THE REAPING: What the O.J. Simpson Murder Case Did to America

by Steven Travers

  ****

  Sunday, June 12, 1994 started with a low marine layer, typical of coastal Los Angeles, then burned off hot and sunny. That morning, O.J. Simpson played his normal golf rounds at the magnificent Riviera Country Club in Pacific Palisades, located a short distance west of his estate on North Rockingham Way in the elite Brentwood section of west L.A. His partner was producer Craig Baumgarten, a friend and regular golf buddy.

  A young golfer playing behind O.J., watching the celebrity and ex-football great, made note that he seemed to exhibit “extreme mood swings” during the course of the game. O.J.‘s caddy, Mitch Mesko, later said O.J. told him on the course, “I’m a pathetic person.” When Mesko said he was not a pathetic person, just a “pathetic golfer,” O.J. laughed.

  That afternoon, O.J. called a young model named Traci Ardell, who at the time was gracing the centerfold of Playboy magazine. They had never met, but in his circle he was always given the phone number of models and actresses. Ardell was receptive to the call. She was not his “typical type,” he told her; he normally dated blonds but added, “I guess that hasn’t worked out for me.” Then he added, “I’ve had enough.”

  O.J.’s former wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, a bombshell blond, shopped for their two children, Justin and Sydney, that morning. That night, her family would drive up from Orange County, where she had grown up, to see Sydney’s dance recital. The recital had extra meaning to the Brown family. Nicole and her sister Denise had danced when they were young girls.

  Also that day, Ronald Goldman, an aspiring model-actor, waiter at Mezzaluna Restaurant, and recent acquaintance of Nicole Brown Simpson, played softball with friends on a field located on Barrington Avenue, just off of Sunset Boulevard. The previous day he defeated his pals in volleyball at the famed Will Rogers State Beach, historically home to some of the most competitive beach volleyball in the world. The night before Ron went with some friends to a club called Tripps. He and his pal, a bartender at Mezzaluna named Stewart Tanner, planned to go to a singles bar in Marina Del Rey. He would need to go home to change from his Mezzaluna staff uniform – a black tuxedo-like jacket and white shirt over dark pants – before heading to the bar.

  Parents and relatives arrived and entered Paul Revere Junior High School around 4:30 in the afternoon. Nicole held two bouquets of flowers for Sydney. Three little boy cousins sat nearby. They were all smiling in anticipation. However, when the recital began, Sydney – dressed in black, sleeveless unitard bellbottoms, with a beaded belt and silver-fringed vest – lined up in the wrong position. When the other girls tried to tell her where to stand, she began to cry. Nicole came to her side, and tenderly helped Sydney to her proper place in line. Author Sheila Weller offered in Raging Heart: The Intimate Story of the Tragic Marriage of O.J. and Nicole Brown Simpson, that Sydney was acting out due to “tension her parents refused to outwardly acknowledge.”

  O.J. was in the audience, but watched separately from Nicole and her family. To those in attendance, the separation was obvious. Everything he did was observed; he was one of the biggest celebrities in the world.

  When the recital ended, everybody departed the auditorium. The sun had yet to set, as the days were at their longest this time of year. Many wore sunglasses against the glare of the sun above the nearby Pacific Ocean. Nicole, her kids, and their happy family all hugged each other. Others took photos of their children in the parking lot.

  O.J. hung awkwardly to the side. He offered Sydney his congratulations, but his presence created some tension. An attempt to get the Browns to pose for a photo with O.J. did not happen. O.J. learned the Browns were headed to a trendy nearby restaurant, Mezzaluna. Nicole’s parents, Lou and Judi, asked if he wanted to come along, and O.J. wanted to do so. Nicole insisted he not come along.

  O.J. Simpson fumed.

  Nicole’s friends expressed the opinion that Nicole’s rebuff was a reaction to his recent threat to report her to the IRS over a tax issue. That threat had been part of a long pattern going back to their first meting each other in 1977; a pattern of control. Only in recent years had Nicole broken from that control, and this infuriated O.J. As the Browns departed, O.J. turned to an acquaintance named Ron Fischman.

  “I’m not done with her,” Fischman says he told him. “I’m going to get her, but good.”

  Sydney’s friend Rachel came along to Mezzaluna. Ron Goldman was working that evening. A week and a half before, Nicole had taken Ron and a friend named Jeff to dinner at Locanda Veranda on Third Street. She let Ron drive her Ferrari to the restaurant, and Jeff drove it back. He was a good-natured, very hard-working young man with plans. Aside from his modeling and acting aspirations, he was thinking of starting a restaurant of his own. He was also an exceptionally handsome fellow, with dark hair and piercing, dark eyes. He was tanned and fit, athletic. He was the picture of virile, young Southern California manhood, like so many others who came to Hollywood looking to make his dream a reality, but he was no dreamer. He was not from out of state; like Nicole he was an Orange County native. He was smart enough to make his looks work for him, but not rely on them. He knew who Nicole was. He was attracted to her, and she was attracted to him. Having a relationship with the ex-wife of the famed O.J. Simpson could have “advantages,” he knew, but it also could have problems. He was not a climber or manipulator. His short friendship with Nicole was genuine and based on normal physical characteristics plus a chemistry of personality. If it progressed, so be it, but he was not going to push it. Goldman was not their waiter, but he said hello to Nicole.

  The Browns spoke of an upcoming trip to Yosemite and time in Laguna, their childhood haunt. Nicole spoke of possibly relocating to Redondo Beach, about 10 or 12 miles south down the coast, or possibly moving to Malibu, just a few miles in the other direction to the northwest. A realtor named Jean McKenna was already working on the rental property. She was located right across the street from the restaurant, and while the group ate dinner, she pulled a FOR LEASE sign out of her closet. She headed out to a dinner party in the nearby canyons, but if she had time she would stop by Nicole’s place on Bundy Drive and put up the sign in time for the heavy Sunday real estate crowd.

  O.J. headed back to his estate on Rockingham Way. While he was rarely lonely and not lacking for female company, the big house was not the same without Nicole and his kids. Adding to O.J.’s depression, his girlfriend, a model named Paula Barbieri, broke up with him that very day

  A Hollywood wannabe, an exceptionally good-looking guy with long, blond hair named Kato Kaelin, lived in O.J.’s guesthouse out back. He frequently hung out with O.J. In the kitchen, Kaelin recalled later that the ex-star was very proud of Sydney’s performance. Kaelin said O.J. seemed to be “nonchalant.”

