You could write five books about Lee Farrell — one on each of his exploits in the sporting codes he has championed across Australia.
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Tatura-Hill Top's leading man has proved to be a catalyst — an enigma even — in and around the realms of greens, ovals and stadiums on both sides of the nation.
From lowering domestic violence rates in an outback Queensland town to taking a bush team in Western Australia from the competition’s doldrums to glittering heights, you’d say Lee has something special; an unnameable quality.
Add beating prostate cancer into the mix and you get some inkling of the cloth he’s cut from.
But for Lee, it’s always been in the name of sport — it’s ingrained in the very sinews which bind him together.
And now he is proud to be leading the line as a Tatura resident, all through sport.
A country boy from Western Australia, Lee touched down in the Goulburn Valley two years ago.
His love affair with local greens piqued once he got talking to Hill Top regulars Dennis McHarry, Mal Williams and Jock Hicks at a Darwin bowls carnival.
“Those boys invited me to come back and play at Hill Top, and that’s how I got the association with this club,” Lee said.
Taking to Tatura’s rinks like a duck to water, Lee didn’t take long to chalk up a reputation as a fearsome talent.
Now when he strolls around the emerald strips of Hill Top, it’s plain to see he is suited, booted and hatted in the game he knows so well.
More than 70 appearances representing the Northern Territory at state level, 19 singles titles in six different states and countless pairs, triples and fours gongs — there isn’t much Lee hasn’t achieved while staring down the barrel of a jack.
But as for the curious nature of how his bowls career began — it all started with an incident involving an entirely different sort of bowling altogether.
“I think when I got into bowls was when I realised I was getting too old for cricket,” Lee said.
“I was a left-hander who used to like hooking a few to the fence — and when I got older, I was copping them to the helmet.
“That told me I was getting too slow for cricket.”
Beginning at Wongan Hills, Lee embarked on a circuitous journey throughout the bowls landscape in Western Australian and Northern Territory.
No matter where he went, great things followed.
But whether it was the taste of sweet victory or bitter defeat which lingered on Lee’s tongue, one aspect he cherished was that he never went it alone.
“What I like about bowls is that it’s like footy — it’s a team game,” he said.
“I really enjoyed that camaraderie, and that’s what made it such an easy transition.”
Lee’s lust for said camaraderie sparked long before bowls entered the fray.
Turning out on the footy oval on more than 600 occasions kicked it all off, but where he gained an added respect for the art of Australian Rules was coaching.
“When I go into things such as coaching, I make sure I’m trained up well,” Lee said.
“When they asked me to coach one of the local sides (Trayning and Kununoppin), I refused before I could complete a coaching course — of which, Barry Cable happened to be the presenter.
“Footy was really good to me, and what I learnt from the Barry Cables and those guys changed my whole attitude of what coaching was all about.”
Lee led Trayning and Kununoppin to a grand final at only 22 years of age.
But no pearls of wisdom from Cable or otherwise could prepare him for the horror which struck before the big dance.
“I remember we got into the grand final and the night before two of my players died in an accident,” he said.
“That was very hard to handle — we had to go to the parents and tell them what had happened.
“I still think about that day, and still get emotional about it — when you’re coaching, (the players) become your kids.”
As it goes, Lee’s boys lost that final.
Such a tragedy would expectedly jar most to the core.
It would drive many to forfeit a role which bears so much weight.
But not Lee. Not then. Not ever.
Pushing on with his coaching mantle, Lee left for Wongan Hills in 1990 — and in typical form, he wasn’t going let the local footy side’s losing streak remain.
“Coaching Wongan Hills, they were dead last. I was a pretty fit bloke, and I said to the team we were going to run the entire golf course,” he said.
“Within 10 minutes I was back at the start waiting for the boys, and it was some time until the first bloke staggered in.
“I said ‘boys, we're going to do this in two weeks’ time and if 10 of you can’t beat me home, you find yourself another coach'.”
“We went on to win the first six games of the season. We made the four that year — we lost the semi-final — but we got there from last place.”
Lee’s next test unfolded in the Northern Territory.
He first oversaw some of the finest young indigenous talents ply their trade with Nightcliff Football Club, before breaking Carnamah’s 27-year premiership drought in emphatic fashion.
Back-to-back flags — because that’s the way Lee went about it.
At Carnamah, as he often did, Lee not only changed the culture on the field, but off it as well.
“We changed the format of how country teams played in Carnamah by switching from Sunday to Saturday, and that attracted the country boys back in to playing,” he said.
“It had a pretty big impact. Even teachers would come to me and say, ‘the kids aren’t tired now on Mondays’.”
Still searching for another mountain to climb, Lee migrated to the Gulf of Carpentaria in 2005 for another oval-ball inspired escapade.
This time, however, rugby took centre stage.
“Even though I knew nothing about rugby, I took on a position as chief executive of the shire and travelled 700 km for a meeting to get Normanton Stingers into the North Queensland Rugby Association,” he said.
“In the first year we lost the grand final by four points and won it the following year.”
But while the Stingers’ rise was nothing if not meteoric, again, thanks to Lee, the impact off the field was even more powerful.
“We developed a code that if players struck or abused their partner they’d be suspended from the club,” he said.
“With 30 players wanting a game every week this code formed a bond between players and home violence amongst players went from being bad to non-existent.
“We also developed the Normanton Bush Races which brought the white and black communities together. It is now an event on the North Queensland tourism calendar.”
Bouncing around Western Australia and the Northern Territory wearing many hats for the following decade, Lee never stopped stoking the internal fires brought on by coaching.
And in 2018, Hill Top came calling.
One successful season in the Goulburn Valley later, Lee jetted back across to the other side of the country where he would be forced to swallow a bitter pill — prostate cancer.
He didn’t deserve it. He certainly didn’t need it.
But last year, Lee heard words which stop time.
“When the doctor diagnoses you with cancer, you don’t hear anything else after that for the next 30 or 40 minutes,” he said.
“All of a sudden, your mind goes all over the place. Am I going to live, am I going to die, what’s my life span?
“To overcome prostate cancer — that was one of the challenges I set myself. It was quite a scare, but you only live life once, so I had to make the most of it.”
Thanking wife Katherine for her solidarity during his struggle, Lee stands tall today as a 69-year-old man who has achieved more in one lifetime than most would in 10.
Which begs the question — what sporting pinnacle does the man himself regard as his best?
Winning a league best-and-fairest from only seven games (polling 21 votes)? What about playing on Sandover medallist Pat Dalton at 18 years of age? Both are close.
Receiving his first state bowls hat, umpiring 200 games of footy and serving just about every role under the sun on basketball, golf and cricket committees all rank high on his esteemed list of achievements.
But according to Lee, if he had to pick one, rounding out an illustrious football career alongside his own flesh and blood just about takes the cake.
“My favourite memory comes from playing with my boys in the reserves when I was about 40,” he said.
“One of my sons played centre half-forward, the other was on the half-forward flank and I was a full forward.
“I reckon we had the forward line covered.”
Knowing Lee, the Farrell boys would have kicked 10 each that day to win the game from 200 points down.
But he would never admit it — that’s not how he rolls.