A Dolphins coach snorted white powder off his desk and other news of the week The Week That Was Oct. 9-13

Monday 10.09.17

Miami Dolphins offensive line coach Chris Foerster — a wild boy — recorded himself snorting multiple lines of white powder off his desk, telling a woman who is not his wife, “I miss you a lot” and that he wishes he could snort the white powder with her but “you have to keep that baby,” and letting the woman, a Las Vegas model, know he wishes he could lick the white powder off her private parts. A Texas official who last month referred to two black prosecutors as “a couple of n—–s” rescinded his resignation letter from Friday because, according to an assistant district attorney, “he is unstable.” Philadelphia 76ers center Joel Embiid earned a $148 million contract for 31 days of work in three years. Studio executive Harvey Weinstein begged his Hollywood friends to “send a letter … backing me, getting me the help and time away I need, and also stating your opposition to the board firing me” before he was eventually fired by the board of The Weinstein Company. The vice president of diversity and inclusion at Apple, which took four years to make black emojis, said that “there can be 12 white, blue-eyed blond men in a room and they’re going to be diverse too.” Former NFL head coach Mike Ditka, who is 77 years old and not a reader of books, said that “there has been no oppression in the last 100 years that I know of.”

Tuesday 10.10.17

Former NFL receiver Steve Smith Sr., making clear that he respects “my elders,” told Ditka to “go sit ur dumb a$$ down somewhere.” President Donald Trump, known tax expert, threatened to “change tax law” for the NFL despite the league dropping its tax-exempt status two years ago. The president also challenged Secretary of State Rex Tillerson to an IQ contest. A Texas high school, still not quite getting it, will change its name from Robert E. Lee High School to Legacy of Educational Excellence High School, or LEE High School. In news that will affect absolutely no one because surely no one visits that site, hackers have attempted to spread malware through adult site Pornhub. The Colorado Springs, Colorado, police used a robot to blow a hole in the house of a man who had fired a gun in response to a 13-year-old boy … breaking a tree branch. Fox News host Sean Hannity, who welcomed former Fox News host Bill O’Reilly on his show two weeks ago, called out liberals for their “massive, inexcusable hypocrisy” in light of the sexual harassment allegations against Weinstein, a longtime Democratic donor. Complex Media, reinventing the wheel, gave former adult entertainer Mia Khalifa and former gun-toting NBA player Gilbert Arenas an online sports talk show. Media mogul Oprah Winfrey, laughing at us poors, once deposited a $2 million check at a bank just to do it.

Wednesday 10.11.17

Oklahoma City Thunder forward Carmelo Anthony yells, “Get the f— out of here” when he grabs rebounds. Fans of hip-hop artist Eminem, known for controversial lyrics depicting rape, substance abuse, domestic violence and anti-gay slurs, have finally had it with the rapper after he dissed Trump during a BET rap cypher. New Boston Celtics guard Kyrie Irving, who will be in for a rude awakening after his first bad game in the city, said moving to Boston is “playing in a real, live sports city.” Weinstein, currently accused of sexually harassing or assaulting over a dozen women over the past 30 years, is somehow “profoundly devastated” that his wife of 10 years announced she is leaving him. Dallas Cowboys players, drawing a line in the sand, played Eminem’s freestyle rap, in which he calls Trump a “b—-,” and rapper YG’s “FDT,” an acronym for “F— Donald Trump,” in the team locker room after a meeting with owner Jerry Jones regarding kneeling during the national anthem. Secretary of the Interior Ryan Zinke, working for an administration that approved the Dakota Access pipeline, invoked “native Indians” while arguing against the removal of Confederate monuments, saying that “when you try to erase history, what happens is you also erase how it happened and why it happened and the ability to learn from it.”

