This is an opinion column.

I never tackled O.J. Simpson. Never got a chance.

Never got the opportunity to square up—and look into his eyes. To see what’s there.

To discern what lay behind the talent. Behind the smile. Behind the man who was so much to so many. In myriad ways.

Childhood hero. Not for me. Not for this kid growing up in Oklahoma. I was too young during his two seasons at USC, just 12 years old when he won the Heisman Trophy. And I had the Sooners. The only O.J. I knew then was in the fridge.

He caught every NFL fan’s attention, leading the league in rushing in four of 11 seasons, all but two of them in Buffalo. Conquering 2,003 yards in ‘73 (breaking Jim Brown’s iconic single-season record), the first player to do so. His Hall of Fame cred is unchallengeable. I was less a fan than an appreciator of his gift. I had the Dallas Cowboys.

Corporate icon. Without a doubt. Running through airports for Hertz, hurdling through airports, was historic. Even into the 1970s, major corporate endorsement contracts were simply not seeking Black athletes’ signatures. Because so many, thankfully, strode forth as emphatic and unapologetic faces (and fists) demanding change in America.

Not O.J.

Many took the baton from their civil rights predecessors, architects of the movement, and carried it proudly while adorned in dashikis, bad-a suits and furs, black berets and brims, Africa-influenced jewelry, and shades. All to a striking soundtrack demanding answers (What’s Goin’ On), effusing pride (Say It Loud..), reality (Livin’ for the City), and love (Midnight Train to Georgia).

O.J.? Nah.

He wasn’t about any of that. The man wasn’t particularly erudite, and certainly not a torchbearer for racial equality and justice. Oh, he had gifts—on the football field and in front of the camera. He said what corporations paid him to say and what they paid him to wear – and smiled. (Every Black athlete today with an endorsement—or NIL—deal owes at least a small chunk of change to O.J.)

As my mentor, the late sports journalist Frank Deford wrote: “O.J. Simpson was Michael Jordan before Michael Jordan. O.J. Simpson was Tiger Woods before Tiger Woods.”

In movies, he went along with jokes and roles that made us all laugh. So did others—I mean Kareem, right? O.J., though, was safe. He was Mansafego—in Dingo boots. The digestible Negro. He was well paid for it, too.

Yeah, white folks loved them some O.J.

Until they hated him.

I have two where-I-was tales:

June 17, 1994—There was no other place to be in New York than inside Madison Square Garden. I was there working, a senior editor at Sports Illustrated, for Game 5 of the NBA Finals against the Houston Rockets. The series was tied 2-2.

These were the Knicks of Patrick Ewing, John Starks, Charles Oakley, and head coach Pat Riley—the franchises’ best chance for a ring for that was a lifetime (21 years) for beleaguered fans.

I don’t recall exactly when things got, well, just weird. These were the Rockets of Hakeem Olajuwon, Kenny Smith, and Alabama’s Robert Horry. Knicks fans should have made the Garden a horror for Houston. Indeed, the Knicks led by 13 in the second half when suddenly passion was unplugged. Fans became disengaged. Many were not in their seats.

Many gathered around old-school TV at the concession stands and watched. The Bronco.

Televisions in the press section high in the Garden turned from the in-house game feed. To the Bronco.

For the last few minutes, fan reaction was time-delayed and diffused. A key play that should have sparked a roar instead prompted What happened?

The Rockets took a late lead, but the Knicks prevailed (91-84), their final victory in a seven-game series loss.

October 3, 1995—I was not a daily voyeur of this Trial of the Century. Nor was I invested in O.J. as the face of the police brutalities and systemic injustices of an era that was open season on Black men. He was not Rodney King’s revenge. Not to me.

I watched as a law nerd, a former political science major who once aspired to be Perry Mason. I watched defense attorney Johnny Cochran, a savvy, skilled, confident (arrogant) Black man in custom suits (now, he was a hero). I watched just as years before when I covered F. Lee Bailey, a savvy, skilled, confident (arrogant) white man in custom suits as he defended Patty Hearst in the previous Trial of the Century.

Both men were on Team O.J.

When the gloves didn’t fit, I thought: Welp, Marcia and Chris, that’s a problem. (By then America was on a first-name basis with lead prosecutors Marcia Clark and Christopher Darden.)

I was on stair-climber during my lunch break that day watching the verdict live on a television just above my head.

Not guilty.

Wow, I thought. Just wow. He did it. (Got off, I meant.)

Gasps filled the gym. I looked around. I don’t recall seeing another Black person.

Yeah, I chuckled. And kept on climbin’.

It was easy to find celebrants after O.J.’s family announced his death, at 76 years old, due to prostate cancer. So many, so many folks (white folks, mostly), danced on his soul. Some due to pain, some due to grief, some due to just outright anger—that he let them down.

They drank the Juice and it spoiled on them.

It’s harder to digest the conflicted life. To measure the man whose gifts never waned. Who did what he did, said what said, and smiled. To the end, presumably.

There’s a color photo on my wall of Cochran and O.J. taken inside the courtroom—boldly signed by each man (as well as photographer Haywood Galbreath). I didn’t personally obtain the sigs, though they’ve been verified.

Had I done so, I certainly would have tackled O.J. I would have squared up—and looked into his eyes. To see what was there. Behind the smile.

To see truth. If it was there.

I’m a member of the National Association of Black Journalists Hall of Fame and a Pulitzer Prize finalist for commentary. My column appears on AL.com, as well as the Lede. Tell me what you think at [email protected], and follow me at twitter.com/roysj, or on Instagram @roysj.