Even at the Masters, one is unable to avoid the story of O.J. Simpson

AUGUSTA, Ga. — This time the tournament is the Masters. That time the tournament was the U.S. Open. Both times the story was about the Pro Football Hall of Fame runner turned killer, Orenthal James Simpson.

Strange how these coincidences take place.

Now, Augusta, where Thursday Bryson DeChambeau took the first-round lead with a 7-under par 65.

Then, Oakmont Country Club, where in June 1994, Ernie Els took the victory. Now and then the overwhelming intrusion of O.J. ‘s life or death.

The announcement of Simpson’s passing, at 76, from cancer, was made in the morning. That it came just before the first shot to the year’s first major championship was appropriate. No matter what else was going on, O.J. Simpson, or his deeds, commandeered the headlines and television screens.

What we found out about Simpson is that he became as adept in the art of delusion as he was in his ability to gain yards. What happened and have been reminders is we don’t really know a person, even a spouse or best friend.      

Had he practiced self-deception, or was it just developed naturally? You come of age in the tough Potrero Hill section of San Francisco without a father, you discover how to survive.

I came to San Francisco in the summer of ’65. Simpson was at CCSF, a junior college, playing the first of two seasons with such brilliance. He not only broke rushing records but also was heavily and brazenly recruited.

That was strong stuff for someone who had been playing tackle at Galileo High, who erroneously was called “O. Jay Simpson” in a caption.

Simpson told us he chose USC because he liked the horse that was the Trojans mascot that ran around the track at the LA Coliseum after Trojan touchdowns. Presumably, he was telling the truth. Now you wonder.         

O.J. was engaging and cooperative, a sports writer and pitchman’s dream. If I needed an interview — after all, I was at the Chronicle, one of his hometown newspapers — or Hertz was looking for promotion, he never refused.

And then, even those skills had declined. Simpson came to the San Francisco 49ers, where tales of his childhood could be revived. A great guy, right? Wrong.

It was a Monday in June 1994. I was arriving at the Pittsburgh airport to cover the Open. At the baggage carousel, I hear some saying, “O.J. Simpson’s wife was killed, and he’s a suspect.”’

No way, I’m thinking O.J. never would do anything like that. The freeway car chase on that Friday captivated the nation. The golf event couldn’t quite do that.

Ernie Els grabbed the trophy. O.J. Simpson grabbed our attention. As always.