Off the field, Simpson made a conscious decision to project a positive image, to distance himself from the teenage O.J. who was a troublemaker and spent time in a correctional center. He had an innate way of communicating warmth and charm that lifted him to an almost mythical level and made him the first African-American athlete to be merchandised on a grand scale. His Hertz commercials pictured a dapper O.J. running to catch a Hertz rent-a-car, smiling as he hurdled the airport guardrail and flashed past the cheering old lady. He was an African-American man interacting with white men and women as if this were a natural part of our society, as if other African-American athletes were not protesting the segregation that still existed. Overtly, Simpson sidestepped the entire issue, appearing apolitical, which was how the business community and the audiences accepted him, all of which catapulted him to a level of financial success unknown to most athletes–black or white–of his time.
–Larry Schwartz, ESPN.com

I’ll never forget when O.J. Simpson was acquitted in 1995.  The “trial of the century”, as some would say, sent racial tension to a high (again).  It’s amazing how one day you can be admired and idolized by all and then instantly fall from grace.

At this point, I’m beyond the whole sticking up for him because he’s a black man in America.  He’s crazy and just disgusting and I pity him.  Why didn’t he just fade into oblivion and raise his children and try to give them a somewhat normal life?  Who cares if you are broke…you don’t write a book about how you would have killed your wife, you get a regular JOB. 

At this point, there is no doubt in my mind that he is a murderer.  What makes him so twisted is that he wants people to know that he did it.  It wasn’t enough to get acquitted, he wants to rub it in everyone’s face, “Hey, I did it, and I am still free”.  He really needs psychological help, better yet the Lord.  He’s really sick!

What really burns me up is that this man had custody of his children.  Could you imagine having to live with the man who killed your mother?  The more and more I think about it, the more ridiculous he is to me. 

Below is an excerpt of his book that I received from a friend (so I don’t know how accurate this is).  If you haven’t read it yet, please brace yourself because you will be utterly disgusted.

All we can do for the man at this point is to pray for him.

*   *   *   *   *

I'm going to tell you a story you've never heard before, because no
one knows this story the way I know it. It takes place on the night
June 12, 1994, and it concerns the murder of my ex-wife, Nicole Brown
Simpson, and her young friend, Ronald Goldman. I want you to forget
everything you think you know about that night because I know the
facts better than anyone. I know the players. I've seen the evidence.
I've heard the theories. And, of course, I've read all the stories:
That I did it. That I did it but I don't know I did it. That I can no
longer tell fact from fiction. That I wake up in the middle of the
night, consumed by guilt, screaming.

As for the murders, Simpson describes a chilling scene:

I looked over at Goldman, and I was fuming. I guess he thought I was
going to hit him, because he got into his little karate stance. "What
the fuck is that?" I said. "You think you can take me with your karate
shit?" He started circling me, bobbing and weaving, and if I hadn't
been so fucking angry I would have laughed in his face. " O.J., come
on!" It was Charlie again, pleading. Nicole moaned, regaining
consciousness. She stirred on the ground and opened her eyes and
looked at me, but it didn't seem like anything was registering.
Charlie walked over and planted himself in front of me blocking my
view. "We are fucking done here, man-let's go!"

I noticed the knife in Charlie's hand, and in one deft move I removed
my right glove and snatched it up. "We're not going anywhere," I said,
turning to face Goldman. Goldman was still circling me, bobbing and
weaving, but I didn't feel like laughing anymore. "You think you're
tough, motherfucker?" I said. I could hear Charlie just behind me,
saying something, urging me to get the fuck out of there, and at one
point he even reached for me and tried to drag me away, but I shook
him off, hard, and moved toward Goldman. "Okay, motherfucker!" I said.
"Show me how tough you are!"

Then something went horribly wrong, and I know what happened, but I
can't tell you exactly how. I was still standing in Nicole's
courtyard, of course, but for a few moments I couldn't remember how
I'd gotten there, when I'd arrived, or even why I was there. Then it
came back to me, very slowly: The recital-with little Sydney up on
stage, dancing her little heart out; me, chipping balls into my
neighbor's yard; Paula, angry, not answering her phone; Charlie,
stopping by the house to tell me some more ugly shit about Nicole's
behavior. Then what? The short, quick drive from Rockingham to the
Bundy condo. And now?

Now I was standing in Nicole's courtyard, in the dark, listening to
the loud, rhythmic, accelerated beating of my own heart. I put my left
hand to my heart and my shirt felt strangely wet. I looked down at
myself. For several moments, I couldn't get my mind around what I was
seeing. The whole front of me was covered in blood, but it didn't
compute. Is this really blood? I wondered. And whose blood is it? Is
it mine? Am I hurt?

        

 

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