Thursday 10.12.17

Oakland Raiders running back Marshawn Lynch said it would be an “unfair advantage” to play tennis against Serena Williams, and when asked if it was because Williams was pregnant, Lynch responded, “No, n—a, that it’s Serena Williams, m—–f—–.” Texas A&M, Jay-Z-level shooting out of its league, is interested in poaching head coach James Franklin from 6-0 Penn State. Michael “Thriller Eyes” Jordan says he smokes six cigars a day. Russian agents, who have apparently never heard of Grand Theft Auto, used Pokémon Go to “exploit racial tensions” in America ahead of the 2016 presidential election. Trump supporters Diamond and Silk responded to Eminem’s anti-Trump freestyle with their own, telling the rapper to “stop crying like a baby and a little b—-.” The owners of the home featured in Breaking Bad have erected a 6-foot-high fence because fans of the former AMC show keep throwing pizzas on their roof. Jane Skinner Goodell, the wife of NFL commissioner Roger Goodell and an apparent Kevin Durant fan, has been using an anonymous Twitter account on websites like NBC Sports and ESPN.com to defend her husband. The makers of adult films SpongeKnob SquareNuts and Strokémon announced plans to create an erotic spoof of popular adult cartoon Rick and Morty aptly called … well, you can guess. Rep. Jim Lucas (R-Indiana), an idiot, thinks journalists should be licensed like gun owners because “if I was as irresponsible with my handgun as the media has been with their keyboard, I’d probably be in jail.”

Friday 10.13.17

The Jacksonville Jaguars defensive backfield is deciding between “Alcatraz,” “Pick-fil-a” and “Jackson 5” for its new nickname. Online residential rental company Airbnb, an alternative to hotels, will open its own apartment building to be used for tenants to rent out their space, much like hotels. NFL Hall of Famer O.J. Simpson, fresh out, is already, ironically, doing memorabilia signings. New York Giants coach Ben McAdoo, leading a team that was 0-5 when it had the best receiver in the league, is somehow flummoxed that “there is nobody giving us a chance in hell to win” their next game. Jones, the Cowboys owner who told his players they were forbidden from kneeling during the anthem, said running back Ezekiel Elliott, accused of domestic violence, was not treated “in a fair way” after being suspended by the league. Hip-hop artist Waka Flocka Flame, who once said that if he could go back and finish high school he would study geometry, and is definitely black, said, “I’m damn sure not black. You’re not gonna call me black.”

Women’s March organizers have received unexpected donations for upcoming convention Detroit is the backdrop, and the city’s sports figures want to make sure people can attend

The revolution was televised. On Jan. 21, networks tuned in to watch 2.6 million people across the world come together for an iconic moment. A five-hour rally known as the Women’s March took place.

The event highlighted topics dealing with criminal justice reform, social justice, racial discrimination, domestic violence and women’s rights, and it implored entertainers, celebrity speakers, actors and activists to help progress the cause.

Now, the Women’s March organization is taking its activism further. The first Women’s Convention will be held in Detroit from Oct. 27-29. The massive gathering, which will bring together thousands of women and allies of all backgrounds for a weekend of workshops, strategy sessions, inspiring forums and intersectional movement building, will aim to continue the preparation going into the 2018 midterm elections in Detroit.

The convention is set to bring first-time activists, movement leaders and rising political stars to the forefront. And it’s all happening a few short weeks after NFL players sat, knelt or raised their fists in protest during the national anthem in direct response to President Donald Trump’s recent comments regarding on-field protests.

Now, Detroit-based players, coaches and their families are taking their causes a bit further and stretching their likeness to organizations such as the Women’s March for their upcoming Women’s Convention. To date, former Detroit Lions linebacker DeAndre Levy and his wife, Desire Vincent Levy, recently donated $30,000, along with Detroit Pistons president and head coach Stan Van Gundy and his wife, Kim, who have also donated $10,000 to a scholarship fund for the convention.

Activist Tamika D. Mallory, national co-chairwoman for the Women’s March and founder of Mallory Consulting, said players coming together to help with the cause isn’t surprising.

