They had me brainwashed. Mum was very superstitious. If a knife was dropped in our house, the person who dropped it could never pick it up. That was a phobia: bad luck. It was a curse. She had a mile of them. Don't put your T-shirt on back-to-front or inside-out. If you did, you had to count to 10 before you took it off.

I recall my first flight, a trip from Sydney to Moree. I decided to catch the train on the return leg. Hobart was another of my early aerial excursions. I caught the train to Melbourne, loaded myself with a couple of brandies before the flight, popped a pill under my tongue and wobbled off at the other end.

Another time, during an airline strike, I was told we were chartering a DC-3 so we could cover a match in Brisbane. The last DC-3 I'd seen was full of bullet holes. I decided I had to get out of this trip, whatever the cost, and in doing so I learnt a valuable lesson. I told the boss I couldn't go because my dad had taken ill. As it happened, he was in peak condition. I didn't go to Brisbane and, sure enough, Dad got very sick the next day and wasn't expected to live.

Handwritten wills: I've done more than the average solicitor. Just about every time I fly I write a new one.

One time I sent an envelope to a friend with a last will and testament inside. On the outside I'd written: "Not to be opened unless the sender is killed in an accident." But the recipient didn't read the small print, opened the envelope and rang my missus to express his deepest condolences.

The great John Sattler edged me onto a flight to New Zealand one time with the Australian team. He knew I hated those damn planes. When we boarded, he was sitting right behind me. In those days, I always kept the pillows ready by my side, in case of emergency. We took off, and just as the wheels left the ground and that bloody undercarriage ground up into the bowels of the plane, Satts let go with a full-blooded knee to the back of my seat. I was propelled forward like a rag doll, screaming out that we'd hit something. Sattler and the rest of the Aussie team thought it very funny.

It could simply be an extension of my fear of heights. I always request a room on a lower floor when I stay at a hotel. On a plane, I always ask for a window seat, towards the front if possible. If I was scared of flying itself, then why would I like to sit by the window and look out? I don't know the answer to that. I hate flying in the morning, because if you ask for a drink you look like an alcoholic. They don't serve alcohol in most lounges until after midday, anyway.

It's only now, decades later, that I fully understand and can talk about how my fear of flying led to my dismissal from Channel Ten, which set me on a tough path through my life and career for the next five or six years. Some people believe I was knifed in the back. I've got no proof of that, though.

Looking back, I'm certain I was the victim of a well-planned removal in 1986. In 1984, I was selected to head Channel Ten's Olympic broadcast from Los Angeles. I was to do the prime-time presentation, and my on-camera co-hosts would be the tennis legend John Newcombe and the Melbourne newsreader Charles Slade.

I was always a fairly nervous bloke, and a certain remark from someone in Ten's management didn't help my state of mind. "If we stuff these Games up," he said to me, "it'll be your fault. There are 32 sports, and you're the presenter. You've got to know all there is to know about them."

I knew a bit about the obvious ones, but nothing much about the likes of fencing or archery. But I did hours of research, and soon enough I was ready for it. But before I could do the job I had to get to Los Angeles - and that meant a long flight. The tension in me built up, and in the end I caved in to my fear of flying. I walked into the office of George Brown, Ten's chief executive, a month before the games were due to begin.

"Mate, I can't go," I said.

"What?" Brown was stunned. "Why not?"

"There's a lot of responsibility on my shoulders - and I'm really scared of flying. I just can't do it."

Ten wasn't happy at all. Not going to Los Angeles in 1984 left me vulnerable to those who wanted to see me gone two years later. I probably got what I deserved. How could a network employ a guy in this job if he didn't want to fly? In the end, the episode made me appreciate this career of mine, this dream, even more.

When I finally got my second chance, I think I was a much better person for it. When Channel Nine asked if I was prepared to travel as the job demanded, I told them: "Yes - even if I have to fly in a gyrocopter!"

