ATLANTA JOURNAL-INTERVIEW WITH GOLDBERG

Standing in the doorway of wrestler Bill Goldberg's dressing room at the Bi-Lo Center in Greenville, S.C., is a blockish piece of human granite with what appears to be a bowling ball for a head and tattoos for hair.

"We're good friends," says Goldberg, motioning at his arch-foe in pro wrestling, 6-foot-3-inch, 325-pound Bam Bam Bigelow.

Bigelow doesn't speak of friendship, however. Spotting a reporter, he falls into character, and points at Goldberg: "I'm going to get you!" he growls.

An hour and twenty minutes later, Goldberg - the biggest phenom to hit professional wrestling since pay-per-view - dispatches Bam Bam in trademark fashion.

He spears Bam Bam with his shaved head, then picks him up by his legs and drives him headfirst into the mat with his signature "finishing move," the "Jackhammer."

The mutant is done for.

Discarded like a tired can of Budweiser.

Seventeen thousand wrestling fans, many of them waving Goldberg placards ("Goldberg for President"), fill the arena with the roaring incantation "Goldbeeerrrrrrrg!" "Goldbeeerrrrrrrg!" This is Bill Goldberg's third-favorite way of making a living.

A former all-conference nose tackle for the University of Georgia and defensive lineman for the Atlanta Falcons, he would rather be a football player. A stomach injury cut that career short. He'd also rather be an actor.

But, beyond career choices, what he'd really rather be - time permitting - is a human being.

"You wouldn't believe my schedule," he says, sitting in his dressing room and chatting in a low, soft voice that is the anti-rant of his in-the-ring persona. "It's overwhelming."

In person, his friendly greeting to the "enemy," Bam Bam, seems perfectly fitting. About the only thing remotely sinister about the real Goldberg is that he dips snuff (a pinch of Skoal between his cheek and gum).

His Falcons cap is turned backward, and his massive, muscled torso strains the seams of a black pull-over fleece shirt. But - even with his fierce Van Dyke beard - his aura is gentle. Menacing as 291 pounds of petunias.

Bill Goldberg is a pushover.

A sweetheart. A funny guy, who donates hours to charitable causes, including the Make-A-Wish Foundation and the Humane Society. As the placards bobbing above the wild throngs of wrestling fans occasionally read, Bill Goldberg is "A Nice Jewish Boy."

But, as it happens, he's also carrying the world of Ted Turner's World Championship Wrestling on his back.

"Make no mistake about it," says WCW spokesman Alan Sharp. "Bill Goldberg is the driving force of the WCW."

He's also toting around too much pop culture right now to do that Atlas shrug thing - just yet.

Goldberg on the cover of TV Guide ("The Incredible Story of How Wrestling Became TV's Biggest Sensation!").

Goldberg on the front page of USA Today ("How Bad Is Wrestling For Your Kids?").

Goldberg schmoozing with Leno and guests Kevin Costner and "Ally McBeal" star Calista Flockhart on the "Tonight Show."

Goldberg, the grand marshal at the Cracker Barrel 500 stock-car race at the Atlanta Motor Speedway.

Goldberg in TV commercials for the Humane Society, Spree candy and - soon - Miller Lite beer.

All in addition to wrestling four or five nights a week and getting top billing on TNT's "Monday Nitro" and "Thursday Thunder" wrestling cablecasts.

What Bill Goldberg needs is a break. And not off the top rope. He never intended to be wrestler. He never pursued fame.

"I'm just riding the wave," he says.

Trying to catch up with Goldberg for a chat or an autograph? Good luck. Your best chance might be through the mail.

His fame is such that a letter addressed "Goldberg, Dawsonville, Ga.," will get to his home. His schedule is such that, some people around Dawsonville have been waiting months to see Goldberg, including reporters at the local paper, the Dawson News & Advertiser, which wants to interview him for a profile.

Gary Barr, 50, a back-hoe operator, is a fan who happens to live in the neighborhood. Barr has a Goldberg T-shirt he'd like to have signed for his boys, 5 and 8.

"I've done promised my kids I would get it autographed," he says. "But I ain't seen him yet."

Local chamber of commerce President Cathy Edwards has been trying to reach Goldberg to bounce an idea off him for a economic-development ad campaign. The campaign would wed Goldberg's fame with that of another local, stock-car racer Bill Elliott.

"I think it would be great if we could do something like 'Dawsonville: The Home of Two Favorite Bills,'" she says.

The nature of fame is such that Goldberg is everywhere - and nowhere - at once.

He's in your living room, but seldom in his own. "I get home about 5 or 6 days a month," he says, ruefully.

He declined several requests to be interviewed at home - "I really guard my privacy" - where he lives with former college roommate Terry Shields, who helps with his business affairs.

When time permits, he and girlfriend for six years, Lisa Shekter ("She's everything but my live-in girlfriend") likes to relax by tooling around the mountains in one of his growing collection of vintage muscle cars, especially his 1968 Chevy Malibu convertible. He also likes to fish in the Florida Keys.

