy he once was. The move from Bathurst had allowed his natural shyness to become more pronounced. In the larger school, he would have been competing with many other pupils of his own age and taking part in development exercises under experienced teachers. Hampton had less than thirty pupils. Their ages spread from the five-year-olds in kindergarten to a few who were fourteen and studying high school by correspondence. In that situation he became even more introverted and shy. To this day he is uncomfortable in the spotlight. Being the centre of attention embarrasses him.

At the age of ten, he was encouraged by his teacher to enter a competition conducted by the NSW Police. On the day of the award presentation the schoolroom filled with all the parents and the pupils of the school. A number of police sitting at the front seemed to have ribbons and medals all over them. The head policeman gave a speech of congratulations and made the award. The teacher asked the young Roger to stand and respond. He stood. He was right in the spotlight now. The whole world seemed to be looking at him expectantly. He froze solid. Not one word would come out of his mouth.

The next time would be much worse. At the end-of-year farewell at high school Roger, as vice-captain of the school, was on the program to make a speech. The room was full of fourth and fifth year students and teachers. As he stood, again, he froze. Not a word. He still shudders when he remembers the embarrassment of that moment.

When he started high school, Roger’s parents moved to a small house near the forest. It was unlined and erected from pine cut at the local sawmill. Water came from a creek about fifty metres from the house. They carried it in large kerosene tins converted into buckets. Young Roger would bang the tins together in case there were snakes in the creek bed. He didn’t know at the time was that the snakes would have been aware only of the vibrations of his footsteps and not the banging of the tins.

In that first year of high school, he boarded in Lithgow during the week. On Sunday afternoon, he would either hitchhike to Lithgow or catch one of the buses that took tourists to the Jenolan Caves. Most weekends and holidays he worked with his father. If it wasn’t timber cutting, it was share farming in potatoes or peas.

It was not an ideal situation for education. At the end of the first year, Mary decided it would be better if she moved to Lithgow. The family had no money and there were no houses available for rent anyway. They moved into a room in a house where they shared the kitchen and bathroom. Some weekends they returned to Hampton for share farming or timber cutting, other times they all lived in the one room in Lithgow.

Towards the end of third year at high school, Cowan’s family had the chance to rent a housing commission home on the outskirts of Lithgow. It had two bedrooms and was very small, but it was a palace compared to sharing other people’s homes. Clare had the second bedroom. At the back of the house was a small alcove just large enough to squeeze in a single bed. It was under the roof but otherwise exposed to the elements, and at Lithgow that meant snow, sleet and rain if the wind was blowing the wrong way. But Cowan remembers it as ‘the best little snuggle hole in the world’. It had privacy, fresh air and plenty of warm blankets to burrow under if the conditions got too harsh.

There was never any spare money but there was never any whinging about it either, as far as the kids knew. Only once was there a very big disappointment. During his second year at high school, Roger spent many weekends helping his father clear about ten acres so that they could plant a crop of potatoes. The owner of the land would get a share of the crop and would also end up with an improved paddock.

All the clearing was done with axe, saw, fire and a draught horse. It was a slow job, taking several weeks. After that there was the monotonous task of walking around behind a tractor for ten hours a day, dropping a seed potato at every step and throwing blood and bone into the furrow turned over by the plough pulled by the tractor. The two of them, father and son, could keep the tractor moving continuously.

The harvest was magnificent. Bags and bags of potatoes were sent to market and it looked like their luck had turned at last. Mary started to see a chance to get a larger home – maybe they could even buy one. All they needed was another good crop the following year. Some of the money was reinvested into seed, fertilizer, and a contractor with a tractor. Again, they watched the field covered with rows and rows of healthy green plants. When the small potato nodules started to appear, Norm expectantly dug in beside some of the plants to see how they were developing. Another good crop was on the way.

One day it all ccollapsed. The crop became infected with blight and not one potato got to the market. That was the last hurrah for share farming. Norm moved into Lithgow where he could work in the mine and be with his family seven days a week.

Cowan says that many of his attributes were handed down from father. The ability to work long days without complaining, driven only by the need to get a job done, was one. He worked through most school holidays. He can only remember going on a family holiday once. When he was 14 they rented a holiday cottage at The Entrance for two weeks.