Getting the flick from ten was probably the smack in the face I needed. Just prior to that, my marriage to Monica, which had lasted 22 years, had also come to an end. She was the only girlfriend I ever had, really. I couldn't blame anyone except myself for the breakup. I had become obsessed with other interests. Monica was a great mother. We first met when I was 18 and in the police cadets in Sydney.

I never had any desire to be a cop. Monica and I got engaged and then married in 1964. I was 21, she was 20. When we married, Monica was getting a policeman who really wanted to be a sports caller.

After just two years of marriage I was given the chance to do what I really wanted. Suddenly, I was swept away by the excitement of it all and put all my energy into my work. I took my eye off the ball at home. If you are planning to get married and have a family at a young age, and you have a desire to get into radio and television, think twice. And at that point I bombed out of Channel Ten. That blow was the hardest of all to cop. I went back to calling races on the radio more frequently - and probably half-heartedly. There was no future in that, as I saw it.

Race callers John Tapp and Ian Craig were both slightly older than me, and both very good at what they did.

If I was ever to get one of their jobs, by then I'd be on the doorstep of retirement anyway. Without rugby league, I was stuffed. I drove many miles calling country races - you name the town, I was there. Sky Channel kindly gave me a job compering the dogs on Thursday nights. I absolutely hated it, but had to do it. Anything to make ends meet.

In that black period I was trying to get work anywhere, and someone suggested politics. Nick Greiner was premier, and out of the blue he and his wife, Kathryn, came to visit us at our little three-bedroom redbrick home at Northmead. The Liberal Party wanted me to stand for the seat of Parramatta.

It was nerve-racking having the premier come to our house, but we put on the scones-and-cream thing. It was a Saturday, however, and that meant it was a major race day - I had to excuse myself several times, on the pretence that I had to go to the loo, so that I could listen to the neddies. The thought of entering Parliament did hold some appeal - until Nick told me what I would have to do and what I'd be earning if I was successful. The wage of a junior politician was ridiculously low, and I was still holding on to my dream of getting back to calling the sports rather than the numbers.

in 1987, a young bloke almost burnt my house down. Parramatta Marist Brothers had long been overlooked as a school for young talented kids from the country who were good at rugby league. Both the Parramatta and Canterbury clubs had been putting these kids into Fairfield Patrician Brothers. I made it clear to Denis Fitzgerald, the boss at Parra, that my sons' school, Parramatta Marist, would love to be considered, too.

Fitzgerald made it happen, and suddenly we were hosting a kid from Nelson Bay.

By this time, I had met my second wife, Cher. We married in 1994 and have been together 29 years now. Cher and I took the boarder from the country in to stay for a week while the school found a permanent home for him. He ended up staying with us for about four months, while he helped the school try to win the premier schoolboys' cup.

One weekend Cher and I had to go down to Junee. Mum was not well - she wasn't expected to live. While we were away, the young footballer put some sausages on the grill, and he also had the deep-fryer heating up. Then he decided to go up to the nearby shops in Northmead to get a pizza. On his return, the house was on fire and surrounded by five fire engines.

I haven't seen the kid since. No apology. No "thanks for having me". Nothing. I might add, though, that we did win the schoolboys' cup, and he played a major part in that. The insurance company paid for the damage to the house, thankfully.

Gambling has always been a part of my life. These days, I restrict it to horse racing. I used to bet on trots, dogs, pokies, cards, flies crawling up the wall - any bloody thing. On a fateful Saturday afternoon in 1949, when Dad let me have a bet on Playboy, I figured the punt and I were meant to be. If that horse didn't win, I don't believe Dad would've been prepared to stake my little gambles for any great length of time. I was six years old and Dad was looking after me while Mum went to an auction to buy some galvanised iron for the roof, which had been leaking. I managed to shake sixpence out of my sister Val's money box and, without too much persuasion, Dad agreed to let me have a bet with the SP bookmaker he placed all his wagers with. He was trying to shut me up so he could go through the day without my complaining.

What happened next was incredible, however, and it changed everything. I chose to put my money on the only racing name I'd ever heard of, the great jockey George Moore. It didn't matter to me what he was riding or the horse's form. I just knew how good he was, even at that tender age.