  Around 8:30 P.M. Kaelin repaired to O.J.’s Jacuzzi. At that time, Nicole was leaving Mezzaluna with Justin and Sydney. Nicole’s mother, Judi, inadvertently dropped her glasses on the curb in front of the restaurant. Kato left the Jacuzzi to call his friend Tom O’Brien. O.J. noticed that the jets were left on, and went to Kaelin’s bungalow to ask if he was finished. A few minutes later, O.J. returned and told him he was “embarrassed,” but he needed to borrow $5 to pay a skycap, as he was scheduled to fly to Chicago for a golf event sponsored by his employer, the Hertz rental car company, at 11:45 P.M.

  Then O.J. said he was going to get a hamburger at McDonald’s. Kaelin “went to my drawer and I had $45 and I invited myself to go along because I was hungry.” Meanwhile, Nicole said good-bye to her family, who took off back to the O.C.

  “I love you,” they said to each other, their usual farewell. Then she took her children to Ben & Jerry’s for ice cream. Around the time she arrived home and put her kids to bed, O.J. and Kaelin were driving in O.J.’s Bentley to McDonald’s. O.J. wore a long-sleeved sweat-style outfit and seemed “very tired,” according to Kaelin. Kaelin ordered a grilled McChicken, O.J. a Big Mac and fries to go. As they drove back, O.J. nibbled some fries but Kaelin saved his sandwich for home. r />
  “I’m going to eat in my room,” Kaelin told O.J. when they arrived back at Rockingham. It was around 9:40 or 9:45. Around that time, Judi called Nicole to let her know they had arrived back home in Laguna Beach. During this conversation, Judi told Nicole that she had called Mezzaluna, inquiring of her glasses. A manager named Karen Crawford had located them. Nicole called the restaurant and asked for her friend, Ron Goldman. He was ready to leave, to get ready to head out to Marina Del Rey with his pal Stewart Tanner. Would he be kind enough to bring the glasses to her place on Bundy Drive?

  It was a pleasant night with just a touch of cool Pacific Ocean breeze. The restaurant was walking distance from Nicole’s home. Goldman strolled through the lovely, upscale neighborhood, carrying the glasses in a white business envelope.

  Nicole lit candles. She knew O.J. had to go to Chicago and was not worried that he would make one of his unannounced appearances. O.J. knew Nicole would not expect him. Perhaps she would let her “guard down” and if he came by before flying out, he would catch her in the act of . . . something.

  Much speculation has been made over the candles. Was she planning on romance with Ronald Goldman? Had they already been intimate?

  At the same time, Kaelin went to his room to eat his sandwich, “And that’s the last I saw of him,” he later said of O.J.

  Around 10:00 P.M., Nicole was probably sitting in the upstairs living room of her Bundy townhome. A telephone and two take-out menus were nearby. She may have been on the phone, possibly ordering food for Goldman, hungry after his shift. Maybe Goldman ate dinner early in the evening at Mezzaluna or had not eaten.

  The rear window overlooked the alley and driveway. She may have heard a car pull up. She may have recognized O.J.’s white Ford Bronco, a car technically owned by Hertz, which was the only one of O.J.’s vehicles the insurance company allowed people other than himself to drive. She may have recognized O.J. dressed in dark clothing and a knit cap. She may have panicked, not expecting him but knowing Goldman – the pretty white boy – would be there any minute. She would have known that she had enraged her ex-husband by snubbing his efforts to ride along for dinner with his kids at Mezzaluna. She would have known how violent and outrageous his temper was; Nicole had seen this up close and far too personally many times in the past.

  Perhaps she decided to be pro-active, and headed downstairs while O.J. entered through the back gate and walked towards the house along a walkway to the front door. Nicole may have passed through the kitchen, thinking how best to handle this explosive situation. She may have removed a large kitchen knife from the cupboard and placed it on the counter, just in case. Still holding a take-out menu, she would have walked barefoot, still in the short dress she wore at the recital, to the front door. She may have opened the door, confronted O.J., and demanded that he leave.

  O.J. may have been startled that she opened the door before he knocked. Nicole may have been unnerved at his appearance; black sweat suit, knit cap and gloves. A confrontation may have occurred.

  “We will never know and could forever speculate about Simpson’s intentions at this point or what Nicole might have done to provoke him into a murderous rage,” wrote Los Angeles Police detective Mark Fuhrman, speculating that she may have “ridiculed” him. Maybe she tried to calm him down. Even after the relationship seemed over, she had been drawn back to him. They occasionally even had sex and O.J. still felt he controlled her. Or perhaps now O.J. finally realized that it was over; no more sex, no more control. But Nicole’s ridicule of him was the strongest button she could push.

  She had made fun of his acting career. O.J. fancied himself a serious actor, but when he showed Nicole his role as Nordberg in The Naked Gun, she mocked it. She had also interjected race into their relationship. After O.J. began beating her, she expressed dismay at having married “a n----r,” stating that she knew it had been mistake, she had “known” that by marrying one she knew this would happen to her.

  O.J.’s marriage to a platinum-blonde goddess from suburban Laguna Beach was the ultimate, in-your-face “payback” for an inner city black from San Francisco, but now the tables were turned. She was divorced, free to date whoever she liked, and it appeared she now preferred handsome young white fellows, more her age than O.J., 12 years her senior. To the washed-up jock, who was not exactly getting inundated with good acting roles, this was the ultimate in ridicule.

  Whether Goldman emerged at this very moment is not known, but Fuhrman speculated that O.J. realized his “control is slipping,” and that his reaction to this predicament was to regain it by attacking his ex-wife “with a pounding blow to the top of her head.” According to this scenario, she fell limp onto the top step of the stairway, her feet wedged beneath the metal fence. The menu dropped from her right hand, resting under her right leg.

  Under the Fuhrman scenario, his intent was not to murder Nicole. If it had been, he would have done so right then and there. He was there to scare her, and hurt her, not kill her. She was unconscious, unable to defend herself. O.J. may have been relatively confident that he had gone unnoticed until then, and could kill Nicole. He would not need his knife to do so. He could use a rock, pound her head on the asphalt, or asphyxiate her; all quietly and without getting blood all over himself.

  The ex-pro football star would have been breathing heavily and been filled with adrenaline, and testosterone. Others believe he found Nicole and Goldman together and flew into a rage immediately over this, but Fuhrman thinks it was only after knocking Nicole unconscious that he heard Goldman approach. At this point, he would have hidden in the shrubbery, frightened, his heart racing. Enter Ron Goldman, the pretty white boy.

  O.J. already knew who Goldman was. He knew he was “seeing” his ex-wife, but now his appearance at her home around 10 at night seems to confirm in his mind a sexual relationship while his children sleep upstairs! When Goldman sees Nicole’s crumpled body, it becomes a fait acompli for O.J. Simpson.