At the end of fourth year, just a few days after his fifteenth birthday1, he applied to the local brickworks for a job. The money was good. He convinced the manager he was 18. The first job was in the loft shoveling sand into a pipe that fed a brick-making machine directly below. The pipe could not be allowed to run out of sand. It was boring repetitious work and quite physical. A lot of men quit after one day. Roger Cowan was promoted after a while to wheeling bricks – even harder work, but more money. He stayed until school started again and he went into fifth year.

He only remembers hearing one argument between his parents. It was a clash of ideas about what would be best for his future. He was eleven years old and had worked with his father every day of the school holidays. Mary was accusing Norm of turning the boy into a labourer who would rather be doing physical work than study. Norm responded that it would do him good and help him appreciate what hard work was like. It was another defining moment, an incentive to study even harder.

After school, Bathurst Teachers College was ‘a life of luxury’. The government allowance for student teachers was certainly adequate for his needs. He could not understand why some of his friends needed to draw from their parents on top of the allowance.

Students spent time each year at local schools practicing their teaching skills and learning to put theory into practice. Standing in front of a class, under the observation of an experienced teacher and thus becoming the centre of attention, was an ordeal at first. Such challenges just had to be overcome.

By the time Cowan started at Panthers, few people would have realised that there was still a problem. He joined a local Toastmasters Club, and that experience would make the problem even more difficult for outsiders to see. But the preference to avoid the spotlight remained with him throughout his life.

Childhood experiences, and the things that our parents do, and instill in us, shape the people that we become. That seems relevant to many events described in this book.

In the Cowan home, financial matters were never discussed. Such things were between the parents and kept private. There was never any feeling in the Cowan kids that they were deprived in any way, although they were aware that their friends had homes and other material things that they didn’t. Those things were never discussed. If they needed something they would ask. If it was unaffordable at the time the answer would be no and that was the end of it.

The person who took on the management of Penrith Rugby League Club in 1965 had a belief that if something had to be done you just got on and did it. Planting potatoes for 10 hours when others were enjoying their weekends just had to be done, and it felt good to achieve completion. Working 12-hour days every day for more than a year to get Panthers on track was just another thing that had to be done, and that felt good too.

Cowan suspects that one aspect of his mother’s values has had a negative twist. She taught him that the first step in every dispute was to try to talk your way out of it. The last resort is to take a fighting stance. Once forced into that, you do your utmost.

This teaching has created several difficult moments in his life. He describes it as reaching a threshold in a conflict. When he reaches the point where he believes that all further talk is useless, there is a sudden change of posture. Caution goes out the window and from that point, obstinacy takes over from logic or self-preservation.

An injury when he was eighteen meant Cowan missed the first few weeks of training in his compulsory National Service training. At his first parade, his rifle slipped to the ground and he picked it up. The drill corporal told him to kiss it. Cowan thought he was joking and laughed. The corporal insisted and Cowan again tried to pass it off as a joke. A second corporal came around and stood behind him. Now both of them were demanding that the order be obeyed.

To Cowan it was a silly request and worse still, it was making him the centre of attention in an environment where he knew nobody. He had tried to reason his way out of it but now the curtain came down. It felt like a red blanket suddenly dropped around him. The time for reason and logic had passed. Now there was only anger and the grim determination to fight no matter what the cost. He told them angrily that they had better understand that there was no way he was going to kiss that rifle. He added that he did not care what they thought they could do about it or how many of them tried to force him. He says he ended up washing a lot of dishes, and he never got back onto good terms with those corporals.

When he stormed out of a Panthers Board meeting one night, the feeling was the same. Pent up anger had built to breaking point during unsuccessful efforts to talk through issues logically. It could well have been one of his most costly and damaging explosions but, he says, whenever that red blanket drops, caution is the victim.

The man who would later take over the management of Panthers possessed characteristics that would help him succeed — and others that would, in time, bring him into conflict.

One side of his personality was a workaholic who was not bound by conventional thinking and who welcomed ‘getting out of the square’. He believed that everybody is equal given equal opportunity, and that all should be treated with respect and dignity; also that the feelings and welfare of people are important elements of every decision.