As it turned out, I backed a horse in the AJC Derby at Randwick that had never won a race before. Anyone who knows racing will tell you a maiden winning a derby - which is a race open to three-year-old horses - is almost unheard of, even if the trainer is the legendary Tommy Smith. But the unheard of happened. Playboy won the 1949 AJC Derby, and I backed it at 20 to 1 to win 10 shillings. From that day on, Dad let me have an interest on the horses every weekend. Naturally, I only backed horses George Moore was riding, and most times they won.

On his deathbed, Dad muttered to me to give up the gamble. Coming from him, this seemed a contradiction, but in reality he knew that if he had not let me have that first bet, I probably would never have heard of [race caller] Ken Howard, never have become fascinated by him and obsessed with being like him, and more importantly never experienced the thrill of living out this unbelievable dream. Now, on reflection, I give thanks to Dad for letting me have that bet, which set me off on this enjoyable journey. I woke up one night in the week leading up to the 2010 grand final between the Roosters and the Dragons, and I knew something wasn't right. I was sweating profusely one minute, then freezing cold the next. I was shaking. It was absolute agony trying to urinate. I went back to bed, but the next morning I was on the doctor's doorstep. He figured out very quickly that I had a urinary tract infection, which he thought might be related to some prostate trouble.

My temperature was over 40ºC, which was dangerous. He told me to take some strong antibiotics. I agreed, but I also told him I had a grand final to call.

"Double the dose," he said. "We need to get this into you quick. Come back to me tomorrow morning and if you haven't shown any improvement, then I'll have to put you in hospital on an intravenous drip. That's the only way we'll get you to the grand final."

So I went into Westmead Hospital the next day and saw a specialist. I was still running a dangerously high temperature. Tests soon confirmed the infection. My PSA test - a guide to estimate the risk that cancer is present or is likely to develop in the future - was up alarmingly, from two to 44. The urinary tract infection had indeed been triggered by something going wrong with my prostate.

So I lay there as they fed antibiotics into me intravenously for the next few days. Come Friday, two days before the grand final, I called for the doctor.

"I've got to get out of here," I told him. "I've got a grand final to call."

"You're not going anywhere," he said. "Not until we get your temperature down to where we want it to be. I'll come and see you tomorrow, and if it's down we'll see about letting you go." I had called every grand final for Nine since 1992, but there was a distinct possibility I was going to miss this one.

Luckily, the PSA test came down, and so did my temperature, so they let me out on grand final eve.

The problem, though, was that I had no control of my bladder. I could now urinate but I had no say as to when. "What am I going to do about this?" I asked the doctor. "I've got to call the football."

"The nurses will fit you out with some napkins," he said. Napkins? As in nappies. They made me look like I was getting ready for a sumo-wrestling match.

The next day, I was getting dressed to go to the grand final. I put the "napkin" on, then tried to pull on my jeans. They wouldn't fit and I couldn't do up the belt. Besides that, I looked ridiculous - like a Teletubby. I had to wear tracksuit pants because nothing else would fit. So off I went to the 2010 NRL grand final wearing a nappy.

As I called that match, with the Dragons mounting a second-half comeback to win an emotional premiership, I was urinating the whole time and I had no control over it. I knew I was going, I just didn't have a say in the matter. I got through the grand final but I still had a problem.

For the next eight months, I was regularly off to see the doctor for fresh blood tests. The PSA was slowly coming down. After about eight months, and my fourth visit, he said it was down to 5.3.

"That's good for my age, isn't it?" I said.

"I'd still like to do a biopsy," he said.

So that's what we did.

On June 6, 2011, I was on the back patio, standing at the barbecue, cooking some chops and sausages. It was about 6.30pm. My mobile rang - it was the doctor. "You've got some prostate cancer," he said.

I went numb. I forgot about the chops. I forgot the sausages. I swallowed hard a few times. Tears were dripping down my cheeks. I walked inside and saw Cher. "I've got prostate cancer."