  O.J. then attacks Goldman, but murder may not yet be in his heart. But he has to disable him enough so that Goldman cannot call the police, who will of course arrive and investigate, to question O.J., who still plans to fly to Chicago. Or, just as likely, O.J. indeed does want, in fact needs, Goldman to die then and there. He has seen Nicole. If he just knocks the waiter unconscious, he can still tell police he was attacked . . . by O.J. Simpson. Nicole can testify to the same thing.

  Murder, assault; in that flash one is seemingly as bad as the other to O.J., who cannot afford any scandal to affect his relationship with Hertz, his sterling public image, and of course his flagging movie career.

  Fuhrman asserted that O.J. wrapped his left arm around Goldman’s neck and pulled him into the shrubbery. Then, he produced his knife and began stabbing. Goldman, the younger man, was athletic and fit, and fought back. O.J. would have been surprised at his strength and aggressiveness. Goldman then yanks off one of O.J.’s gloves, which falls to the ground.

  Goldman then reaches back to the head of his attacker, grabs the knit caps, pulls it off, and flails with both hands, hitting the iron bars of the front gate repeatedly, injuring them. In pain, under withering assault, tiring, Goldman is unable to get the upper hand on his well-positioned attacker. Fuhrman further theorized that despite “winning” the fight, O.J. would have been “shocked at the strength of his victim and begins to panic at the thought of losing the fight.” At this point, if indeed O.J. was not motivated to kill before, he now sees it as his only option. He would have stabbed and slashed in wild manner, but “inexperience and fear are Simpson’s worst enemy,” according to Fuhrman. His slashes are off the mark and he cuts himself. Now he has drawn his own blood at the crime scene. His footprint or fingerprints could be explained at his ex-wife’s home, but now non-circumstantial evidence is on the ground, or on his clothes. O.J. now has a deep gash on his left middle finger, but he continues to puncture Goldman until a final cut to his throat leaves him dead.

  “It no longer matters
whether Simpson planned to murder his ex-wife,” stated Fuhrman. “He’s already killed Ron. Now he has to kill her.”

  She is a witness, if not to the attack on Goldman, but the attack on herself, just before the attack on him in the same location.

  Nicole may have awakened from the blow to her head. O.J. stands above her, stabbing at her head and neck. She tries to defend herself, but the knife slashes her hands. She has feared O.J. Simpson would kill her. She has told friends, family and the police he will, and now perhaps she stares into his eyes one last time, while “her worst nightmare comes true,” stated Fuhrman. The final slash is so deep and relentless that it practically decapitates her head from her spine. She is dead, her hands clenched in a death grip.

  Blood is everywhere. O.J. has just killed the mother of his children while those very children sleep yards away in the house. He does not think of them; does not go in to see how they are. This leaves a further, unnerving scenario. What if they had witnessed the killings and he knew they had seen it? What would he have done then?

  Simpson steps in the blood, his own blood dripping onto Nicole’s back from his left hand. He exits the side walkway, leaving a trail of bloody footprints. This is DNA, practically prima facie evidence, not circumstantial, that he was there, if not near-certainty that he committed the crimes. He will not testify that he was there but did not commit the crimes; rather, that he was not there, period. More of his blood ends up on the rear gate, and leaves his own blood on the turnstile knob. He approaches the Bronco, reaches into his pants to get his keys, and in his haste drops some change onto the ground.

  “He is in too much of a hurry and is too excited even to realize all the clues he is leaving,” states Fuhrman.

  Still holding the knife in his gloved hand, he opens the Bronco door, and drops the murder weapon on the passenger seat. He drives away in a panic, desperate to somehow escape and make his flight to Chicago. The victims’ blood drips on the carpet, brake and gas pedal of the Bronco. Each movement he makes causes more of his blood, and their blood, to land in the car’s interior.

  The knife! He knows the neighborhood and drives a few blocks to a dirt alley, where he throws the knife out. Eager to get out, he strikes a fence or a pile of wood, which becomes wedged into the front of his car.

  Furious and not in control, he approached Bundy and San Vicente, a busy intersection, and ran a red light, nearly colliding with Jill Shively’s Volkswagen. He honked and screamed, “Move your damn car! Move it! Move it!” Shively recognized O.J. A Nissan finally drives away but Shively wrote down Simpson’s license plate number.

  At Rockingham, Simpson sees the limousine waiting out front. The driver has been ringing the house for some time. O.J. is in a dim light but thinks the driver, Allan Park, might recognize him. Perhaps this is when he realizes he is cut. He puts his hand into his pocket. He cannot enter through the front door. Park will know he was out somewhere. Instead, he turns toward the garage and runs down a narrow path behind the bungalows. He collides with an air conditioner braced at about chest height. He spins clockwise against the wall.

  It is about 10:40 P.M. Kato Kaelin, on the phone with a woman named Rachel Ferrara, hears O.J. A picture on his wall shakes. He tells Rachel he think it’s an earthquake. They speak another 10 minutes. A friendly witness whose lack of memory served Simpson well at trial, he cannot lie about the “bump in the night” because Rachel was on the phone, a tacit witness of a kind.

  There was no earthquake on June 12, 1994. If O.J. had been in the house all evening, he would not have been walking past the bungalows where he banged into an air conditioner. The limo driver would not have seen him in the dim light.

  O.J. needs his house key. Perhaps he pulls the glove from his right hand and reaches for the keys. The glove drops to the ground. Fumbling, he enters the house through the maid’s quarters. In the bathroom, he reaches for a light switch, leaving blood from the crime scene.

  “Then Simpson sees himself in the mirror,” wrote Fuhrman. “He is looking into the face of a murderer.”

  Simpson then bandages the bleeding cut on his left hand. At that point, perhaps he recalled the glove he dropped outside. He goes back outside to get it, and in so doing discards the wrapping of the gauze across the cyclone fence. He hears the phone ringing, but is not accustomed to the darkness. He probably believes the limo driver saw him outside the house, hurting his planned alibi that he was home, although his altercation with Jill Shively at the corner of San Vicente and Bundy has already cut into, if not destroyed, that theory. With the phone ringing, he goes to get it, and leaves the glove. He runs back toward the driveway and walks into his front door. Allen Park saw him enter the house at 10:55.

  Not wanting to trail more blood into his home, he takes his shoes off and answers the phone. It is Park in the limo. O.J. claimed to have “overslept” and is just getting out of the shower. It is 10:55. He has less than hour before his flight leaves.

  O.J. strips, leaving his socks at the foot of his bed. He takes a cool shower but it does not stop him from sweating. In the mean time, Kato Kaelin hung up with Rachel Ferrara and went outside to investigate the noise. He saw Park waiting in the limo and opened the gate to allow him to enter the estate grounds.