On the other side was a tendency to delay, sometimes for too long, decisions that would hurt others. Then there was the ‘red blanket’ waiting far beneath the surface and making its risky appearance at inopportune times. Crucially, there was the desire for privacy in his personal and financial affairs, a strong degree of introversion, and a determination to push for what he believed was the right thing to do, even if it meant trying to convince others again and again and again.

Some of these tendencies would make life very difficult in time.

His perspective that everyone is potentially equal — depending on circumstances and opportunity rather than birthright – made Cowan extremely protective of confidentiality of salaries, especially his own. Being paid so much more than others who were helping him achieve success for the club seemed unfair, and he preferred that the difference was not part of public information. Adding weight to those feelings was his own experience growing up in circumstances some might describe as poverty. It is a description he strongly denies.

There is no way I grew up in poverty. We had no money, no house and an old car most of the time, but I had a fantastic family. We helped each other. My sister and I never went without the necessities although we probably did not appreciate the sacrifices made by our parents to provide them. I was a strong and healthy kid and very willing to work at any task to earn money in the holidays and on weekends. I had lots of friends who could not care how much money we had or what sort of car we drove. I grew up in riches, not poverty.

In January 1954, Cowan married Phyllis Snape. Phyllis was a teacher who also attended Bathurst Teachers College. Cowan’s first appointment in 1954 was to Blacktown Boys Primary. They built a small house in Cambridge Park in 1958 and moved to the Penrith area.

In 1962, Cowan commenced teaching at Nepean High School.2

A personal reflection connected to this chapter — From a Child’s Eyes — is available in the Beyond the Book section.

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  1. Roger Cowan’s birthday is 9 November. He spent most of his fourth year at high school aged fourteen but turned fifteen late in the school year. He completed his Leaving Certificate examinations the following year while still fifteen.
    ↩︎
  2. Nepean High School did not formally open until 1963, initially operating from classrooms at Penrith High School. Its permanent campus at Emu Plains opened in 1964, at which point Cowan resumed classroom teaching. Between 1958 and 1964, he had been engaged in a series of small business ventures, including a fruit shop in High Street, Penrith, and an ice-cream run servicing the Richmond area.
    ↩︎

← Part 4 · All Parts · Part 6 →

Commentary and Contributions

Major Player: Leo Trevena

Leo Trevena

Leo “Trapper” Trevena

Premiership-winning halfback / five-eighth (Wests,1952), Penrith Panthers first coach, Licensed club management team

Leo “Trapper” Trevena was a highly regarded rugby league footballer and coach whose involvement with Penrith spanned both its formative years in the Parramatta District Junior League and its early seasons in the NSWRL competition.

A member of Western Suburbs’ 1952 premiership-winning side, Trevena brought first-grade experience and leadership to Penrith at a time when the club was beginning to define its identity and ambitions.

Role in the Narrative

Trevena’s presence in the Panthers, Passion and Politics narrative extends beyond the early development of the club into the period immediately preceding and following its entry into the NSWRL in 1967.

His recruitment as captain-coach — at a reported £500 for the season — reflected a willingness by the club to invest in experience and leadership well before its entry into the NSWRL competition. His time at Penrith coincided with the emergence of a more assertive and self-directed club culture.

He represents a continuity of leadership across eras — from the club’s emergence within the Parramatta district competition to its establishment as a first-grade entity, and into the early years of the licensed club.

Background

Born: 1929
Died: 2013

Playing Career:

  • Western Suburbs (First Grade) — 1950-53, Premiership winner, 1952
  • Canterbury (First Grade) — 1954
  • Young (Maher Cup) — Captain-Coach, premierships 1955–56

Penrith (Junior & District Era):

  • Captain-Coach, A Grade — 1957–1959
  • Premierships — 1958, 1959

Coaching (Senior Level):

  • Penrith — 2nd Division Premiership, 1966
  • Penrith Panthers — First Grade Coach, 1967
  • Penrith Panthers — First Grade Coach, 1973

Club Administration:

Assistant Manager, Penrith Leagues Club — 1968–1973

Recognition by Panthers
• Life Membership, Penrith Rugby League Club (1981)

Relevance to Events Described

An early and defining episode in Trevena’s time at Penrith occurred in 1957.