“I think that has really garnered the attention of NFL supporters,” Mallory said. “With all of the issues we see happening with the NFL and how it sort of intersects with some of the issues that the Women’s March has been bringing to the forefront, it would make sense that there would be players and others within the sports industry who would want to support and help.”

Mallory notes that while the Women’s March did not have any past relationships with players, the Gathering for Justice, the organization that the Women’s March is part of, has a relationship with Colin Kaepernick.

“He donated to the gathering prior to the Women’s March and has had a very strong relationship with us,” she said. “I think that it [the decision to donate] was really important for us because it lets us know that people are not disconnected from the issues. That just because a person is playing for a sports team and it may sometimes seem as though they’re not necessarily connected to what’s happening on the ground, that’s not in fact the case. That people are actually listening, that the work that we’re doing resonates with folks from all industries. So it is certainly very encouraging to have the support of people from the sports industry, for certain.”

The organization’s decision to choose Detroit as the place to hold the Women’s Convention was made during the summer and “very intentional.”

“We were looking across the country, looking for cities that we thought represented all the issues in our Unity Principles, a place that’s sort of a microcosm of the issues that we know are happening to marginalize people in America,” she said. “Detroit specifically, you’re looking at a place where gentrification, workers’ rights, the police accountability issue, right down the road from Flint, where the water crisis continues to today. Looking at economic stability, or instability, and just looking at the displacement of black and brown folks and how that plays out within the Detroit area. Even gun violence, a major issue there. We looked at Phoenix, Arizona, we also looked at Atlanta, Georgia, and Detroit was always the No. 1 choice for us, so when we were able to find dates that worked, we went there.

“We wanted to go to a place that we could bring folks from across the country to hear from people who are dealing with very, very serious challenges, but also we know that Detroit is a place where you have so many great organizers, people who have organized and done great work throughout history, and so we know that there’s also a great cultural experience that people coming from all over the country can benefit from. Lastly, we wanted to make sure that when bringing resources into a particular city, that we as Women’s March would bring our resources to a community that needs those resources and needs an infusion of care from people across the country.”

The Levys attended the Women’s March in January. The two made their donation to the Women’s Convention “to support women and girls from Detroit to be able to attend the conference” and “for local vendors to be able to vend in a social justice city.”

“I was really excited when I learned that it was going to be coming to Detroit,” Desire Vincent Levy said. “This is important because it’s a convergence of a lot of different individuals from Detroit, from around the country, coming together to connect and build and learn. Supporting that, the connection and convergence, just given the climate of the world right now, I think is very important.”

The Levys are no strangers to giving. They host a fundraiser called Our Issue, which raises money for the backlog of neglected rape kits in Detroit.

“We also have a scholarship in partnership with the Detroit Food Academy that is funded through a dinner series called Regenerate Detroit,” Levy added.

With the climate of what’s going on right now with football players’ silent protests, Levy believes the NFL and Women’s March organization can collaborate more.

“I think both are looking for solutions and sparking and continuing conversations about inequality and injustice that’s occurring in our society,” Levy said. “To me they both have the same aspiration: to spark conversation, to get people engaged that maybe wouldn’t normally be engaged and, quite honestly, need to be engaged.”

The organizers refer to the convention as a place where people can get the tools that they need to organize locally and connect with other organizers so they are able to continue their local work.

“The resources that we have received and continue to receive from people in the sports industry and other influencers alike, it’s helpful to give us the space and the opportunity to provide them these necessary tools to organizers and activists,” Mallory said.

Meet Krystal Clark, the Junior League of Nashville’s first African-American president She plans on making JLN a welcoming place for all women

Being president of the Junior League of Nashville (JLN) was never a thought that crossed Krystal Clark’s mind.

Presidents were older and wiser with a tad bit more experience, Clark thought. Besides, she had been a member of this particular branch for only six years.