  Entering the home, Kaelin saw O.J., sweating and agitated. When Kaelin mentioned the noise, O.J. brusquely told him not to call the police or Westeq, his security service. O.J.’s gauze was by this point saturated with blood, which dripped in the foyer. O.J. then grabbed his luggage and left for the limo. Another drop of blood fell on his brick walkway. It was 11:02 and O.J. allowed Park to pack his bags, with the exception of one small black bag, which he insisted on handling himself. In the limo, O.J. complained of the heat on a cool, late night. It was 60 degrees, the heat of a June day lost to ocean breezes just a few miles to the west.

  Park noticed O.J.’s nervous, agitated mannerisms in the back of the limousine. Fuhrman theorized that O.J.’s mind was racing, trying to cover his tracks, remembering all the clues he left behind, everything except “remorse over the fact that he just killed two people, one of them the mother of his children.”

  This scenario, which combines known facts with circumstantial evidence, is incontrovertible. Any jury of reasonable, decent American citizens would analyze and interpret this scenario and, while O.J.’s legal team would put up a brilliant defense, they would undoubtedly convict O.J. Simpson of murder, some other degree of homicide, or manslaughter. There is virtually no possibility that he was innocent. Some would argue there was a scintilla of chance, enough to create reasonable doubt, but in the twenty years since the murder occurred, no “reasonable” person has stepped forth and given a “reasonable” explanation of why such doubt exists.

  O.J. would try to say he was looking for the “real killers,” smearing the names of Nicole, Goldman and others by positing the notion that they were murdered because they were involved in some kind of nefarious drug deal gone bad. No scintilla of evidence has ever been presented giving any credence to this “theory.”

  As Fuhrman pointed out, the case leaves many questions as to why O.J. did it, and how he did it, but “any honest reading of the evidence points to only one man.”

  Fuhrman insisted that O.J. did not plan to murder Goldman. Thinking like a cop, he felt that if he were to kill him, he would not choose to do it at his ex-wife’s residence. Fuhrman is not sure O.J. planned to kill Nicole when he drove to her house. He had a flight out to Chicago, and while this could be seen as a potential alibi, it would seem such an act would be planned as a kind of “stand alone,” leaving time to plan, then time to “clean up.” Would he have planned ahead of time to leave his ex-wife’s body for Justin and Sydney to potentially find? The neighbors knew him, knew his white Bronco. The victim dictated the location of the killing, not O.J., most likely. O.J. may well have just wanted to scare her. She saw him approach and brought the confrontation outside the house

  If any jury of reasonable, decent
American citizens would convict O.J., then the fact he was not convicted force one to consider what his jury was. They were not reasonable, decent American citizens, at least not when they sat in on that jury and reached the verdict they did. What would it take to get a jury to find O.J. guilty? While much focus and blame has been leveled at O.J.’s attorneys, mainly his main counsel Johnnie Cochran, the fact is that they were doing their job within the American legal system. The jury, however, did not do their job. Why? A jury of incredibly stupid people might fail to convict. A jury of racist or quasi-racist blacks bent on getting ”justice” no matter how guilty a fellow “brother” was might fail to convict. Perhaps a combination jury of incredibly stupid racist or quasi-racist blacks would fail to convict. Other than these narrow categories, there seems to be few if any other groups of decent American citizens of any color anywhere in America who would fail Nicole Brown Simpson, Ronald Goldman, and the judicial system. Cochran managed to find just the right jury in just the right place at just the time to effectuate this seemingly 1 million-to-one shot, yet that is what happened.

  “You have an unusual talent”

  O.J.'s story began on July 9, 1947 in San Francisco. He grew up in the projects that connect Potrero Hill, Hunter's Point and Candlestick Point. Blacks had moved in to San Francisco to work the shipyards that extend from Candlestick Point, where the 49ers stadium was, to points northward along the industrial bay shore. This is the unglamorous part of San Francisco, covering about six or seven miles to the China Basin. "Dirty Harry" Callahan was also investigating a grisly crime scene in these neighborhoods in the successful Clint Eastwood franchise, a brainchild of USC's John Milius.

  Today, AT&T Park (or whatever corporation has paid for the rights), the Giants' glittering ball yard, has created bright lights and nightlife in China Basin, but the building of Candlestick Park never did bring glamour to Simpson's neighborhood. No hint of it exists to this day. Factories, slaughterhouses, dangerous bars and gang activity mark the windswept neighborhoods of the Bayview. In these neighborhoods, young O.J. grew up and often got into trouble.

  His father came in and out of his life, a troubled man beset by personal demons. He left the family when O.J. was approximately five, and rumors are that he became part of San Francisco’s gay underworld. While details of Jimmy Simpson’s homosexuality were written of in Sheila Weller’s Raging Heart, nobody has ever really explored this aspect of O.J.’s life. If indeed O.J. knew his dad was gay, it could help explain why he chose to “prove” himself through “manly” activities; street gangs in his youth, football glory as an adult; womanizing, misogyny and downright violence towards women.

  Jimmy was never a real factor. O.J.'s mother was a typical black matriarch of the Great Society, holding together a family through work, faith and welfare checks. She had a sister who brainstormed the exotic name Orenthal James, but her own kids were all Stewart, Stanley or Pam.

  O.J. was sickly as a young boy because he lacked calcium in his bones, possibly suffering from rickets. Another great African-American athlete of the era, Cardinal pitching ace Bob Gibson, had dealt with similar disabilities as a kid, but both men grew to the heights of physical greatness.

  Simpson ran in a gang, but in those days "gangs" were semi-tough street football teams that did a little robbery on the side. Nothing serious by today's Uzi standards. O.J. did learn how to defend himself. He also learned qualities of leadership, since the others looked to him for "direction," misguided as it may have been at that time.

  His buddy since childhood was Al Cowlings; a big, tall man, a follower of O.J. who idolized him. He would do anything for him. O.J. was a great athlete, good looking, smooth with the ladies. He could talk himself out of scrapes with the law. The local Boys Club, a few unsung black elders who coached teams, and sports in general, gave Simpson and Cowlings direction.

  They ended up at Galileo High School, across town in the prosperous Marina district, next to the famed north beach neighborhoods where Joe DiMaggio and the great Italian-American baseball stars of San Francisco grew up by the bushel. Galileo offered O.J. a chance to get a decent high school education in a good environment, but it was a trade-off. The high schools near his house had more blacks, and thus better teams, but his mom wanted him to be safe, not sorry.

  Galileo had at one time been one of America's great sports high schools, but the City had lost its prep sports glow by the time O.J. arrived on the scene. The Irish and Italian families were all moving to Marin County or the peninsula. In their place were Oriental families.

  When O.J. and Cowlings went out for football at Gal, they discovered that many of their teammates were indeed Oriental. They made great mathematicians and scientists. They matriculated in enormous numbers to the University of California, Berkeley, across the bay. They could not block for O.J. Simpson worth a lick.