Recently he took the stage with country band Confederate Railroad, singing the band's hit "Trashy Woman." But there's little danger of him diversifying into music.

"I'm a terrible singer," he says, laughing.

Two years ago all this was unthinkable. Goldberg was just another ex-athlete - albeit a gifted one, with a flair for the outrageous - but one with zip for prospects.

"He was really lost," says dad Jed Goldberg, a retired gynecologist living in Miami. "He'd call all the time and ask me: 'What do you think I ought to do?' "

Dad says he never would have foreseen Bill making a living fighting. "I don't remember him getting in a single fight as a child," he says, then pauses. "But, as big as he was, who was going to mess with him?"

Events conspired to get Goldberg into the ring.

Wrestler Lex Luger and Sting, whom he met at their Doraville athletic club, Main Event Fitness, encouraged him. Soon afterward he met WCW President Eric Bischoff at an Atlanta strip joint, The Gold Club, and Bischoff convinced him to take the plunge.

For six months he trained at WCW's Atlanta wrestling school, the Power Plant, developing his act. Then he and Bischoff debated a name.

They considered and discarded a host of them - "The Hybrid," "Junkyard Dog," "The Warlord," "Massad" - then settled on the most unlikely: his own. "Eric Bischoff wasn't too excited about it," says Goldberg. "But he grew to like it."

A month after his TV debut on "Monday Nitro" - he beat Hugh Morrus; remember him? - Goldberg learned that he was "the project."

Nine months later, according to script, he beat Hulk Hogan in a Monday match at the Georgia Dome and was crowned heavyweight champ.

Along the way what happened couldn't have been scripted even by the most cunning plot twisters in the WCW stable of melodramatists.

Bill Goldberg became a Jewish hero.

The biggest Jewish sports hero since pitcher Sandy Koufax, the most powerful Jewish hero since baseball slugger Hank Greenburg. Maybe the greatest Jewish wrestler since the Old Testament Jacob wrestled the angel.

That's a lot to put on a 31-year-old guy who doesn't attend temple regularly.

Yet that's how Rabbi Irwin Kula, president of the New York-based Center for Learning and Leadership, characterized Goldberg in an interview in the New Yorker magazine in December.

"Every Jewish paper in the country has written an article about Bill," says Kula, a Goldberg family friend who's attended several matches and watches "Monday Nitro" religiously with his 6-year-old daughter.

"His impact on the Jewish community has been tremendous. He challenges us to widen the markers of our community, and begin to break stereotypes." Goldberg acknowledges that. He refused to wrestle on Rosh Hashanah, "out of respect for my Jewish fans."

But he's reluctant to shoulder the load of Jewish role model: "I don't look at myself as a Jewish sports hero," he says. Besides, his career is on a trajectory where there are too many hero roles to fill, already.

Recently, he turned down an appearance on "E.R." - too busy. Instead, he's looking to movies. His first film, a Jean-Claude Van Damme actioner tentatively titled "Universal Soldier, the Sequel," wrapped in February and is scheduled to open in August.

In it, he played a "likeable" bad guy named Romeo, whom Goldberg hopes will be remembered for his Arnold Schwarzenegger-like line, "You think that's going to kill me."

"I said this after I had been shot, stabbed, and kicked out of a sixth-story window," he says. "It takes a lot to kill me."

Goldberg's Los Angeles agent, Barry Bloom, says the Dawsonville wrestler is "hot." Scripts are being sent to him almost daily.

"I'm reading two right now," says Goldberg. "One's called 'Uncivil Procedure,' the other's a wrestling movie." In the former he'd play the lead romantic role.

Likely later this month, says Bloom, Goldberg will commit to his second film. "The talk in Hollywood," says Bloom, "is that he's got the potential of another Stallone or Arnold Schwarzenegger."

"Universal Soldier" director Mic Rogers, a former stunt man, says Goldberg has huge box office potential: "He's a good actor, a great athlete, and the camera loves him."

Rogers didn't discover Goldberg watching wrestling.

"I saw him in an episode of 'Love Boat,' and I liked the way he looked. He has kid in his face." The end of "Universal Soldier" was rewritten in a way that, if there is yet another sequel, Goldberg can appear in it.

Goldberg won't divulge details of his deal with WCW. But his contract is long-term, say WCW executives. He reportedly earns about $2 million a year in the ring.

Already, however, he is house-hunting in San Diego to be closer to film studios. "The movies are what I really want to do," he says. "I don't see myself wrestling to age 40."

No matter where he lives, at the moment, the world is at his door. And it all seems to want a piece of the hottest wrestler Spandex shorts ever saw.

After filming wrapped on the set of "Universal Soldier" in February in Dallas, the crew was horsing around with Goldberg, and the assistant director - weight, about 13 - asked Goldberg to press him over his head.

Goldberg picked the guy up, and pumped him up and down several times.

"Then everybody in the crew gathered around and were asking Goldberg to pick them up too," recalls director Rogers.

"He did. He kept giving people rides. They all wanted to ride Goldberg."