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The Daily Telegraph -Edition 1 - State
SAT 12 MAR 2005, Page 023

My day on the phone with a beautiful mind - By DEAN RITCHIE

Russell Crowe gives DEAN RITCHIE a remarkable glimpse of the intense inner workings of a league tragic

THEY say there can be four seasons in one day. And four phone calls in one day.
And four moods. Polite, aggressive, humorous, cynical -- the beautiful mind of Hollywood actor Russell Crowe.

On Tuesday, The Daily Telegraph carried a story on former footballer Mark Geyer, still recovering from breaking his leg in the Orara Valley Sevens tournament in January. MG wanted Crowe, who supported the Sevens, to pay $10,000 to cover loss of earnings and medical expenses.

If Geyer wants loss of earnings, I want a handout for loss of sanity.

In a bizarre few hours on The Daily Telegraph sports desk, Crowe rang four times to question and clarify the original story and follow-up piece. It started at 10.45am when Crowe's bodyguard Mark Carroll rang. A good fellow Spud. Genuine, excitable, passionate. But on this, Spud was feeling down.

" I need to talk to you about that Mark Geyer story this morning. You can't blame Russell, blame me,'' Carroll said, panic in his voice.

Spud then tells me Rusty wants a chat. That's okay.

I sit back and wait. I know he's aggro, Rusty. Has a reputation for it.

About 11.30am Spud rings back. "Has he rung ya?'' Negative.

" Can you quote me saying this is a misunderstanding?'' Carroll asks.

I tell Spud the story will have more impact coming from Rusty.

" OK,'' Spud says, clunking the phone down.

The wait continued. He knows where I am. C'mon, bring it on Crowie. At 1.40pm the phone rings. It's Wendy Day, Crowe's publicist.

"I am just checking your extension. Russell is going to call.''

About 35 minutes later, Rusty finally punches in my number.

I know he's up in northern NSW because I hear the beeps. It's either him or Aunt Nellie in England.

" It's Russell Crowe here, Dean,'' he says. Pretty big name Russell Crowe. Then again, he was probably thinking: "Wow, I've got Bulldog Ritchie on line. Just don't be nervous!''

I say: ``Spud tells me you're not happy.''

The first of the mind games begin.

He starts out by saying: "Let me ask one thing before we begin talking. It's a personal question.'' Go right ahead.

" Do you have anything against me personally?'' Come again?

" Of course not. I don't even know you Russell,'' I say.

I feel like saying the only thing I have against you is that you support a Souths team that runs stone motherless last each year.

After that, I sit back, listen and absorb a passionate man. He discusses his role in the Geyer affair. He gets frustrated, then settles.

We speak over the top of one-another several times. He doesn't stop talking. That's left to me.

Crowe switches subjects regularly. One minute Geyer, then why he followed Souths as a kid, then his forthcoming move, Cinderella Man.

But generally he stays calm.

We part company amicably and I promise to read him a few of his quotes later in the afternoon. That's when the fun begins.

I ring him about 4pm and get a recorded message. Sounds like an Egyptian. But Russ has told me to leave a message.

My phone rings two minutes later.

"It's Hans. You asking about what? It's unclear. Call me, but I don't know any Russell though.''
Damn, wrong number. Better not tell Russell. He will think I'm a bigger twit than he already does.

I ring another line Spud gave me. A lady answers. She switches me through to a bloke named Bruno and the great man is put on.

"Yes, it's Russell.''

And it's on from the get-go. He is tearing my story apart. "You're out to do a number on me!''

Quoting in context comes up. The blood pressure rises. Where's Hans when you need him?

He attacks my first paragraph. Out of frustration I say: "Ok, Russell you give me what you think my first paragraph should say.''

He snaps back: "You want me to write your story now!''.

I try to settle him down but it's no good. He hates the story, hates the media, hates the Telegraph.

There are mutterings and down goes the phone. But not for long.

At 4.40pm, the beeps are back.

This time, Rusty asks why there was no story about the winning team of Sevens in the Telegraph a day after the event.

"There probably should have been but I don't really know Russell, I was on holidays.'' Out of curiosity and thinking he may be alluding to something, I ask: "Who did win?''

"Some league writer you are!'' he says and an expletive pops out of Rusty's mouth.

"Don't quote me saying that,'' he asks, sensitive to his image.

Crowe says, in a round-about way, that he cops criticism a lot but doesn't want to be bagged when it comes to rugby league. It's desperately close to his heart.

"I remember running past the telegraph poles at Redfern when I was a kid and they were decked out in red and green streamers,'' he said. "Dad was a Saints man but not me.''

At the end of this conversation, I try to keep the mood light. "Hey Russell, fancy going in The Daily Telegraph league tipping competition?''

He says: "You guys are unbelievable. So cynical. My life doesn't revolve around you guys.''

I sigh, wondering how everything went so wrong again so quickly. At 5pm, the beeps go off again. It's like a Mr Whippy van. I don't say "Hi.'' I don't say "Telegraph sport.''

I simply answer: "Russell!''

He asks whether I have included in the follow-up story the approximate amounts he, Spud, Orara Valley footy club and the NRL will put in for Geyer. About $15,000 -- money which I should collect after all this.

" I'll throw in the figure Russell. Thanks for that.''

My politeness works. He then thanks me, even calls me mate.

Yep, mates. Rusty and me. Mates.

Illus: Photo
BIOG: Russell Crowe
Column: Opinion / Op Ed
Section: FEATURES