  Scouts were impressed by O.J. at Gal. He had size and speed, but he was not yet the talent that he would become. His teams were mediocre and so too were his grades. College feelers were put out, but O.J. was too raw to secure real commitments. O.J. had the good fortune of getting good advice. His coach at Galileo, Larry McInerny, talked him into believing he could play college football instead of joining the Army.

  "You'll never get anywhere letting people give you stuff," McInerny told him, and O.J. took it to heart.

  City College of San Francisco, located on a bluff overlooking a working class neighborhood that was home to the Cow Palace, where Barry Goldwater had accepted the 1964 Republican Presidential nomination, "recruited" O.J. They had no reputation in the unheralded world of junior college football. Fullerton J.C. in Orange County was strong. A few other L.A.-area J.C.'s., and the central valley, too, took their juco football seriously, but City College was an unlikely place to develop a dynasty. Certainly, the depleted talent level of the City's high school programs did not offer any kind of pipeline.

  However, the City itself was a recruiting tool. Kids from all over the state, indeed all over the country, who were not quite good enough to get scholarships to four-year schools, were enticed by the prospect of a year or two in an exciting West Coast city. Today, CCSF has firmly established itself as the greatest junior college football program of all time. It is possible that they never would have gotten off the ground in their efforts had it not been for O.J. Simpson.

  O.J. broke every single juco rushing and scoring record on the books as a freshman at CCSF. He literally ran wild. He was the finest junior college athlete ever. He carried his team to the state title, and in the winter of 1965-1966 was America's most highly recruited, sought-after athlete.

  It is important to note the importance of sports among black kids, which gets to the heart of why integrating Southern colleges became so important. In O.J.'s case, having grown up near Candlestick Park, he gravitated towards the Giants, a team in the early 1960s known for having excellent black and Latino stars. O.J.'s idol was the great center fielder, Willie Mays. Mays would give of his time to the young black kids hanging around the park. O.J. was one of them. Mays took an interest in the young athlete, following his high school career, then his star turn at CCSF.

  "You have an unusual talent," he told the kid, urging that he use that talent to create opportunities for a good life for himself and his family. But O.J. also had terrible grades. Combined with his academic non-performance at Galileo, O.J. was just not able to transfer as an academically eligible scholarship athlete to any major school.

  University of Southern California assistant coach Marv Goux spent his freshman year all but living with O.J. Three years earlier, when USC had beaten Wisconsin in the 1963 Rose Bowl, O.J. had watched the game on TV. He had fallen in love with everything about the school; the cardinal and gold colors shining through on a new color television set, the bright-eyed students in a sun-splashed Rose Bowl on a day in which much of America shivers. He loved coach John McKay's I formation, the explosive new offensive sets that produced 42 points. He loved the horse Trave
ler, USC's mascot, a magnificent white stallion ridden by a rider dressed as a Trojan warrior, sword in hand, who would circle the stadium in triumph whenever Troy scored, which was often.

  Goux did not have to sell O.J., but the grade issue was a problem. He would have to stay at CCSF and pick up an Associate in Arts degree if he hoped to gain admittance to Southern California.

  O.J. chafed to get away from home, to play against older, better players, to test himself. Idaho State stepped forward and told him that they would waive their academic requirements so he could come out and play. So, too, did Arizona State and Utah. O.J. was ready to go. He even packed his bags. Goux got wind of it. He immediately took off for the airport and the next flight to San Francisco.

  He caught O.J. in time, told him that good things come to those who wait, and that the University of Southern California was a thing worth waiting for. O.J. agreed with Goux.

  The USC coaches "talked me into holding out for the big time," he said. "That is the luckiest thing that ever happened to me, even if I did have to spend another year going to junior college."

  But after the coach left O.J. wavered. He was counseled by a group of "wise men" at CCSF that included school president Louis "Dutch" Conlan and a former prep track coaching legend, now a lawyer and business law instructor at City College, named Donald E. Travers. These influences helped convince O.J. to play one more year of junior college ball.

  In that year, 1966, O.J. again led City College to an oddly named Prune Bowl victory, a state title, and a mythical national championship. He broke all of his freshman records. O.J. rushed for 2,552 yards and 54 touchdowns (national records) at City College. He carried 17 times for 304 yards against San Jose City College, with scoring runs of 73, 58, 14, 88, and 16 yards, plus 27 on a pass play!

  Having completed another year of school with improved grades, he now was recruited by everybody with a pulse. It was, however, a fait accompli that he would be a Trojan. Goux was straight with him. Despite his talents, Goux did not fawn all over him as so many recruiters do. He recognized O.J. had a sense of pride about his ability to fend for himself, developed on the streets but nurtured by coaches along the way. Goux told him he would have to earn his chance to play at USC. The program recruited superstars from all over the country. Rumor has it that one player from Texas was as talented as O.J., but did not have his drive. According to the story, McKay spotted him picking daisies during an on-field team meeting. The kid, who by then saw that O.J. was the "the man," was quickly gone from the scene.

  O.J. enjoyed "straight talk," not being "jived to." Goux was the king of straight talk. Regarding other schools, "They were offering me everything in the world," he recalled. "I'd get this and that, be first string, everything. But Marv Goux, an assistant at USC, made it clear."

  "We aren't going to offer you a darned thing," Goux told him. "We'll give you the chance to play for Southern Cal and become a Trojan. I watched you play and if you want you can star there. But you'll have to work. You're the one who has to make it your own way."

  The 1966 Trojans featured two unsung running backs named Steve Grady and Don McColl, both lampooned in later years by announcer Tom Kelly for their “sandwich” role in between two Heisman Trophy winners, Mike Garrett and O.J. Simpson. They are a largely forgotten team in the Trojan pantheon, lost amid the bright glory of other national champions and Rose Bowl winners.

  Nevertheless, they were still conference champions headed to the Rose Bowl. In their last two regular season games, however, the wheels came off the wagon. First the Trojans lost to archrival UCLA. Then Notre Dame came to the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. It was coach Ara Parseghian’s greatest team, but the Fighting Irish were coming off a controversial 10-10 “game of the century” against Michigan State, when Parsheghian chose to “tie one for the Gipper” rather than drive the field to win at the end of the game. In those days they had a self-imposed bowl ban and needed to beat USC soundly in order to establish themselves as number one in the Associated Press and United Press International rankings, therefore earning the national championship denied them two years earlier when the Trojans upset them at the Coliseum, 20-17.

  The Irish annihilated USC, 51-0, but the score was made worse because McKay kept passing and trying to score. This resulted in turnovers and easy Irish touchdowns, running up the score. Trojans linebacker Adrian Young equated McKay’s “never say die” approach to the film Braveheart. After the game, the press gathered around Coach McKay, well known for his acerbic quotes.

