The 2025 NRL season for the Penrith Panthers didn’t begin with the dominance and polish many had come to expect from the reigning champions. There was fatigue, perhaps even a sense of complacency, and while their high standards remained, execution had faltered. But behind closed doors, something significant was brewing — something that would define their mid-season turnaround and ultimately remind the league that the Panthers were not just a team, but a dynasty in motion. It was part frustration, part honesty, and part guts. At the heart of it stood a fiery Ivan Cleary, an emotional wake-up call, and a lesser-known figure whose quiet consistency would galvanize the squad.
Ivan Cleary is not the kind of coach prone to theatrical outbursts. His methods are based on calm reflection and calculated leadership. But after a humiliating loss in Round 7 to a red-hot Dolphins side, the usually composed Panthers coach walked into the locker room and made his presence felt like never before. According to several players, it wasn’t just a stern talk; it was “angry,” “real,” and even “scary.” There were no walls punched or chairs thrown, but Cleary’s words cut deep. “We are better than this,” he said. “You’re better than this.” For a playing group so used to success, it was a jolt to the system. The wake-up call wasn’t about the loss itself — losses happen in rugby league. It was about effort, energy, and identity. Cleary’s message was unmistakable: the team was drifting from its core.
Inside that dressing room, you could hear the silence stretching beyond the final whistle. It was uncomfortable. Players stared at the ground, trainers stepped aside, and senior leaders like Isaah Yeo and James Fisher-Harris nodded in agreement. The tension wasn’t divisive; it was sobering. In the days that followed, the team didn’t just train harder — they reconnected. Video sessions took on a different intensity. Players were encouraged to speak up more honestly in review meetings. No longer was critique confined to coaches; peers began holding each other accountable. It wasn’t just tactical — it was cultural. It was emotional. The group needed to feel the weight of their standards again.
One figure who became central to the rebound wasn’t Nathan Cleary or Dylan Edwards — though both were instrumental in execution — but rather the overlooked workhorse, Scott Sorensen. The veteran forward had spent years building his game on grit and reliability. He was never the fastest or flashiest, but what Sorensen brought in that critical period was exactly what the Panthers needed: unbreakable effort, quiet leadership, and a refusal to accept mediocrity. In the lead-up to the Round 9 clash against the Raiders, it was Sorensen who rallied the forwards in a private gym session. No cameras. No social media. Just a tight group of men being reminded that every meter matters and every tackle counts.
Sorensen’s performances in the next six games were nothing short of inspirational. He averaged 145 running meters and 32 tackles per game across that stretch, often taking on the toughest carries and neutralizing the most potent opposition threats. But more than the stats, it was the timing — big plays when the team needed momentum, fearless carries coming off the line after an error, and unheralded support runs that kept sets alive. He wasn’t the loudest voice, but he was the most dependable heartbeat. And in a team full of superstars, that counted more than ever.
As the Panthers slowly rebuilt their rhythm, what also emerged was a more assertive version of Nathan Cleary. The halfback, still nursing occasional tightness in his hamstring, played through pain to settle the ship. The coaching staff debated resting him, but Cleary insisted on staying in the trenches. He wasn’t at his dynamic best, but he was precise. He became more vocal in organizing the attack, managing tempo, and barking defensive cues. In one tightly contested game against the Storm, Cleary’s game management was surgical — a 40/20 kick that flipped the match, a well-timed grubber that resulted in a try, and a game-saving tackle on Xavier Coates near the sideline.
But the team’s rise wasn’t built solely on the back of talent. It was about remembering who they were when no one was watching. After a shock loss to Newcastle in Round 10, assistant coach Andrew Webster reportedly challenged the squad with a short but pointed question: “When’s the last time you loved defending?” That moment led to a radical shift in their training structure. The Panthers began emphasizing competitive drills that mirrored game fatigue. Their defensive sessions turned chaotic and combative. More talking. More aggression. It worked.
The turning point came in Round 11 against the Broncos. Brisbane came in flying, with Reece Walsh and Ezra Mam torching defenses all season long. But Penrith didn’t just beat them — they suffocated them. In a performance reminiscent of their 2022 grand final defensive masterpiece, the Panthers conceded just one try and forced seven repeat sets. What stood out wasn’t the scoreboard, but the body language. Every player was flying off the line, organizing each other, screaming encouragement. Forwards chased halfbacks to the edge. Outside backs sprinted in cover. It was brutal, selfless football. And it felt like Penrith again.
In post-match interviews, players and coaches didn’t focus on the scoreboard or the opposition. Instead, they kept repeating one theme: effort areas. It was a term that had been central to their dynasty run — those 1% plays that don’t show up on highlight reels but win you games. Kick pressure. Marker defense. Inside support. The obsession returned, and with it came the swagger.
The unsung players — Lindsay Smith, Mitch Kenny, and Sunia Turuva — were now stars in the team’s internal metrics. Smith, once seen as a fringe prop, was now leading tackle efficiency rates. Kenny, whose passing game had been questioned, had tightened his delivery and increased his kick chase pressure. Turuva, in the shadow of Brian To’o, was now among the top three backs in the league for post-contact meters. They weren’t playing for Instagram clips. They were playing for the badge again.
Meanwhile, Ivan Cleary had recalibrated his messaging. Gone were the days of soft encouragement and gentle prodding. The tone was firmer now — not aggressive, but sharp. In a recent film session after a narrow win over the Cowboys, Cleary reportedly stopped the tape midway and said, “That’s not us.” It was a sequence where the team had failed to reload defensively on a turnover. Even though they won that game, Cleary refused to allow poor habits to creep back in. His evolution as a coach — from calm orchestrator to fiery protector of standards — was perhaps the most defining change of the year.
Veteran players like Yeo and Moses Leota also stepped up off the field. Yeo, known for his even temperament, called a team dinner after the Broncos win and spoke candidly to the group. No coaches. No staff. Just players. He thanked the team for grinding back to form but reminded them that they weren’t entitled to anything. “We built this the hard way,” he said, according to those present. “And we’ll lose it the moment we think it’s just going to happen again.”
By the time Round 17 arrived, Penrith were humming. They had climbed back into the top two and led the league in defensive efficiency, missed tackles, and completed sets. But more than stats, they looked like themselves again — ruthless, humble, connected. The younger players who had stepped in due to injuries — like Jack Cole and Mavrik Geyer — were no longer wide-eyed rookies. They were playing with edge and confidence, molded by the culture around them.
Perhaps no moment captured the resurgence better than their gutsy come-from-behind win over the Eels in Round 15. Trailing by 12 with 10 minutes left, most teams would have panicked. But not Penrith. They didn’t deviate. They backed their system. And when Cleary orchestrated the match-winning try with less than a minute remaining — a double pump followed by a cut-out pass to a surging Turuva — it wasn’t just a highlight-reel moment. It was a full-circle triumph. A reminder of why they’re feared. Why they’re still the standard.
As the finals approach, the Panthers are no longer the complacent, scattered side that left Ivan Cleary fuming earlier in the year. They are, once again, the embodiment of elite standards. A team not defined by trophies, but by how they respond when the sheen of success fades and reality hits. And in a league that punishes vulnerability and rewards conviction, the Panthers didn’t just survive a crisis. They used it. They were shaken, then stirred — and they’ve never looked more dangerous.