Ambitious and naturally curious, Clark stood out. And now, at 34 years old, Clark has the distinct honor of becoming the first African-American president of the Junior League of Nashville in the organization’s 96-year history, and one of the youngest too.

“It’s been pretty rewarding,” Clark said of her new position. “I get a little emotional sometimes thinking about all the good that’s coming out of the organization.”

Although news stories of Clark’s appointment were published in September, Clark and the JLN committee have been preparing for the official announcement since 2015. Clark spent half of that year as president-elect-elect, president-elect in 2016 and president for the 2017-18 year.

“[The presidency] didn’t hit me until November of my president-elect year, because that’s when I found out who was going to be on my board,” Clark said. “That’s when I thought, I need to get my life in order. I needed to get my energy together and solidify my vision. Before that, you’re training and learning things that you don’t know about the organization. But that November, it hit me that people who are on my board are now going to be looking at me for leadership.”

There were still things to figure out, but Clark had already begun to prepare for her exciting new role. Taking risks and chances on things that matter most to her wasn’t new, and becoming president would be no different.

Clark, who is originally from Portsmouth, Virginia, made her first big move once she accepted a job offer to work as a program coordinator for fraternity and sorority life at Duke University in Durham, North Carolina. Clark didn’t really know too much about the area, and she had no friends or family there. But this was an opportunity worth traveling for, and Clark accepted the challenge.

While in Durham, Clark was introduced to the Junior League after a league member named Kelly invited Clark and a group of young professionals out to lunch. Kelly believed the Junior League would be a great fit for the group and could help them navigate the world around them with the help of experienced women who would be there to lend support.

Since 1901, The Association of Junior Leagues International Inc. has dedicated its platform to helping women around the globe through volunteerism and improvement of communities. Some issues that remain a primary focus for the organization include pollution, illiteracy, domestic violence and fostering children without a safety net, according to its website. With the organization’s core values and mission in mind, Clark was sold.

Shortly after the meeting, Clark and a friend joined the Junior League. At first, Clark said, she and her friend naturally stuck together since they’d already known each other. But as the two began to meet other women in the organization, more friendships blossomed.

“Most of us joined because we wanted to meet people, so being able to be social with each other and do community service with each other, I started bonding,” Clark said.

Through the league’s events and community service initiatives, Clark also began to learn more about Durham and the environment around her. It was refreshing, given that Clark had not known much about the area nor anyone who lived there when she arrived after earning a master’s degree in college personnel from the University of Maryland.

After working at Duke for four years, the more confident Clark was ready for change. During the search for her next career move, Clark was offered a position as associate director of Greek life at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee.

“My career is important to me, and I’m a pretty ambitious human,” Clark said. “I’d never been to Tennessee, and I didn’t know anyone once again, but I also knew Vanderbilt was a really good school and the interview was really fun, so I took a chance and went. I actually do love country music too, so I figured I’d go and see what happens.”

Clark said her goodbyes to her Junior League sisters in North Carolina and began her journey to Tennessee. As with North Carolina, Clark was starting anew. There were no friends or family members to greet her in Nashville, but transferring membership and familiarizing herself with her new Junior League family is something Clark looked forward to.

Clark spent time meeting the members, both newcomers and veterans, and getting acquainted with Nashville. Although Clark enjoyed her work and time volunteering with the group, she’d never thought about taking on a larger role in the organization.

“When I get involved in something, I commit to it,” Clark said. “I certainly wanted to play a role in the organization, but I didn’t think I would be president. I thought I needed to be older to be president, and I thought that I needed to be in the organization longer to be president. I guess it didn’t cross my mind when I first started.”

What stood out to other women in the organization was Clark’s dedication. She was one of the most active members. She eagerly showed up to meetings and asked a lot of questions — the right questions. She coordinated events and fulfilled all of her duties.

“There were women in the organization who believed in me,” Clark said. “Throughout my time in the league, there were multiple women who let me know they believed in me and that I should aspire to be more in the organization.”