  “When we lost to Notre Dame, 51-0 in 1966, I told the team to take their showers, that ‘a billion Chinese don’t care if we win or lose,’ ” McKay recalled in one of the last interviews he ever gave, in 2000 for StreetZebra.com. “The next day I got two wires from China asking for the score. I guess Chairman Mao was taking a break from the Cultural Revolution, which started that year, 1966.”

  There was one last game to play, versus Bob Griese and Purdue in the Rose Bowl. Trailing 14-7 in the fourth quarter, USC rallied to score a touchdown. Instead of playing for the tie, as Parseghian had done, McKay ordered a two-point conversion attempt, but it failed. USC walked off the field in noble defeat, 14-13, their coach lauded as a “gunslinger.”

  “The score was 14-13 and I missed an extra point,” recalled star linebacker and kicker Tim Rossovich. “I'd missed a 47-yard field goal a little wide to the right, but those were the days of straight-on kickers so it was a pretty good shot. We trailed 14-7 and scored in the last minute, then McKay went for two and the win instead of kicking for the tie, but we failed and lost to Bob Griese. McKay took my kicking shoe off my senior year.”

  In the Rose Bowl dressing room after the game, a young recruit named O.J. Simpson entered and consoled the team.

  "Don't worry about it,” said O.J. “I’m coming and we'll be back next year."

 

  Slaying the dragon

  To the long-time denizens of Los Angeles, when asked who has presented the greatest thrills, varied answers range from "Kirk Gibson's homer in the World Series"; to the assorted basketball heroics of Wilt Chamberlain, Elgin Baylor, Jerry West, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Magic Johnson, Kobe Bryant and Shaquille O'Neal; to John Wooden's Bruins; along with many other storied teams, players, and events. But most people tend to speak about two players: Sandy Koufax of the Dodgers and O.J. Simpson of the Trojans.

  O.J. moved to L.A. with his girlfriend, Marguerite, who he would marry while still in school. He performed during turbulent times. The Vietnam War raged, the Middle East was in conflict, the nation was being torn apart. But USC sailed on calm waters.

  O.J. was asked questions as if his athletic prowess made him an expert, but his wide smile and quick wit served him well. When asked his opinions about the Middle East, he said that he had only been to Detroit once.

  O.J. liked what he heard about USC and "when I got there, the fellows I met impressed me. All of them were All-Americans."

  “They call the years I was at the University of Southern California the ‘golden age’ of USC, and also of Hollywood, of the city of Los Angeles,” recalled one of those All-Americans, linebacker and fellow Bay Area native Tim Rossovich. “The Dodgers, Angels and Lakers were all established by then. Movies transitioned from the old studio system, and some of the people most responsible for that were at USC then. Among them were George Lucas and John Milius, two brilliant filmmakers.

  “Over at UCLA Francis Ford Coppola was in their film school with Jim Morrison and Ray Manzarek of The Doors. Steven Spielberg was hanging around with all these guys.”

  “The period I was at USC, the mid-1960s, this is considered a golden era in so many ways,” agreed fellow All-American linebacker Adrian Young. “The 1960s saw the rise of California as an electoral juggernaut, the rise of Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan. A lot of USC guys were with Nixon and many of them later went down with Watergate. There was a huge Military Industrial Complex in Los Angeles and a population explosion that made L.A. bigger tha
n Chicago. It was the '60s, the politics of the era, the ‘Summer of Love,’ rock music, and a big decade for Hollywood. USC's film school got hot, and I was there with George Lucas, John Milius and Tom Selleck, among many others.”

  “The social scene at USC was great,” said All-American defensive back Mike Battle. “I had the best time of my life going to parties, hanging out at the beach. It was during a time when everybody was part of this revolution at the time. We didn't have any hippies on our team, or all that crap you know, but we did a lot of beach stuff, partied and had a great time. It was the most fun I ever had. I'd rather play 30 years of college than one year of pro football.”

  "When he first got here and ran inside," said McKay of O.J., "he fumbled too often." O.J. was not used to the hot Southern California sun after growing up in foggy San Francisco. He later recalled practices under McKay and Goux as resembling a Marine training camp.

  "Two guys held big, five-foot-long bags," Simpson said. "They gave you a stiff belt as you took off. You banged through with power. Another big bag was about two yards away. Now you must turn light-footed. They then threw heavy air bags at your feet and knees. You learned to hit, elude, and make moves on the defensive backs."

  "He kept at and at it, as if to say, 'This is where I am going to make my name,' " said McKay. What McKay and his staff were successful in doing was turning O.J. from a strictly broken-field runner to a power back who could hit the holes.

  "We'll be better than last year in all ways," McKay said before the season. "Better defense, better offense, better passing, better running, better punting. What else is there?"

  McKay's caveat was the treacherous schedule. USC in those days played the hardest one in the nation.

  When O.J. carried the football 42 times, McKay was questioned about it.

  "The ball's not heavy," McKay drawled, "and he's not in a union."

  It was a more personable variation on Paul Brown's theory regarding Jim Brown.

  "When you have a big gun," said Coach Brown, "you shoot it."

  "If you don't have O.J. carrying 35 to 40 times a game," said McKay, "it would be like having Joe DiMaggio on your team and only letting him go to bat once a game."

  "During the game you don't think about how many times you carry the ball," O.J. responded to an interviewer who asked about his carrying 40 times in some games. "You think about the situation - the score and the down - but you do get tired at times, especially if you have to run too many end sweeps."

  "He was big, six-twoish, lean, and ran a legit nine-four in the 100-yard dash, he was a national class sprinter, a smart runner, durable," said assistant coach Dave Levy on The History of USC Football DVD. "You can't ask for more."

  "It's no wonder he fit perfectly in McKay's I formation, carrying 30 to 40 times a game, and he was fabulous," said his predecessor, 1965 Heisman Trophy winner Mike Garrett.

  Out of the I formation, Simpson was a whirling dervish who had everything. At 6-2, 207 pounds, he possessed enough size, strength and attitude to bowl defenders over in Brown's fashion, but he was faster than Brown, with incredible moves both between the tackles and in the open field. Simpson's all-time play was called "22-23 blast." It was a quick opener, like most of McKay's schemes not fancy, based on his speedy finding of the hole. He averaged 32 carries per game over two years and dealt with pain, but he was tough as nails. He also perfected the art of the slow recovery after the tackle.

  Simpson would act like a man on his last legs, meandering on back to the huddle as if unable to walk another step. It was half-real, half-fake. When the next play started, though, he was off to the races.