After just three matches with the club, he was called upon by Parramatta to return to first grade for a match against St George. Trevena refused, choosing instead to honour his commitment to Penrith. Parramatta responded by banning him from playing in the junior competition, a decision supported by the NSW Rugby League.

The consequence was that Trevena was unable to take the field for the remainder of the season, continuing only in his coaching role. Penrith were subsequently beaten in the final.

The episode highlighted an early tension between district authority and club autonomy, and reflected a developing sense of identity within Penrith — one grounded in loyalty and commitment.

Trevena returned to playing the following season, contributing to consecutive A-grade premierships in 1958 and 1959. His influence, however, extended well beyond this period.

As first-grade coach, he guided Penrith to a Second Division premiership in 1966 — an achievement that immediately preceded the club’s entry into the NSWRL competition. He then took on the role of first-grade coach in Penrith’s inaugural season in 1967, and again took the role in 1973.

In parallel with his coaching responsibilities, Trevena also served as Assistant Manager of the Penrith Leagues Club from 1968 to 1973, contributing to the early development of the licensed club during a critical phase of its growth.

Related Material

Related Themes

Football Club · First Division Admission · Milestones

Additional Material

Editorial Note

This profile is presented as contextual background.
Additional material may be introduced as the narrative progresses.

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From Small Beginnings – Rugby League Takes Off In Penrith

Part 4 of 70 — Original Chapter: Chapter 2: From Small Beginnings – Rugby League Takes Off In Penrith

This article forms part of the serialised republication of Panthers, Passion & Politics – The Roger Cowan Years.

Start · Reader’s Guide · All Parts

Just over twenty years after the First Fleet arrived at Port Jackson, the first land grant in the Penrith district was awarded to Captain Daniel Woodriffe. As the colony grew, the town, with its strategic location on the Nepean River, became an important stop on the Western Road over the mountains, and later on the rail route to Katoomba and beyond.

Some readers may even remember taking the steam train to the Blue Mountains and having a cuppa or a snack while the train paused for ten minutes at Penrith, midway through the journey.

Rugby League came to Penrith around 1912, following the code’s breakaway from the traditional rugby union game. A regular competition was in operation by 1913 but there was reportedly friction in town between the two codes.

The first Penrith team was called the Waratahs, but for much of its history the Club simply played under the name of Penrith. The name ‘Panthers’ was adopted in 1964, after a public competition.

During the First World War times were sometimes tough for the club. One year, when the club was unable to buy shorts for the players, they ran onto the field in cut-down trousers.

Like many country clubs of the period, Penrith rugby league survived largely through the enthusiasm of local volunteers and the loyalty of its players and supporters.

The struggles continued through the 1920s, and in 1926 the club was reformed as the Penrith Rugby League Club. It was at this time that it applied for entry into the Western Division [Country] League, although there was some local opposition due to the travel demands involved.

Rugby League continued to grow in Penrith through the 1940s and 50s — and was, by all accounts, not a game for the faint-hearted. These were hard, tough men, and there was plenty of ‘biff’.  They were paid little, or nothing and played for the honour of their town — and also because they obviously enjoyed it.

Max Connors was first a committeeman, and later a director at the club, in the years between 1956 and 1981. He says football games used to be played on a paddock just out of town.

They moved to the showground around ’42-43. Cricket was played there in the summer, and the pitch had to be broken up each year so rugby league could be played. It eventually got to be a problem between the two groups.

Connors speaks of his boyhood in Penrith when the guesthouses at Wallacia were a popular holiday destination for city people. When the steam trains would pull in, he and his friends would descend on them and offer to carry the travelers’ bags to the bus to earn some money.

In the early 1950s, Penrith was still a small town on the outer fringes of suburbia. Its one department store was Western Stores — later to become Myer1. The largest other business in town was Max Young’s produce business, which supplied feed, saddlery and other farming essentials to the district’s many rural properties.

In 1955, the first electric train service came to Penrith2. and former player Merv Cartwright became secretary of the football club. Two other players came onto the scene around the same time — Leo “Trapper” Trevena and Reginald Ronald “Rocky” Davis. Both would have an impact on the growth of the club.