One morning, Clark was taken out to breakfast by a fellow Junior League member who suggested that she put her name in the running for president. Although she hadn’t given it much thought at first, the idea didn’t seem as far-fetched.

“I took a chance and did it,” Clark said. “I didn’t feel like I had much to lose, so I did it.”

Clark is continuing to adjust to her new leadership position but has already identified some of her top priorities, including member engagement, member involvement and making their presence known.

“We’ve been around for 96 years, and we also created a ton of other nonprofits that are still up and running. Sometimes people forget that the Junior League of Nashville is a philanthropic and service organization. We want to make sure we’re at the right tables and in the right rooms to be able to continue driving community change.”

And most importantly, as the organization’s first African-American president, Clark wants all women to feel welcome.

“It obviously can be hard to be the first and the only and the different one, but I sort of owned the fact that in order for this organization to be great for tons of women, regardless of their social identities, I have to put myself out there and I have to put my story out there,” Clark said. “I really try to go out in the community and be very present, going to meetings and introducing myself to people, because I think that’s the only way we can change that perception.

“I think sometimes we have a lot of self-limiting beliefs. We think people are going to look at us a certain way or we think people aren’t going to like us or be rude to us, but I think you have to give people an opportunity to prove you right or prove you wrong. … The only way that I’ve been able to be successful is just by owning what I want and going after it. Sometimes, I think we’re our own worst enemy. And we don’t have to be.”

O.J. Simpson is a relic in a new culture that celebrates unapologetic blackness The Juice re-enters American society at its most divided since his ‘Trial of the Century’

O.J. like, “I’m not black, I’m O.J.” / Okay / House n—a, don’t f— with me / I’m a field n—a with shined cutlery.

— Jay-Z, 2017’s “The Story of O.J.


Fate has a fetish for O.J. Simpson. Oct. 1 is nearly 22 years to the day of both his acquittal after the double-murder trial that captivated the world and nine years since being sentenced for armed robbery and kidnapping in Las Vegas. Both happened on an Oct. 3. And now the sharp winds of the judicial and correctional system once again gust in the direction of the 1968 Heisman Trophy winner. After serving nine years, the man known as “Prisoner 1027820” in Nevada’s Lovelock Correctional Center is free.

Emphasis on free. Because what does it mean? What has it ever meant? And can O.J. Simpson, in particular, ever truly obtain freedom? He re-enters American society at its most divided since his “Trial of the Century,” and we are right now in an era defined by social, cultural and racial injustices — and the resistance and protests against them. The line between sports, culture and politics is as blurred and polarizing as it’s been since the 1960s. And the black world that Simpson sought to escape via football and a white wife is a world he can no longer run from — if he ever could. “The heartbreaking truth is,” says columnist and author Rochelle Riley, “O.J. Simpson is coming out of prison, and having to wake up black.”


Simpson’s former employer, the National Football League, looks a lot different from the one that existed before his 2008 conviction. There are Ezekiel Elliott’s crop tops and Dez Bryant’s custom Air Jordan cleats, Richard Sherman’s and Marshawn Lynch’s locks, and Odell Beckham’s Head & Shoulders-endorsed blond hair. There’s the NFL’s more cautious style of play apropos of player safety. Some aspects remain the same though — like the ongoing issue of the league’s embarrassing, harmful and erratically applied discipline for domestic violence offenders.

The NFL’s biggest lightning rod isn’t even in the league. Colin Kaepernick’s kneeling protest, intended to shine light on police brutality and the inequalities that persist within the criminal justice system, has reverberated far beyond football. Athletes like LeBron James, Stephen Curry, soccer star Megan Rapinoe, Oakland A’s rookie Bruce Maxwell and the WNBA’s Indiana Fever have lent support to the exiled former Super Bowl signal-caller.

