O.J. Simpson’s prostate cancer death hit me kind of hard Thursday, considering I actually had spent time with him, and we really hit it off.
I
called him “Juice” or “Orenthal” – I first called him Mr. Simpson, but he, being just a 
O.J. Simpson -- "It's Orenthal to you, Champo" -- and I spend bloodless time together at Clarksville Country Club.
common, regular guy, insisted I not call him “Mr.” anything.
He
called me “Tim” or “Champo” – both perfectly acceptable. I asked him to please
not call me “Mr. Ghianni.” “That’s my dad,” I said, noting my pop was a Buffalo
native and a huge Buffalo Bills fan. Juice, who cut his teeth as a Bills great, liked that.
I
have to say, I really, really liked the guy.
Now, of course, I am worried they’ll never find the killer of Nicole
Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman.
After
all, wasn’t it 30 years ago or so that The Juice -- using the “If the glove don’t
fit, you must acquit” defense – said that search for justice was all he was going to do after he walked when
found “Not Guilty” in that double-murder case.
“I’m
going to spend the rest of my life tracking down the real killer,” O.J. said,
or at least something similar, when he was acquitted … despite the fact some of
the blood spattered all over Nicole’s residence after the brutal and
animal-like carnage, was found on a glove that police eventually discovered on O.J.’s
air-conditioning unit, outside Kato Kaelin's room at The Juice's lush Brentwood (rich L.A. suburb) compound.
Kato
Kaelin's lay-about
life as a houseguest during and after the murders has been rewarded with quiz
show stardom and an occasional interview. He was a popular guest (his expertise in life) when O.J. was sent to prison later for
robbery – he stole some of his own sports paraphernalia from “collectors.” The
collectors said it was their stuff. In the world according to O.J., it was OK
to get some gun-toting punks to help him “reclaim” that which no longer legally
was his.
He
went to prison for that, and he turned his life around to become a Church of
Christ missionary, so when he got out, he was able to spread the Word of the
Lord when he was going from golf course to golf course looking for the real
killers of Ron and Nicole. I made up the missionary part. The only thing he
knew about “missionary” was the position.
As for the murders, police and the district attorneys’ office did their best to botch what really seemed to us uneducated folks as a completely obvious case of double-murder committed by the one-time football great. Until the "try on the dry, bloody glove" miscue by the prosecution, the case seemed cut-and-dried.
I
remember a couple decades before when I sat in the dormitory television room with
my pal, Jocko, and other friends, Carpy, Nardholm and maybe even Titzy, as we
watched O.J. finish up his record-setting 2,003-yard season for the Buffalo
Bills, a franchise that always has enjoyed losing Super Bowls and critical
games in general.
We
all cheered for O.J. As a Southern Cal
fan, I’d been cheering for him for years. As far as I know there weren’t a lot
of unsolved murders around USC or in Buffalo as the seemingly charming,
everyman of a star went about his business.
It is said he “cut through the defense” like a sharp knife. Using his amazing strength, he chopped away at linebackers and safeties. He sliced his way to the end zone.
Back
when Nicole and Ron were slaughtered, the inept investigators likely let their hormones
fly -- this sharp-dressed man was a football hero, and the friendly coppers sighed and moaned and peed themselves --when they got to the compound in Brentwood, where O.J. was likely a very
good neighbor.
It
is said he always returned the hedge-trimmers and lawnmowers to his neighbors
after he spent his days manicuring his estate.
All
kinds of nasty and dirty things and people supposedly had converged around good
old Juice. But, even so, most of us thought of him as a funny fellow in the “Naked
Gun” series of movies, a nice guy who sat on Johnny Carson’s couch and ran
through the airport in Hertz commercials.
Just
an all-American guy, good neighbor with a lot of money, a Heisman Trophy and a
white Ford Bronco. I did make up the lawnmower stuff above. I think Al Cowlings
and Kato had to cut the grass.
To
the world at large, Orenthal was the normal sort of guy you might find at the local
Ace Hardware, picking up fertilizer, getting keys cut or perhaps eyeing, and drooling through that
bleached movie-star’s smile, at the new stuff in the knife case.
All
of this is to say I knew O.J.
I
had the opportunity to meet him and spend one-on-one time with him when he was
chosen as spokesman for Acme Boot Company’s Dingo Boots line. Previous spokespeople included June and John
Cash and Joe Montana, the best quarterback to ever play the game (I’m throwing
that in there for no reason, other than it is the plain truth.)