  A 49-0 win over Washington State marked O.J.'s entry into big-time collegiate football. Simpson's second game had national championship implications when 67,705 came to the Coliseum to watch a night game against the fifth-ranked Texas Longhorns. Texas wanted revenge, for their 1966 loss to USC in Austin and perhaps even for the 44-20 defeat by USC in 1956, when black running back C.R. Roberts ran for 251 yards against them in the first half. The Longhorns under coach Darrell Royal were still segregated, a common practice among Southern college sports teams.

  Prior to the game, McKay got more involved than the usual impassive, sit-in-the-cart role he normally played. McKay the perfectionist began to see that "perfection," such as it is, could be attained. He pushed the players and his staff hard.

  McKay uncharacteristically engaged players on the practice field, shaming some, kicking them off the field for their "failures" to "show" him anything. Texas quarterback "Super Bill" Bradley returned. Tailback Chris Gilbert gave McKay cause to worry.

  McKay could not help but get excited over what he saw in Simpson. He favorably compared his young tailback to the Bears' Gale Sayers, an unreal act of hyperbole that had the added virtue of being true. McKay told it like he saw it.

  "Simpson is the fastest big man who has ever played football," McKay added. "There are some guys for whom they have made up times, but who never could achieve them if they were tested. Simpson is legitimate. "

  Of Trojans All-American lineman Ron Yary, McKay said he was "as good as I've ever seen," and at 6-6, 255 pounds Yary was a monster of the day.

  McKay switched his psychology on and off each day during the week of the Texas game. He praised and cajoled, yelled and screamed. On Friday night, he switched gears and stated that Texas was "far better." Then he followed that up by stating that while nobody was supposed to run on Texas, that was precisely his intention. It was a replay of his reply to Arkansas coach Frank Broyles's comment that "you can't run on Texas."

  "Yes I will," was still McKay's mantra.

  Texas arrived at the Coliseum like a Nor’easter, full of bluster and wind. They scored first but USC, led by O.J., struck back to tie it up. It was 7-7 at the half. McKay, the ultimate halftime coach, went to the blackboard and diagramed a more open second half approach utilizing the amazing speed of wideout Earl McCullough, an Olympic-caliber sprinter. First, quarterback Steve Sogge (subbing for the injured Toby Page) drew Texas in with short passes to the tight ends. McCullough could either be thrown to or made into a decoy. Then, what to do about Simpson? George Patton used to exhort his officers during battle to, "Hold 'em by the nose then kick 'em in the ass." McKay had a similar attitude: "You ran in. They could hardly walk in. Now's the time to put it to them."

  It was too much for the Longhorns to handle. Tim Rossovich began to penetrate the Texas line, putting pressure on the Texas backfield. Defensive back Mike Battle was on their receivers. Steve Sogge was efficient.

  O.J. was outstanding, carrying 30 times for 164 yards in a stirring 17-13 Trojan win.

  "I doubt if there is a back with more ability than Simpson in the country," said Darrell Royal afterwards.

  75,287 came to East Lansing to watch USC's 1967 win over Michigan State. In a 30-0 pasting of Stanford, Simpson ran for 163 yards. USC was now ranked first.

  "Winning the number one spot was in the back of our minds," said Sogge. "Even though you don't shoot for the national championship, it's always there."

  On October 14, 1967 USC played one of the most important games in its history. Since the 1920s, USC had established itself as one of the elite collegiate football powers in the nation, along with Alabama, Michigan and Oklahoma. But the undisputed number one tradition was the University of Notre Dame.

  The USC-Notre Dame rivalry traced itself to 1926. While USC had won big games against the Fighting Irish, Notre Dame held the upper hand. The Trojans had won the national championship under McKay in 1962 and achieved a memorable victory over Notre Dame two years later, but had not won at South Bend since 1939. The 51-0 drubbing at the hands of Notre Dame one year earlier still resounded in their minds.

  In 1967, 59,075 came out to see Simpson and the Trojans invade Notre Dame Stadium. McKay, the coach who watched game film every night for a year, had the All-American superstar he needed to throttle his great foe.

  "They had talked about how USC hadn't
beaten Notre Dame in South Bend in a long, long time," said Sogge. "It was a tough place to play in. Great for Notre Dame, of course. Their fans have such tremendous enthusiasm."

  The beginning of the game marked the first of several times in which gamesmanship and team rivalries had flared in confrontation. McKay kept his team in the tunnel for six minutes as "payment" for Notre Dame letting USC stand in the rain an extra 15 minutes in 1965.

  "This time," said McKay, "if Notre Dame had not gone out there first, there just wouldn't have been a game."

  O.J. was, of course, the star but he had help. Quarterbacks Steve Sogge and Toby Page mostly handed off to him. Page had come out of Mater Dei High in Santa Ana, the "football factory" that produced Notre Dame’s 1964 Heisman winner John Huarte, and later Matt Leinart.

  "I thought the stands would be mile high, and they would throw rocks and bottles at us," Sogge recalled of the Notre Dame experience in The Trojans: A Story Of Southern California Football by Ken Rappoport.

  Notre Dame's crowds are referred to as their "12th man."

  "If you were an alien from California, you felt more or less like a man at a convention of lunatics," is how one reporter described the scene in Rappoport's book.

  Notre Dame is also known for its excessive rallies held the night before the game.

  "On a clear night, and if the windows are open, I can hear them a half-mile away," a South Bend policeman once said. "But that's Notre Dame. I don't worry none about it."

  Indeed, Irish fans are rabid but not violent, as befitting a classy institution of wealthy Christians. The question of who has the "best" fans in sports is one that has long been argued. L.A. fans, whether they are rooting for the Trojans, Bruins, Dodgers or Lakers, are laid-back. They arrive late, leave early and are made fun of. They are much better fans than many give them credit for. This is certainly shown through the sheer numbers and dollars spent in the sports marketplace, but they are not the "best" fans.

  Of all the stadiums in sports, one could make the argument that Notre Dame combines all the elements of a perfect sports atmosphere more completely than any other. Their stadium held some 59,000 people (eventually expanding to 80,000) and is sold out as a matter of ritual. They are a perfect blend of students and alumni, who fly in from all over the country, as well as coming in via train and car from nearby Chicago. The draw of the place makes it attractive and hospitable enough to attract the other team's fans, who may feel a bit intimidated but always say the experience is a great one.

  October weather in South Bend is just right. There is none of the oppressive heat or smog that can hang over a game in Los Angeles. The people who attend these games root for their team and razz the opposition, but without the insulting vulgarity that marks the Yankee-Red Sox rivalry, or most games in the Southeastern Conference. The Notre Dame fans understand that Southern California is their biggest rival, that the two programs have each promoted the other to the top of the pyramid, and are the two greatest traditions in the land. They are knowledgeable of the game at hand and the history behind it.

  Notre Dame may very well have the best fans in sports.

