An OJ story: He really did have an enormous head

Juice Simpson story. One hundred percent true. No embellishments of any kind.

I have lived in L.A. for years since coming out to the coast post college, including the early 90’s, during which L.A. was the center of some headlining, world changing, seminal events. Not the least of which was the insanity revolving around the catastrophic collapse of Orenthal James Simpson. I vividly recall the murders. I have a close friend that lived down the block from the murder site in Brentwood. And, of course, the psychotic chase and coverage and then the equally psychotic trial. All awful. All crazy.

But not as crazy, to me, as seeing that monstrosity live, in person. What follows actually happened.

Some may recall that, after the acquittal, Juice declared that he would be using his farcical freedom to ‘search for the real killer’. It became clear, rather quickly, that Juice evidently believed that the ‘real killer’ was a dedicated golfer, as Juice spent most of his free time playing the great game, while, one must assume, keeping an eye out for the murderer of his children’s mother. Also, rather quickly, Juice was kicked out of the legendary country club where he enjoyed membership. Riviera. I knew this but, that didn’t lessen the shock when I saw him standing on the first tee at a local public course where I was about to tee it up one morning.

It had been not more than a year after acquittal and while the Juice was busy tracking down the ‘real killer’ on golf courses in Florida and L.A, I was not busy pursuing an acting career, also in L.A. And by that, I mean, playing a lot of golf and fucking around.

I showed up for a 9 AM ish time at Balboa golf course in the Sepulveda basin. The Valley. Typical L.A. city course. Not good, and in spite of that, in those days, packed. As usual, there were multiple groups stacked up on the first tee when we arrived, including one on the tee waiting to hit. Three middle aged white dudes and …what the fuck, that can’t be who I think…is that…holy shit that is OJ. Chills. No joke. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. OJ fucking Simpson standing on the first tee at Balboa for fucks sake, chatting it up with three gringo fluffers like nothing ever happened, as if he hadn’t murdered two humans. I was thrown. It was genuinely horrifying to see a true psychopath, someone who had nearly decapitated two people, in the flesh, in person, not incarcerated, but just casually swinging a golf club on a sunny weekday morning in Southern California. Scary shit and although I knew that he was guilty, and had zero sympathy for him, it was strangely sad. A former great, a legend, and member at Riviera, now reduced to teeing it up at Balboa with the peasants and pretending that it didn’t happen and that it’s all ok. Trying to charm the entire golf course. Trying to sell himself to the world again. I could feel the performance from 40 yards away. Overly loud and forced laughter from the group. A terribly creepy sideshow.

They teed off two groups in front of us (for the record, horrible swing, horrible tee shot, not surprisingly he got fluffed by the gringos anyway, “nice ball OJ”). I was spooked and felt the presence of insanity all day.

Later, standing the 8th tee waiting to hit, I see a cart coming the wrong way down the cart path towards us. My immediate thought was, ‘what are these dickheads doing?”, as a scene like this usually translates into someone wasting your time while they look for a wayward tee shot or lost sunglasses in your fairway. As they got closer, close enough to see, impossibly, it was fucking Juice and his cart buddy, coming right at us. We all froze, no one said a word. They pulled up next to us on the tee.

Then OJ spoke: “Hey, any of you guys find a glove?”

Exactly what he said. Verbatim. Unreal. Was this a joke? A threat? I looked into those eyes from no more than 30 feet, directly into the eyes of someone who had taken two lives, including the life of the mother of his children with his own hands. Chilling, truly.

Some of us mumbled off beat, “uh, no no, we haven’t seen one, no”. In my head: “umm Juice…was it soaked in blood?” But didn’t dare speak. He said thanks and off they went. We said nothing, until they were long gone. Then joked about it and recognized the creepy irony of the question. Also, for the record, he really did have an enormous head.

Now, a golf glove is, fifteen maybe 20 bucks, and I have gone back to look for one that has been dropped. But I don’t have multiple millions and haven’t severed any heads while wearing gloves that subsequently became a grotesque symbol of a farcical clown show of a trial and the subject of a greasy attorney’s infamous line. If I that were the case, I’d probably let that one go and break out a new one.

But, I’m not a psychopath.

Post script:

I do believe that OJ’s attorneys and friends knew that he was guilty. He probably even told them that he did it. But also, that they made him feel as if it was justified somehow. “Juice, she disrespected you. You did what you had to do.” And only a true psychopath could do that and then carry on as if nothing had happened or make himself feel as if it was justified.

Which is why it was so terrifying to look into the face that was capable of that level of evil and rationale.