O. J. Simpson became the Juice because, well, you figure it out.
When zooming past and swerving through college and NFL defenses, he was one of the most electric running backs ever.
Then he became a beloved pitchman and actor and became immersed in the media fishbowl.
American loved the Juice. He was affable, charming and apparently did a helluva job of masquerading his dark side.
He squeezed life until the, pardon the pun, juice ran down his arms.
Then he was arrested for and ultimately acquitted in the murder of his ex-wife Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman when his Dream Team lawyers cleverly put the LAPD on trial instead of him in the Riveting Trial of the 20th Century and he became a hated pariah.
His fall from grace was epic in scope and chronicled by the sages for the ages.
It was a travesty the Juice was loose, many folks thought — the same people who were elated when Simpson got an absurd nine to 33-year prison sentence after being convicted in 2008 for an armed heist of his own sports memorabilia in Las Vegas.
That time what happened in Vegas didn’t stay in Vegas.
That sentence didn’t fit the crime, but many thought, as unjust as it was, it served the ultimate justice by putting a killer behind bars.
But soon, no longer. Simpson was granted parole today, effective October 1.
Now 70 and his once Mach 5 speed reduced to a hobbled arthritic gait, O.J. will be shackled by a nest of restrictions while he resumes his search on golf courses for the real killers (Memo to the real killers, if you’re out there: Take up tennis).
On parole, you really are not a free man. One misstep and it’s back in the can for the Juice.
Most of America would welcome that.