Paul Kent lost almost everything, but he refuses to lose himself
He wears the second incident
I don’t buy Paul Kent’s attempt to wave away approximately 21 schooners of mid across 11 hours as nothing much, because alcohol plainly helped turn an ugly exchange into a life-changing mistake. Kent says he had been walking away when a man referred to the earlier domestic violence allegation, which Kent defeated in court; Kent says the court accepted his evidence and called the other evidence unreliable and evasive.
Kent demanded an apology, believed the man was approaching to start something and decided to act first. Neither landed a blow, but Kent was tipped onto his head, broke six ribs and suffered a collapsed lung, then delayed hospital because photographers were outside. The detail that matters most is not the provocation or the footage Kent says he possesses. It is his acceptance of the choice that changed everything: “In the end I was the one that pressed the go button, I suppose.”
Honest work is never a fall
I reckon the funeral parlour chapter says more about Kent than any television argument ever did, because there is dignity in taking the work available when the career you built disappears. After a lifetime moving in a straight line from one media job to the next, Kent suddenly could not get work as a journalist and accepted an offer from Mick Manning and John Manning, whose family he already knew.
At Manning’s Funerals, Kent helped prepare for services, load coffins into the hearse and solve whatever problems grieving families faced. He was still recognised nearly every time, often by mourners wanting to talk football or asking what was happening with the Tigers. The image is tender and slightly absurd: a former television star trying to perform solemn work while rugby league follows him through the door. Kent even reckoned one man in a coffin must have hated him and would have been filthy to find him there.
Clicks have eaten the craft
Kent is dead right about modern sports journalism: when clicks become the master, judgement becomes the servant. He misses writing and still loves it, yet believes too many younger rugby league reporters rewrite somebody else’s scoop, reproduce press conferences or offer opinions without doing the hard work of breaking news.
His broader argument is stronger than a generational whinge. Kent watched power shift from print to online as owners discovered they could measure every reader, then recycle the same development under a new headline. He recalls journalists being encouraged to put words such as “crisis” or “scandal” in headlines, even when the heat did not make the yarn any better. His distinction nails the problem: “It’s not what’s in the public interest, it’s what interests the public.”
Kent predicts print newspapers will disappear sooner than many expect. I hope the paper survives, but the craft matters more than the platform, and recycling is not reporting.
Principle came at a brutal price
I respect Kent for refusing to deliver an apology he believed was dishonest, but I still reckon acknowledging Anthony Maroon’s genuine hurt would have been an act of decency rather than surrender. Kent says the long-running radio gag was contrived, that Maroon had previously staged a walkout and that everyone believed he would return again. Maroon’s position, as Kent recounts it, is that the harassment became so bad he had to leave.
Kent concedes the segment dragged on, sounded like constant badgering and grew into genuine anger, which he regrets. Yet when Triple M demanded an on-air apology and threatened suspension, he chose to walk away from the job.
That decision is pure Kent: stubborn, costly and consistent. I admire the backbone, although an apology for the hurt, not the original intent, might have saved a friendship without selling his principles.
The angry bloke was never the whole bloke
The public mistook Kent’s television armour for his entire personality, and social media turned that lazy judgement into sport. Kent accepts that his 360 persona was serious and angry, but says it represented only one part of him; away from the cameras he is private, reluctant to circulate at functions and happier talking football with whoever happens to be beside him at the bar.
He does not use social media, although screenshots still reached him and affected people close to him. Kent recalls Michael Ennis telling him about a Canterbury player devastated by an anonymous post, even though the player would have dismissed the same insult face-to-face. That story goes to the rotten heart of anonymity: a username can somehow feel more powerful than a human being standing in front of you.
Kent wants diligent registration so users are accountable. I’m with him. “At least have the integrity to put your name to it,” he says. Cowardice does not become courage because it earns a like.
The comeback starts with a tree
Kent’s best next chapter will work because he can finally laugh at the image that once symbolised his collapse. He called his company Avoid the Tree Enterprises, complete with a tree-and-football logo, while people left chewing gum, flowers and even wreaths near the real tree in memory of his career. It is dark humour, but also reclamation: if the world insists on turning your worst night into a meme, taking ownership robs it of some sting.
Kent is working on a podcast built around rugby league’s personalities and off-field issues, with John Elias expected to join him regularly. He wants robust opinions rather than coaching jargon, because he understands that the game’s surrounding soap opera is often the conversation supporters carry to work.
He knows he may never return to where he was, yet he is not kicking stones or demanding his old life back. “I’ll back myself to get where I wanna be,” Kent says. I would too. The old road has gone, but the man is still moving.