Anyway,
Acme (since deported or deceased) had its international HQ and factories in
Clarksville, Tennessee, where I was the sports editor of “The Leaf-Chronicle” –
Tennessee’s oldest continuously published paper then, a worthless pile of
unintelligible press releases now.
The
first year O.J. was the spokesman, there was a hurried press conference for him
out at the Acme building. All the sports hotshots from Nashville, Bowling
Green, even Louisville, I believe, were there. It was a throng of B.O. and bad breath and redundant questions. I had no private
time, so I used a tape recorder -- held over the sea of bald, fat, beer-soaked
white guys -- and hollered out a question or two to Juice.
Eventually,
the Acme guys, who liked me for my footwear, helped me get a few minutes with O.J., and I had a
lot of fun.
O.J.
liked me enough that the next time he came for an Acme function, he agreed to
what basically became one-on-one time for an afternoon and into the evening.
He
was as kind and humble as can be imagined.
Here’s
a brief summation of my encounters with O.J. in those glorious days in
Clarksville, before that wonderful city decided to grow like a mini-Nashville
40 miles away. Like Nashville, most of the charm now is gone, but the real
estate brokers are happy.
Enough
on that. I’m still stunned by the news of Orenthal’s death.
I’m
borrowing a few paragraphs here from the nationally honored book “When
Newspapers Mattered: The News Brothers & their Shades of Glory,” available
on amazon.
My
writing partner in that 2012 book and one about alien invaders in Kelly,
Kentucky, was Rob Dollar.
We
alternated chapters. In one chapter, I brought up my O.J. visits:
I
spent a couple of afternoons with O.J. Simpson, the great college and
professional football running back, when he was spokesman for the local Acme
Boot Company. Actually, I kinda liked
the guy.
Best
interview I did with O.J. was when he was the first black person to play tennis
at the Clarksville Country Club. The
boot company held their national gathering there and “The Juice” was there to
play tennis with the big shots.
He
thought it was interesting that people of his color had only previously come
onto the club property as laborers, cooks, caddies and the like. But it didn’t
bother him much. Still I focused a part
of my story on that fact.
The
best afternoon we spent together included an interview at the country club and
dessert afterward at one of my favorite downtown restaurants, Austin’s, owned
by my good friend Jerry Uetz.
Interesting
thing, though. O.J. had ordered ice cream ... and he kept fingering the steak
knife that was on the table while we talked.
Later,
in June 1994, when he was the prime suspect in the murders of his ex-wife and
her friend, I thought a lot about that knife-wielding good guy. By the way, when they charged him in the case
and he took off for the low-speed chase on the interstate in Los Angeles, well,
I was the only Nashville Banner ranking editor around—I never took lunch—who could
authorize going late for news. So while my staff put together a new front page,
streaming about O.J. on the run, I ran downstairs to the press room and shouted
“Stop the Presses!”
That’s
from the book.
I’d like
to add that the “stop the presses” thing was cool. I’d done it before in
Clarksville, when Rob (a police reporter) or Harold “The Stranger” Lynch (a
government reporter and rodeo cowboy) came in with breaking news stories about kidnapped, raped
and dissected teenagers or perhaps a mayor’s night on the town swilling his
favorite beverage of lemonade and vodka, without the lemonade, and the fool he
made of himself. The mayor -- who didn't hold that coverage against me -- was a friend of mine, by the way, and until his
death a few years ago, he was one of my favorite sources of information about Clarksville
or Fort Campbell, where he had been a colonel who flew helicopters and played
golf and drank vodka and was known as “Wild Turkey.”
All of
this is beside the point of my involvement with Orenthal, aka The Juice.
When I
stopped the Banner presses, I composed a home edition headline over the story
of O.J.’s failure to report to jail and instead going on the low-speed chase
with his pal Al Cowlings at the wheel.
“The Juice
Is Loose” screamed the headline. There
was another part of the headline, a kicker or “drop hed” that read something
like “O.J. on the run.”
I was proud
of myself and my staff.
Like everyone
else, I hated the murders and despised the murderer, an obvious knifes man who
wore gloves that shrank when the blood dried (or something like that.)
He really was
a charming fellow. I liked him a lot. He enjoyed my company, too. We laughed
until we cried.
Just a
couple of guys enjoying an afternoon and evening.
Too bad he
didn’t live long enough to track down Nicole and Ron’s killer.
And I
wonder if Orenthal ever bought a new pair of gloves? After all, the
blood-soaked ones had shrunk so much they didn’t fit anymore.
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