  The night before the game, former coach (and always legend) Frank Leahy addressed the rally. He called the student body the "best 12th man that any football team in the entire world has ever known."

  "It was a scene that would have made a psychedelic love-in look like a church social," one observer said, marking the tone of those times perfectly. "A Green Beret would have turned tail and run. Pre-game pep rally? It was a riot."

  Okay, sometimes they get a little out of control. Green, yellow and pink toilet tissue flew through the air amid sirens, horns and shouts. They wanted USC blood.

  "Southern California has an astounding football team," assistant coach John Ray told the crowd. "And they’ve got a big back named O.J. Simpson, too. But two years ago they had a back named Mike Garrett, and he only made 22 yards here. We respect all teams here, but we fear nobody. NOBODY!"

  . . . And the crowd went wild.

  Signs and banners read:

  "Garrett Juice In '65, O.J. Simpson in '67."

  "Irish Love Canned O.J."

  "The Headless Trojan" hung in effigy.

  "Eat 'em up, Irish," they chanted.

  Religious invocations were shamelessly thrown about.

  "Do it again, do it again," went one chant in reference to the 51-0 beating of 1966, which was the thing that USC's coaches and players took with them, wrapped themselves around, and would use to motivate them.

  The stadium on Saturday offered more of the same.

  "Get A Trojan For The Gipper," read one banner. Ghosts and mysticisms worthy of Shakespeare's Macbeth were called forth. The entire dynamic of the Catholic school from the Midwest versus the glitz and glamour of Hollywood added to the atmosphere, lending itself to the "Beat L.A.!" mentality that gave Southern Cal a professional team's aura. The Trojans entering Notre Dame Stadium were looked upon as larger than life, conquering Roman legions. The biggest, the baddest, the best. Knocking them off their pedestal was job one.

  Nicknames marked the 1967 game. Aside from "Juice" there was Earl "the Pearl" McCullough versus Notre Dame's "Baby Boomers," quarterback Terry Hanratty and receiver Jim Seymour.

  The 1962 season had put USC back on the national map. The 1964 game had intensified the rivalry. But the true nature of a great rivalry is when both teams are equally great, the best the nation has to offer. It is a great rivalry when one team can come into the other's "house" and carry the day. Despite the fact that USC had beaten Notre Dame in many a major victory at the Coliseum over the years, the losing streak in South Bend had hung over their heads long and heavy since 1939.

  Simpson's legend, like many of Notre Dame's opponents over the years, was made that day against the Irish. It turned him into an All-American and a Heisman contender, rare for a junior, unheard-of in a J.C. transfer. Despite the hoopla surrounding him and his team, the "intimidation factor" that is South Bend in autumn; with "Touchdown Jesus" framed behind the goalposts, the crowd noise and the weight of 28 years of bad memories, was enough to make the Trojans the underdogs.

  "Intercollegiate football's most colorful intersectional rivalry will be resumed here tomorrow on another of bizarre notes that have been the rule rather than the exception whenever Southern California and Notre Dame clash," read one Midwestern account.

  "Undefeated Southern California, rated number one nationally, is a 12-point underdog. It could happen only in this computer age."

  The national press took major attention of the Notre Dame game, calling it the "Poll Bowl." They made note of the fact that in 39 meetings since 1926, "the most important rivalry in modern college football" resulted in the winner ending up as "the national champion in somebody's poll 14 times."

  History looked to repeat itself when the Irish jumped out to a 7-0 lead. Then Simpson entered history. He rushed 38 times for 150 yards in a dominating 24-7 victory that left no doubt.

  Early on, the game was tentative and dominated by hard defensive hitting. It looked to be a match between linebackers, USC's Adrian Young and Notre Dame's Bob Olson.

  "The burly Trojans were just too fast, too quick and too determined," one account read. "It was a bitter defeat for Notre Dame, made almost humiliating by a genuine Irishman from Dublin, one Matthew Adrian Young. Three times he choked off Notre Dame scoring threats within the 12-yard line by intercepting passes. A fourth threat cracked up on a fumble on the four-yard line.

  "In all, Young, born in Ireland and raised in California, made four of the Trojans' seven interceptions (five thrown by heralded Terry Hanratty)."

  Indeed, Young made his legend that day, too. He was a Dubliner by birth and a Bishop Amat Lancer by high school affiliation. The coach at Bishop Amat was ex-Trojan Marv Marinovich's brother, Gary. The Catholic school in La Puente would later be the staging grounds for J.K. McKay, Pat Haden, John Sciarra and Paul McDonald. It was the top prep football power in California
in its heyday.

  Young, USC's co-captain in 1967, would earn consensus All-America honors as a 6-1, 210-pound linebacker. He played in the National Football League from 1968-1973, with the Eagles, Lions and Bears.

  Hanratty, who would be Terry Bradshaw's capable backup on the Pittsburgh Steelers' Super Bowl champions, spent the day clutching his helmet and throwing his hands up before Parseghian in disbelief.

  O.J. had dominated the offensive side of the ball with a one-yard bulldozing through the Notre Dame line, then a 35-yard end sweep for a touchdown. His third touchdown run of three yards in the last quarter clinched it. O.J. had really broken loose in the third quarter, eliciting groans and silence from the Notre Dame faithful. Assistant coach Johnnie Ray was heard muttering, "Too many yards, too many."

  When O.J. broke free for a long touchdown, Ray just shouted an agonizing, "Nooooooo!!!!"

  McKay was carried off the field by his players saying, "This is my greatest win."

  "We just had better football players than Ara did and that's why we won," was McKay's blunt assessment. "Southern Cal hadn't won at Notre Dame since 1939 and I was getting awfully tired of being reminded of this."

  After the game, McKay noted in his usual dry manner that at the beginning of the contest, crowd noise had resulted in several offsides penalties assessed to the Trojans. After Simpson took over and USC took command, it "had a quieting effect," he stated.

  "We had them figured," said McKay. "Our people were able to get in the right places. Hanratty was off, and we got him to throw impatiently on a few occasions."

  Memories of USC’s momentous 16-14 victory over Notre Dame in 1931 were stirred up. The papers revisited the comparisons in the sweet days that followed.

  A classic line was uttered by Notre Dame sports publicist Roger Valdiserri, when he said, "Simpson's nickname shouldn't be 'Orange Juice.' It should be 'Oh, Jesus,' as in, 'Oh, Jesus, there he goes again.' "

  "The turning point of the 1967 season was that Notre Dame game," said Sogge, who also starred on Rod Dedeaux's baseball team before becoming a catcher in the Dodger chain. "Southern Cal feels that it has to beat Notre Dame, even though it's a non-conference game. There's a tremendous amount of pride going. Everyone talks about the UCLA game, but I never held UCLA in the same esteem as Notre Dame."