The mid-50s also saw the advent of the ‘district club’. Penrith was part of the Parramatta District and competed in the Parramatta A Grade Competition against clubs from Parramatta, Guildford, Merrylands, Liverpool, Richmond and other teams from a huge geographical area. This large area would later be broken up when Penrith became a District Club in its own right in 1967. Today Penrith and Parramatta have the largest rugby league districts of any Sydney team.

Even in 1956, the Penrith club was already showing its potential as an innovator. It was the first junior rugby league club to be granted a liquor license, and its first licensed club building was completed the same year. It was located in a back street of Penrith.3 It had two regular rooms, and a larger function room that was used for Saturday night dances and presentations, etc. 

For almost 20 years, the club also doubled as a boys’ club, and the club funded boxing and gymnastics activities for local youngsters. Its activities were transferred when the club agreed in the early seventies to jointly fund, with Penrith City Council, the Police Citizens Boys Club.

Connors remembers the first club as pretty much just a large garage in Station Street. He says they also bought the house next door, and that was where they held their meetings. The house had previously been a riding school — perhaps an indication of just how ‘country’ Penrith was in those days.

In an ironic twist, the first club building was financed by a gambling venture. Josie Haining — the wife of Bill Haining, a former player – won £100,00 in the Tasmanian Golden Casket, and the club was built using voluntary labour and a loan from Mrs Haining.

Don Feltis has a long history with the Club. He has been a player, football committeeman, football CEO, and is now junior league boss and a director on Panthers’ group board.

He remembers the day that a group of volunteers met to start digging the foundations for the new club:

We decided that the fairest way to work out who would have the honour of turning the first sod was to draw straws. So there we are, standing around organising the straws and sorting out lengths when we hear a ruckus behind us. We turn around and here’s one of the group — a fellow called Nobby Hunter — throwing a pick on the ground and very proudly showing us a hole the size of a bucket he’s just dug.

The building at first had six poker machines — three sixpenny and three one-shilling machines4.

Through the early sixties the club industry was just beginning to show its potential. St George Leagues Club was known as the Taj Mahal, and clubs like Easts Leagues and Souths Juniors were already an established part of the Sydney entertainment scene.

The Penrith Leagues Club, on the other hand, was a very small player. It had a couple of hundred members. It had never really been the mythical ‘tin shed’, but Max Connors, a director between 1956 and 1981, provided some insight into how the story came about.

The tin shed that people talk about was actually a kiosk on the showground where they used to play. It was run by the ladies, and the players used to get three free tickets each, and the supporters could buy three tickets for two shillings.

The kiosk doubled as a dressing-shed for players.

As the 1960s arrived, the club committee began pushing to join the league’s new inter-district competition — later to become Second Division. There was strong opposition from the club’s junior league. It was around this time, Trevena and Davis, along with Cartwright were joined on the football committee by a young high school teacher and player named Roger Cowan.

In 1962, the club joined the new competition, along with nine other Sydney clubs, including two much larger clubs, Ryde Eastwood and Wentworthville. Five years later, Penrith would leapfrog both these clubs to take a spot in the First Division competition.

The following year the licensed club underwent a major refurbishment, at a cost of £150,000. The new club had 26 poker machines. The 27 year old Cowan retired from playing football, but became football club treasurer. It was a move that would change his life.

It was the responsibility of the licensed club to fund rugby league, but at the end of the 1964 season Cowan was astounded to discover there were insufficient funds to pay the players. That year he stood for election for the licensed club committee, and became club treasurer, while still working as a teacher. He immediately began to implement controls and measures to improve the club’s finances. The club had embarked on an association with the man who would define its future.

What were the influences that made Panthers’ future CEO the person he turned out to be? What were the drivers behind the culture he encouraged at Panthers? And why much later did he allow conflict to escalate rather than backing away when the odds were stacking against him?

