''When I think about the money I spent, it crosses my mind that I could now be living on the shores of Sydney Harbour,'' he says. ''The thing I console myself with is that nobody in my family went without. We never went without food, we always had a roof over our heads and I don't owe anybody money. I always worked hard and bet according to the money I generated - never on league - and stayed within those parameters. But I was never able to gather money around me. It's not like I live in a fibro house, but I certainly don't live in opulence. ''You can't have your cake and eat it too. Dad letting me bet was probably wrong, but I thank him every day that I call because he put me on the avenue I wanted to go. I've had a wonderful trip since then, but part of it was that I ended up having a bet every day of my life forever after.'' Warren's frankness verges on confronting. After all, he's perceived as a father figure to millions who've enjoyed his commentary for decades. His calls are polished, his knowledge deep, his cadence and pronunciations legendary. But entwined in the proficiency and success are insecurities, sensitivities - even a bemusement at his celebrity - which give him a well hidden human side. On this day, Warren is off to Channel Nine's studios to do an Anzac Day promotion voice-over. ''They probably think I was at Gallipoli or was a correspondent in the Boer War,'' he jokes. But behind the humour lies a genuine touchiness.

''Two years ago we were talking about the first game played at Birchgrove Oval and Sterlo [Peter Sterling] said, 'You'd remember it Rabs, you were there','' he says. ''There's always a jab at my age, which I take a bit of offence at because I don't think age matters, provided you've got your marbles. ''People say some wonderful things about me, like they feel comfortable hearing my voice at the start of a Friday night coverage. But I'm aware there's probably just as many people who'd like to read in the paper that I've finally gone to the football field in the sky.'' Warren's harshness on himself contrasts with the public's confidence in his commentary. ''I bash myself up more than most,'' he reveals. ''Those who know me would tell you I'm one of the great paranoids. I used to bash myself up just wondering what mistakes I'd made. I'd be convinced I'd embarrassed myself and my family. I still sometimes leave the ground upset about my call. But what I've learned is that, if you make a mistake, don't analyse it. That's really helped me. ''I strive for perfection, but it's a lot harder now for commentators. There's a lot more people playing, interchanges, new rules … For a while during the All Stars game, I didn't know if I was Arthur or Martha. There were 20 players on each bench, unlimited interchanges and some players I'd never seen.''

It reminds Warren of a recent email he received telling him that it was Frank-Paul Nuuausala, not Francis-Paul, as he'd been calling him. ''Of course, Sterling's gone to the name-sheet before the match and written 'Francis' in big letters,'' he says. ''That was his gee-up, setting a trap for me.'' It's uncertain if Warren is joking. ''It's become a world of gee-ups,'' he says. ''[Channel Nine sports boss] Gary Burns asked me on to The Footy Show to debate some issues but when I got there it became almost a montage of stupid things I'd done in 45 years. Another gee-up.'' That's the same Burns who once told Warren he could prolong his career by 20 years. ''I asked, 'How do you do that? Have you taken over from God?''' Warren recalls. Burns responded by saying he'd simply take Warren off camera. ''Burns told me I wasn't very attractive. I was offended at the time but I can see the upside. I don't need to have my hair or make-up done before a game, or stick around afterwards.'' Nevertheless, Warren does leave home early for fear of being caught in traffic. He once missed a kick-off and colleague Andrew Voss took over. Another fear is being branded biased, which he endured when he called his son Chris's team, Wests, in the early 1990s. Warren distanced himself from players and coaches after that. Instead, he reads newspapers daily to stay informed and calls referees' boss Robert Finch and operations officer Graham Annesley for clarification. That's about all the extra time he spends on rugby league. He doesn't ponder words or phrases for his calls, has no say which games he covers or who his co-commentators will be.

At the game, Warren double-checks the notes provided to him by statistician David Middleton. However, his primary role is that of a play-by-play commentator. Opinion and analysis are for colleagues. ''I enjoy all their company,'' he says. ''But working with Peter [Sterling] and Gus [Phil Gould] is absorbing. You've got a wonderful coach and knowledge of the game, and a legend who's become a brilliant commentator. I find their opinions sometimes mesmerising, sometimes intimidating.'' Not that Warren kowtows to injustice, particularly regarding referees. He didn't play high-level rugby league, but did become a qualified referee and empathises with them. ''If it sounds like Gus and I are about to punch each other, it's because I often try to defend the officials,'' he says. ''I passed a theoretical examination for a referees' certificate and, back in the 1980s when I was president of Parramatta Marist Football Club, the ref didn't turn up so I went out there to do it. The difference between theory and practice was incredible. Sometimes I feel sorry for the bloke with the whistle and I'm loath to criticise him. Anyway, a lot of people say they love it when Rabbits and Gus have a bit of a stink. It's never gone overboard, we're the best of mates. We'll have a stink, he'll roll his eyes and myself likewise.'' Warren values humour during a call, something he learned from legendary race announcer Bert Bryant. ''Bert could turn a race into a comedy skit,'' he says. ''You might lose your last $10, but he'd have you laughing. League is serious but I welcome comedy. Entertainment can take many forms; maybe the head-to-heads with Gus can be seen as humorous.

''Other times, the humour is less obvious. I was working with dear old Frank Hyde [much-loved league broadcaster between the 1950s and 1980s] at an Amco Cup double-header many years ago. Late in the second game, I wrote him a note saying, 'Could you call for five minutes while I go to the toilet'. Frank wrote back, 'No, thank you'. I grabbed an empty can to try to relieve the agony, but missed. You have to laugh.'' That philosophy and those memories allow Warren peace amid the damage gambling caused him. ''All I wanted was to be a sports commentator,'' he says. ''We didn't have a refrigerator, motor car or TV, but I'd roll marbles and call them as horses. I'd sit in a tree pretending to call games at the oval. I'd stand in the main street of town and call sport off the TV in the window. I knocked on doors and left my recordings and finally got a telegram from a radio station in 1966 asking if I still wanted to commentate. I called Barmedman versus West Wyalong in the Maher Cup and thought that was it. I was offered a job in Sydney but felt I'd achieved everything already. Forty-odd years later I've travelled the world, done all this football, swimming, tennis, Melbourne Cups - it's scary how long it's been, but also wonderful. And I certainly never contemplated the word 'doyen'.'' Today, Warren is relaxed, mixing golf and gardening with part-time work. His daughter Holly, from his second marriage, was born when he was 54. ''She has given me a new outlook on life. Holly is my prize apple. She is the gold medal. Health and happiness are the most important things and I have both.''