Kaepernick’s won adoration from and influenced Stevie Wonder, Tina Lawson, Chuck D, Carlos Santana, Kendrick Lamar, Cardi B, J. Cole and others. Jay-Z donned a custom Colin Kaepernick jersey on the season premiere of Saturday Night Live, as Nick Cannon rocked a classic one at a recent St. Louis protest after the acquittal of Police Officer Jason Stockley for the killing of Anthony Lamar Smith. His No. 7 San Francisco 49ers jersey is now in New York City’s Museum of Modern Art, and the National Museum of African American History and Culture announced in May that various Kaepernick items will be featured in future exhibits.

There’s no hierarchy in terms of the pain of dealing with black death, but it’s no secret Travyon Martin stands out. He’s this generation’s “Trial of the Century.”

The NFL also sits embroiled in a beef with President Donald Trump over protests inspired by Kaepernick — the same Donald Trump who entertained the idea of a reality show with Simpson back in 2008. And while we’re on reality shows, Simpson enters a world dominated by Kardashians. Keeping Up with the Kardashians has been a fixture in American pop culture since its premiere, 10 years ago this month. The family became famous during the fracas of Simpson’s first trial, where attorney Robert Kardashian — Simpson’s close friend and father of Kim, Khloe, Kourtney and Rob — was part of O.J.’s legal “Dream Team.” Kim’s husband, the Adidas designer and Grammy awardwinning producer/rapper/cultural live wire Kanye West, references Simpson in 2016’s “THat Part”: I just left the strip club, got some glitter on me/ Wifey gonna kill me, she the female O.J.

Where we are now is this: Athletes and entertainers (and many, many others) have called the president of the United States outside of his name — and the president and his supporters clap back, tit for tat. There’s a culture war going on, and while it’s different from the 1960s and ’70s, it’s a vibe O.J. is all too familiar with. He’s seen it move like this before.

Getty Images

Consider the American psyche leading up to the pivotal year of 1967, Simpson’s first season as tailback at the University of Southern California, a private, predominantly white institution surrounded by black neighborhoods in Los Angeles. In 1961, 61 percent of Americans disapproved of the “Freedom Riders.” Fifty-seven percent viewed lunch counter “sit-ins” as hurtful “to the Negro’s chances of being integrated in the South.” The 1963 March on Washington was viewed unfavorably by 60 percent of voters. And by January 1967, 53 percent of voters believed black people, instead of protesting for equal rights, would be better off taking “advantage of the opportunities that have been made available.”

Compare all this to a survey conducted by Global Strategy Group for ESPN from Sept. 26-28, just days before Simpson’s release. A clear racial divide exists: 72 percent of African-Americans strongly or somewhat agree with the protests, which were started by Kaepernick last season. Sixty-two percent of white people strongly or somewhat disagree. Other polls revealed similar numbers.

In 1967, like in 2017, everybody makes the decisions they make. On April 28, 1967, when Muhammad Ali was stripped of his heavyweight title after refusing induction into the U.S. Army, the revolt of the black athlete entered the living rooms of Americans. This was the same year O.J. Simpson rushed into USC immortality and the American consciousness with 1,543 yards and 13 touchdowns. This was the same year that, on Thanksgiving Day, Harry Edwards, a sociology professor at San Jose State, organized the Western Regional Black Youth Conference. The gathering of about 200 people discussed the possibility of boycotting the 1968 Mexico City Olympics. Sprinters Tommie Smith and Lee Evans were there, as was UCLA’s star center Lew Alcindor (who became Kareem Abdul-Jabbar). “Winning gold medals for a country where I don’t have my freedom is irrelevant,” Smith said at the meeting. “So far I have not won my freedom, and I will not turn back from my decision.” Alcindor refused to try out for the Olympic team, prompting critics to label him a national disgrace and an “uppity n—–.”

