IF I DID IT I 3
with you. Because the story you know, or
think
you know—that's
not the story. Not even close. This is one story the whole world
got wrong.
First, though, for those of you who don't know me, my name
is Orenthal James Simpson—"O.J." to most people. Many years
ago, a lifetime ago, really, I was a pretty good football player. I set
a few NCAA records, won the Heisman trophy, and was named
the American Football Conference's Most Valuable Player three
ti
mes. When I retired from football, in 1978, I went to work for
NBC, as a football analyst, and in the years ahead I was inducted
into both the College Football Hall of Fame and the Pro Football
Hall of Fame.
I did a little acting, too, and for a number of years I was a
pitchman for Hertz, the rental car people. Some of you might
remember me from the television spots: I was always running late,
pressed for time, leaping over fences and cars and piles of luggage to
catch my flight. If you don't see the irony in that, you will.
All of that was a long time ago, though, a lifetime ago, as I
said—all of that was before the fall. And as I sit here now, trying to
tell my story, I'm having a tough time knowing where to begin.
Still, I've heard it said that all stories are basically love stories, and
my story is no exception. This is a love story, too. And, like a lot of
love stories, it doesn't have a happy ending.
Let me take you back a few years, to the summer of 1977. I
was married then, to my first wife, Marguerite, and we were about
to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary, but it was not a good
time
for us. Marguerite and I had been on shaky ground for a
number of years, and at one point had actually separated, but we
reconciled for the sake of our two kids, Arnelle, then nine, and
Jason, seven. A few months into it, though, while Marguerite and
I were in the middle of dinner, she set down her fork and gave me
a hard look.
"
What?" I asked.
"This isn't working," she said. 'And I'm five months pregnant."
I knew the marriage wasn't working, but the news of the preg-
nancy was a real shock.
We finished dinner in silence—we were at the house on
Rockingham, in Brentwood—and after dinner went to bed, still
silent. I lay there in the dark, thinking about the unborn baby. I
knew Marguerite would never consider an abortion, and it made
for a very strange situation: The youngest Simpson would be join-
ing a family that had already fallen apart.
In the morning, I told Marguerite that I was going to go to
the mountains for a night or two, to think things through, and I
packed a small bag and took off.
On my way out of town, I stopped at a Beverly Hills jewelry
store to pick out an anniversary present for her—we'd been married
a
decade earlier, on June 24, 1967—then paid for it and left. As I
made my way down the street, heading back to my car, I ran into a
guy I knew, and we went off to have breakfast at The Daisy, a cou-
ple of blocks away. We found a quiet, corner table, and our young
waitress came over. She was a stunner: Blonde, slim, and bright-
eyed, with a smile that could knock a man over.
"
Who are you?" I asked.
2
O.J. SIMPSON