When the juice turns sour! | THE STAR

O.J. Simpson, whom I knew as a member of Vince’s North Hollywood gym, just off Ventura Boulevard in Los Angeles, was one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. The same was true of Carl Weathers, who played Apollo Creed opposite Sylvester Stallone’s Rocky Balboa in 1976. They were both former football superstars. Both retired to pursue acting careers. Weathers in 1974, Simpson in 1979. They were at the height of their Hollywood careers when the famously flamboyant Vince Gironda invited me to join his very special clientele—via a full-time courier, you see!—whose clientele included famous writers, filmmakers, fashion designers, and A-list movie stars. Among them was William Blinn, the acclaimed screenwriter of the miniseries Roots. (Breen told me after reading Everything Will Be Okay In The Morning that my portrayal of John Compton and George Odlum had influenced him so much that he suggested I write a fictional version of The Morning centered around those two characters!) And Robert Blake (star of In Cold Blood and the TV series Barretta). We each had our own private key, which allowed us to exercise whenever and wherever we wanted, day or night.

I know nothing about OJ’s personal life. Or Blake’s, for that matter. The owner is an Italian-American New Yorker who is an accomplished bodybuilder in his own right. He treats his elite members like the itinerants who do weird weightlifting routines in the infamous open-air Muscle Beach enclosure in Santa Monica. Except for OJ, Carl, and myself, I’m happy to report. He makes us feel special, though to be honest, not nearly as special as Carl Weathers. The way Robert Blake consistently uses Vince’s Gym is indisputable proof of his hippo hide. Or maybe he’s become immune to Vince’s vitriol. Or thinks his 5’4″ frame shouldn’t warrant reaction to criticism from mere mortals!

One morning, as Southern California was choking with Santa Ana winds (Vince hates air conditioning as much as he hates squats!), a few of us retreated to the gym’s locker room. After our respective workout sessions, we were about to head to the showers for a break when a dishevelled Vince joined us. He’d clearly had another rough night, perhaps a rougher one than usual. He was known to indulge in a good drink on a regular basis. Before long, he was regaling us with the quirks of some of his high-profile Hollywood clients, mimicking their gaits, accents, favorite quips, and other quirks.

A naked OJ Simpson suddenly emerged from the shower, and at the same moment a grumpy Robert Blake entered the locker room, sweating like a corrupt politician taking inventory of his assets before a judge. Most of Vince’s male clients usually wore shorts or sweatpants with a sleeveless T-shirt emblazoned with the gym’s logo, but grumpy Blake always seemed to be wearing winter clothing. No one dared to ask why.

Vince suddenly stopped telling stories about Al Lewis (he played Grandpa on the CBS sitcom Monster) and addressed the sweaty TV star instead. He roughly brushed his unkempt silver hair away from his bloodshot eyes with his right hand and snarled, “Bobby, why can’t you be half as good as OJ? Why are you always so annoying?” As expected, no one dared to laugh. As for Blake, he wrapped a towel around his neck like a scarf, pulled a key ring full of stuff from his soaked sweatpants, opened his locker, grabbed his gym bag, and walked out of the locker room. All without a single grunt. Only when we were sure he was out of earshot did we feel safe enough to breathe a sigh of relief.

During our workouts at Vince’s, I never heard anyone say OJ was an average guy, even though he acted very average. No one mentioned Nicole Simpson or their offspring or Simpson’s relatives. We were too busy admiring his humility, how he laughed at our crudest jokes, how he always rushed over to the over-eager beginners who needed a spot.

I recall easily what became known as the “Bronco Chase” on the 405 Freeway, and no doubt the rest of the world does, too. My wife and I were sitting on our living room couch in St. Lucia, watching the evening news, when the Broncos came on and crowds cheered OJ from the highways and overpasses of Torrance. Some waved handmade banners and signs, while others yelled, “The Juice Is Out.” It never occurred to me that OJ, with whom I had spent countless hours at the gym, could possibly do what the notoriously racist Los Angeles police insist he did to the mother of his child. So much for that.

A few years later, I ran into Simpson again at the Miami airport. I was flying to the Turks and Caicos Islands with my wife and our newspaper editor, Molly McDaniel. The two ladies decided to do some window shopping while I sat in a chair flipping through a pile of magazines. We had 90 minutes to kill before our flight. Somehow, I looked up from the latest issue of Vanity Fair toward the nearest escalator just in time to see one of my two traveling companions excitedly pointing at someone or something. Instinctively, I turned my head in the direction of the indication. What my eyes saw did not enter my brain. At least not at the same time. A nanosecond later, I looked up again and shouted, “OJ,” as he clapped his hands at me and shouted back, “Hey, Rick Wayne!”

Next, we hugged and patted each other on the back, like two defendants who were delighted to hear a jury acquit them. I quickly came to my senses, no doubt horrified by the look of horror in five hundred wide eyes. We talked about the cases of Robert Blake and Bonnie Lee Blakely. OJ told me that he had given Blake some good advice during an interview with a TV reporter. He warned him to “be careful not to do what I did. I should have kept my mouth shut.” I mentioned Fred Goldman, the father of 25-year-old Ron Goldman, who was killed along with Nicole Simpson. I told OJ that I had recently seen him on the news, when he vowed to get back every penny that OJ might have hidden. OJ had only five words for Fred Goldman: “Fuck him!”

It occurred to me that time had not been kind to OJ Simpson. He was still a handsome man, and yes, he still smiled easily. But the athletic physique that once adorned Hertz ads had taken a beating. He seemed to have broken down physically, despite his own claims of playing plenty of golf every day. He had trouble walking. Finally, we shook hands and said goodbye, and I watched him limp down the escalator. Two or three days later, as I lay on a beach in Turks and Caicos, I thought of OJ. A perverse thought. I was certain that he would accept my invitation to make some paid personal appearances in St. Lucia. I was equally certain that St. Lucians would gladly pay to meet and greet OJ—to shake his infamous right hand and hear him tell stories that got him out of trouble, if only in a criminal courtroom. If anyone had asked if OJ would have uttered the words Johnnie Cochrane uttered in his closing statement, considered one of the most famous words ever spoken in court: “If it doesn’t fit, you must acquit!” No doubt the local hotel owners, hungry for fame, would have been happy to entertain him. (I can hear you asking why, given our history, I didn’t consider having OJ live in my own residence. Suffice it to say, the thought never crossed my mind.)

When OJ was jailed for armed robbery, most people I spoke with changed their minds about the first trial outcome for the fallen star and his dream legal team. Now they are convinced that the case that led to OJ’s long prison term was a set-up – but OJ deserved it.

Although OJ Simpson died today of cancer, he will live forever. Carl Weathers has also passed away. He died of natural causes in February. OJ paid tribute to him via video. Another coincidence: Both died at the age of 76.

As for Bobby Black, he may have also sent Bonnie Lee Blakely to the Creator ahead of time, as he departed at the age of 89 in March 2023. May they both find the peace that they have been denied in this life!