Jack Sheehan recalls brush with O.J., hunt for evidence

Sunday, Nov. 25, 2007 | 1:52 a.m.

I've resisted telling these stories for years, but now that O.J. Simpson's misadventures in Las Vegas dominate the news 24-7, it's time to dust off some old Simpson anecdotes and share them.

I'd hate for Las Vegans to go to this newspaper and not get their morning dose of O.J. with their coffee and Danish.

Like nearly all Americans of a certain generation, I became aware of the man they called "The Juice" when he was breaking football records at Southern Cal. A fraternity brother who lived down the hall from me at the University of Oregon was a middle linebacker on the Ducks football team, and when he put a stirring tackle on Simpson in a Pac-8 Conference game in Eugene, the play made the cover of a national sports magazine and thereafter decorated the walls of many a room in our frat house. Just that one play, putting the hurt on the great running back who would go on to win the Heisman Trophy in a landslide that year, gave my friend perpetual "bad dude" status on campus.

I actually met Simpson about 10 years later when he was playing in a celebrity golf tournament at the now-defunct Dunes Emerald Green course here. The occasion was awkward. My roommate's girlfriend was working as a cashier in the restaurant adjoining the golf shop, and she asked me one day after I'd played in the same tournament whether I would have a word with a man who kept hassling her for a date. She didn't know who he was, but told me he wouldn't take no for an answer. It was, of course, O.J.

I wasn't about to tell the brawny athlete to mind his own business and end up with golf cleats jitterbugging on my face, so I calmly approached him in the restaurant, introduced myself, chatted briefly, and told him that the girl working the register was steadily dating my roommate, who was a golf pro at the Dunes. In effect, Simpson blew me off and continued to pursue the girl through the next day, even finding her home phone number and asking her out. O.J. obviously wasn't accustomed to hearing the word "No."

Cut to about 15 years later, August 1994, just two months after the murders of Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman. I had just completed a round of golf with one of the world's most famous athletes - who must remain unnamed here - at the ultraexclusive and private Sherwood Country Club in Los Angeles. The occasion was one of a series of profiles of famous personalities I was writing for Golf magazine, based on the premise that you can learn more about the true character of a person from a four-hour round of golf than you can in days of interviews.

As we sat in the men's grill room after the round, I asked this famous athlete and the other three fellows who'd joined us for our round, all of whom were members at Sherwood, whether they thought O.J. had killed Nicole and Ron. Every hand instantly shot up in the air, and what followed were a slew of anecdotes about how O.J. had made passes at their wives or girlfriends, and how he had a fiery temper and a green streak of jealousy running up his back. None of these guys, who knew him well and who had played several rounds of golf with him, had a hint of doubt that he had committed the crimes.

Then, to my surprise, the world-famous athlete made a suggestion. "You know, if ever there were a perfect hiding place for the murder weapon (a 15-inch hunting knife), it would be in O.J.'s locker here. We have great security both at the gate and in the locker room. Now that would be a story for you, wouldn't it?" he said.

I nodded eagerly, shocked that he had offered this suggestion, but not about to pass up the opportunity it presented.

Minutes later we were in the Sherwood locker room, with my celebrated companion struggling to jimmy open Simpson's mahogany-crafted locker. (Adjoining O.J.'s locker were those bearing names such as Jack Nicholson, Tom Selleck, Joe Pesci, Sean Connery, George H.W. Bush, Gerald Ford, Jack Nicklaus, and Arnold Palmer. As I mentioned, this is a darned exclusive club.)

I felt a mix of excitement, anxiety, and a large dose of apprehension as he worked on the locker. Part of me wanted to see that door pop open and a blood-stained knife fall out. It would have been a linchpin piece of evidence in what has been called the Crime of the Century. But I also knew that if the knife were in there, I would be a footnote under the name of this famous athlete, as being the two guys who illegally broke open a locker to discover this evidence.

Part of me felt like Geraldo Rivera, about to open Al Capone's vault on national television; the other part a Brinks robber, about to commit a crime that would be written about for months or years.

When the locker finally popped open, the result was the same as Geraldo's. There was nothing of importance in there - just a dirty old golf shirt, some golf gloves and balls and tees.

"Damn," the athlete said. "I thought we might have something here."

The editors at Golf were torn as to whether I should include the juicy anecdote in my celebrity profile. I chose not to then, feeling that it was an unnecessary invasion of my subject's privacy.

I bring it up today because more than 13 years have passed, and I'm not naming the celebrity, and well shoot I guess I was a trifle worried that if my column this morning wasn't about O.J. Simpson, no one would read it.