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  1. The store referred to was Fletcher’s, which opened in 1941 as a gentleman’s outfitter. By the late 1950s and early 1960s it had become the largest department store in Penrith, employing more than 100 people. Fletcher’s became part of the Myer group in 1962.
    (Source: John Carvan, Standing Under the Weir: Penrith Memories.)
    ↩︎
  2. The electrification of the railway line to Penrith in 1955 was a major local event. Prior to this, services had been operated by steam trains. The town formed an “Electrification Committee” to organise celebrations for the arrival of the first electric service. Dave Fitzgerald, President of Penrith Rugby League, served on that committee.
    ↩︎
  3. Although described as a “back street” at the time, the club was located on the corner of Park and Station Streets. Park Street branched off Station Street roughly opposite the southern end of the swimming pool (near the showground). The area now forms part of the Nepean Village precinct.
    ↩︎
  4. Other accounts place the initial poker machine fleet at ten machines, split evenly between sixpenny and one-shilling machines. See Bound for Glory (Greg Prichard and Gary Lester, p.30). ↩︎

← Part 3 · All Parts · Part 5 →

Commentary and Contributions

Major Player: Merv Cartwright

Merv Cartwright

Mervyn Earl Cartwright

Founding figure in Penrith rugby league; Secretary, Penrith District Rugby League Football Club (1967–1970)

Mervyn Earl Cartwright was one of the key figures in the early development of rugby league in Penrith. A local player, administrator, and advocate for the game, he played a central role in the campaign that led to the Penrith Panthers’ admission to the NSWRL competition in 1967.

He served as the club’s inaugural secretary and was widely recognised as a driving force behind rugby league’s establishment in the district.

Role in the Narrative

Merv Cartwright appears in the early phases of the Panthers, Passion and Politics narrative as a key figure in the club’s formation and early direction.

His contribution sits primarily within the “growth” stream of the story — the push to establish Penrith as a first-grade rugby league presence. At the same time, his period of influence overlaps with the emergence of tensions between football ambition and financial governance — a theme that would become increasingly significant as the club developed.

Background

Born: 1927
Died: 2011

Cartwright grew up in the Penrith district and was closely connected to local rugby league from an early age.

• Played junior and senior football in the district
• Became club secretary in the 1950s while still a player
• Continued as Secretary of the Penrith Rugby League Football Club from 1967 to 1970
• Returned to Club governance as a Board Member 1992 – 1998

He was one of the signatories to the formation of the Penrith Rugby League Club Ltd in 1967 .

Recognition by Panthers
• Life Membership, Penrith Panthers (1955)
• Merv Cartwright Medal is awarded to the best player each season (named 2012)
• Named a Panthers Legend (2026)

Relevance to Events Described

Cartwright was a driving force in the campaign to bring Penrith into first-grade competition. He played a visible role in promoting the club, including maintaining a strong media presence during its early years .

During his time as secretary, the club operated in an environment where expectations between football operations and financial governance were not aligned. By the end of the 1960s, these pressures had intensified. Expenditure on football activities exceeded agreed limits, and tensions developed between football operations and the licensed club board over financial oversight and decision-making.

In 1971, Cartwright resigned from his role as Secretary of the Football Club. The circumstances surrounding his resignation were more complex than this summary suggests, particularly in relation to the Club’s financial position and governance arrangements at the time.

This conflict echoes through later sections of the Panthers, Passion and Politics narrative.

Related Material

Related Themes

Conflict · Football Club · First Division Admission

Editorial Note

This profile is presented as contextual background.
Additional material may be introduced as the narrative progresses.

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The Western Weekender

The Western Weekender is a free weekly newspaper serving the Penrith region of New South Wales. Established in 1991, as a “good news” publication, it has become a consistent local media presence, covering community news, sport, politics, and issues relevant to Western Sydney.

Distributed widely across the Penrith local government area, the Weekender positions itself as a community-focused publication, with an emphasis on local identity and accessibility. Over time, it has built a strong readership base and a recognised voice within the region.

Editorially, the Weekender has played an ongoing role in reporting on developments at Penrith Rugby League Club and within the broader Penrith community. Its coverage has ranged from routine reporting to more involved commentary during periods of controversy or significant change.

The publication has not been without interruption. It ceased operations briefly in 2008 before being revived in 2009 under new ownership, after which it re-established its presence in the local media landscape.

As with any local media outlet, the Weekender reflects both the priorities of its editorial leadership and the interests of its readership. This can influence not only what is reported, but how events are framed and understood within the community.

Throughout this series, references to the Western Weekender should be understood in that context — as a prominent local publication whose reporting formed part of the public narrative surrounding the events described.

Related Topics

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