Though at a Western school, O.J. Simpson didn’t attend the conference. His epic 64-yard touchdown vs. UCLA, less than a week before, propelled USC to the national championship. Edwards had approached Simpson about lending his name and influence to the cause. Simpson disassociated himself from the movement, famously telling Edwards, “I’m not black. I’m O.J.” Smith and Carlos’ decision to speak out hurt their careers, in Simpson’s eyes. He wasn’t going down like that. “He absolutely distances himself from everything, which turns out to be a pretty good career move,” says Dr. Matthew Andrews. “It opens up all these doors in advertising, movies and so on.”

Focus on Sport/Getty Images

The assassinations of Martin Luther King and presidential candidate Robert Kennedy defined 1968. Riots erupted throughout the country. Black America had seemingly reached its breaking point. The defiant and painful image of John Carlos and Tommie Smith’s black power fists at the Mexico City Olympics ingrained itself in sports and American history. Meanwhile, O.J.’s celebrity ballooned as he separated himself from the swelling movement. He won the Heisman in 1968 and was the first overall selection in the 1969 draft. For the next two and a half decades, Simpson enjoyed the fruits of his decision and became one of the most recognizable, marketable and celebrated black men in America.


“You see, O.J. was under that illusion — ain’t been black since he was 17. Under that illusion of inclusion — [until he] got That N—- Wake-Up Call. Only n—- I know that could get on any golf course in America. They loved that boy! He had to come home when it got rough.”Paul Mooney, 1994

Simpson’s goal seemed to be: live a deracinated life. He didn’t want to make white people uncomfortable. He was handsome, charming and safe — and so, with 1969’s Chevrolet deal, became the first black corporate pitchman before playing a down in the NFL. Long after his playing career, Simpson was one of the few black faces on screen, as an actor or a commentator, during the late ’70s and early ’80s. “O.J.’s providing a very meaningful image for black kids in America,” said Ezra Edelman recently. He’s the Oscar-winning director of 2016’s O.J.: Made In America. “He deserves his due for the way he influenced culture, beyond being on trial for murder in 1994 and ’95.”

O.J. Simpson for Hertz, in 1978

Master Tesfatsion, 26, doesn’t remember the “Trial of the Century.” He’s a Redskins beat reporter for The Washington Post, and one of his most recent stories is about cornerback Josh Norman pledging $100,000 to Puerto Rico’s victims of Hurricane Maria. Tesfatsion’s first memory of O.J. is the 1997 civil case that ordered Simpson to pay $25 million to the families of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman. Growing up Eritrean-American in Section 8 housing in Irving, Texas, Tesfatsion’s early O.J. knowledge primarily came from the neighborhood. “I just trusted the OGs,” he says. “If everyone on the block was telling you O.J. ain’t do it, what are you supposed to think?”

“O.J. really is this wisp of memory that is not as important because so much has happened since.”

Tesfatsion’s generation? They were kids when Simpson’s criminal trial happened. And they are well-aware of how deeply racial dynamics and police distrust played into Simpson’s case, and into their own lives. “People always think because you have a certain wealth status, whether it’s white people or even black people who are rich, they think they can escape colorism,” says the Arizona State graduate. “O.J. has proven on the highest of levels that that’s not the case.”

Tesfatsion remembers the passion the case evoked in his parents, and what was clearly two different Americas. So many white people mourned the not guilty verdict. So many black people celebrated quietly, or as if it were an NBA Finals victory for the home team. “The heartbreaking point about O.J.,” says Riley, whose The Burden: African-Americans and the Enduring Impact of Slavery is being published in February, “is not whether he got away with murder — if he did — but black Americans have been so mistreated and denied justice so many times and for so long that his acquittal was seen as a needed win.”

Simpson is a poster child for race and the legal system, but for Tesfatsion’s generation, he’s not on whom they hang their hat. Simpson’s verdict now of course has rivals in cases that have come to define this generation’s adulthood. “For a generation and a half, O.J. is not this larger-than-life person who meant so much, and who people paid attention to so much,” says Riley. “[O.J.] really is this wisp of memory that is not as important, because so much has happened since.”