She had the ability to bring me into line. She's always been more optimistic than me. "Okay, we've hit a hurdle," she said. "We'll get over it and get on to the next one. We'll see the doctor tomorrow."

We did exactly that. "What would you do?" I asked the doctor.

"I'd have it out," he said. "I've got a position vacant next Monday."

"What are the ramifications of that?"

"Probably incontinence and impotence."

"I'm just a kid from Junee, doc," I told him. "Can you translate?"

"You might lose control of your bladder, and you might never get an erection again."

I looked at Cher. I might never get an erection again? I wasn't ready to rack the cue just yet. "Well, that doesn't worry me," she said, unprompted.

"Thanks very much," I said.

I was devastated, and now I had this blow to my ego. I mean, what a rap. But it was clear what I had to do. "Book me in," I told the doctor.

I realised that news of my prostate cancer would leak out eventually, so I went to management at Channel Nine and Triple M and spoke to them. I wanted to control the story. When it received wide publicity over the next two or three days, some very wise people contacted me, from out of nowhere, and it was a godsend.

They were broadcaster Alan Jones, Qantas boss Alan Joyce, deputy prime minister Wayne Swan, and - from left field - Michael Stone, the former rugby league referee.

They all had one thing in common, and one message for me: go and see Professor Phillip Stricker at St Vincent's Hospital. "He's the best," they told me.

The chief executive of NSW Rugby League, Geoff Carr, also became involved. He knew Stricker's clinical nurse, Jayne, and also advised me to contact Stricker. While Alan Jones is one of my heroes, I didn't know Joyce and I didn't know Swan. It was a big surprise to hear from these men, but I was very grateful.

I went to see Stricker, and Cher and my daughter, Holly, were with me when we walked in to his rooms. I will never forget what his receptionist said: "Now you're here, you're going to be okay."

Because I'm such a hypochondriac, my first reaction through all of this was: "When am I going to die? How many days have I got left?" I was thinking the most pessimistic things but the receptionist's words made me feel relieved. For a nanosecond, at least.

Then I met Stricker. While we were in his consulting rooms, he looked at the results of my biopsy and my bone scan. He was very confident.

"This isn't really urgent," he said. "You haven't got that much of it. This biopsy has returned a low reading. They've taken 18 cores and they've only found cancer in one core. There's no urgency in this. I'm off to the Mediterranean. My mate's got a boat and I'm going to sail with him for six weeks. See you when I get back."

"Mate, I'm thinking I'm dying," I said, "and you're going up to the Mediterranean for a holiday?"

"Mate, it's not bloody urgent," he said.

I liked it when he swore. I thought, I've got a brother in arms here. He's on the same wavelength as me. Stricker wanted me to have an MRI. It showed my prostate was enlarged, but it didn't look too bad. Stricker then asked if he could send a part of the cancerous tissue to a firm in America to get its diagnosis on the cancerous part that had been found. So off went this tissue to America.

The report that came back was quite good, he told me, and there was a good chance I wouldn't have too much trouble with my prostate at all. It might never again raise its head - pardon the pun.

So that's where I am today: under surveillance. Do I feel comfortable? When you know you've got some cancer, you're never comfortable. But I don't walk around thinking about it constantly.

I remember a mate called me while I was still thinking about having my prostate removed. "Have they done you yet?" he asked. "Don't let them touch you. I'm 75 and it's ruined my life."

Prostate cancer is treatable, manageable and curable - that's the slogan they use. Most aged men will take prostate cancer to the grave; that's another one. They'll have died with it, not from it.

Statistics state that seven out of 10 men in their 70s have prostate cancer. I'm one of the lucky ones, because the doctors know I've got it.

I'm not on any medication, and my PSA levels have been consistent in the three or so years since I was diagnosed. I don't get embarrassed talking about it to anybody because I see now that I've got the chance to comfort other people. A lot of people, like me on that fateful night in June 2011, think it's an inevitable death sentence. It's not.

This is an edited extract from The Voice: My Story by Ray Warren (with Andrew Webster), published by Nero next week.