Many of the same factors that came into play during the “Trial of the Century”—black bodies, white superiority complexes, and the assumption of black guilt have defined the cases of the Sandra Blands, Philando Castiles, Tamir Rices and Michael Browns. There’s no hierarchy in terms of the pain of dealing with black death, but it’s no secret Travyon Martin stands out. He’s this generation’s “Trial of the Century.”

“[Trayvon] was mine,” says Tesfatsion. “It was crazy how caught up I was into it.” Zimmerman’s not guilty verdict was delivered on his 22nd birthday. “To expect one thing, and see the other result, you know, as an African-American, the anger that you feel and the disappointment you feel it’s hard to explain.”


The question no one can truly answer is what happens next for O.J. Simpson. Fresh out of jail, he missed the entire presidency of Barack Obama and enters a world driven by Donald Trump — whose Twitter-fueled presidency has roots in the 24/7, reality-TV celebrity obsession culture rooted in the insanity that was his first trial. Rumors of a return to Hollywood even exist.

Former football legend O.J. Simpson signs documents at the Lovelock Correctional Center, Saturday, Sept. 30, 2017, in Lovelock, Nev. Simpson was released from the Lovelock Correctional Center in northern Nevada early Sunday, Oct. 1, 2017.

Brooke Keast/Nevada Department of Corrections via AP

But if there’s one reality starkly different from the one Simpson encountered pre-prison—and the beginning of it was the 24/7 coverage of his trial — it’s the extinction of the veil of anonymity. Does he attempt to live a life of modesty and recluse? Or has a nearly decade-long, state-mandated vacation done little to change him? Simpson’s been called a sociopath, one who craves constant attention strictly on his terms. Yet social media, his lawyers suggest, won’t be an issue for him. But he’s never dealt with the monster that is this iteration of media: social breaks stories and develops narratives before the first byline is written. Cameras don’t just sit on shoulders anymore, they sit in the palms of everybody’s hands. One click equals global broadcast.

Many already aren’t willing to deal with the potential fallout. Florida Attorney General Pam Bondi is attempting to bar him from the state — the same Sunshine State that houses the infamous generational antagonist George Zimmerman.

Dr. Andrews thinks that whatever the case, it will be interesting. “Which O.J. is he going to be? One would argue that pre-trial O.J. would distance himself from what many NFL players are doing. Certainly distancing himself from what Kaepernick’s doing. What Kaepernick did is exactly what [Tommie] Smith and [John] Carlos did in 1968. O.J. wanted no parts of that. [This] O.J. might get it a little more.”

But, Andrews asks, “Do you really want O.J. to be the spokesperson for this battle in racial justice?”

Riley is more than willing to answer. “The most important thing he could do for himself and America is to not answer the question,” Riley says. “To not weigh in and not try and make himself relevant in any way that he shouldn’t.”

It’s not just the NFL, and O.J. Simpson, but America itself that sits at a crossroads. All three face illness they never really addressed let alone medicated. O.J. walked out of prison Sunday a ghostlike relic of injustices he ignored, injustices he experienced and injustices he helped create. There is undeniable irony in karma greeting Simpson more harshly than his generational contemporaries. Ali, Abdul-Jabbar, Smith, Carlos and so many others were in their early 20s fighting demons older than America itself. The athletes were considered pariahs then but stand as saints of progress now. The same will one day be said about Colin Kaepernick. And about those for whom the killings of Trayvon Martin, Sandra Bland, Mike Brown and others inspire a lifetime of resistance and service.

This is the third time O.J. Simpson experiences the first day of the rest of his life. Everybody isn’t that lucky.

All eyes on the Dallas Cowboys After a weekend of NFL protests in response to President Trump’s explosive comments, America’s Team is now center stage

Not even Hollywood could script this.

On Friday night, the president of the United States takes on the National Football League. He calls players who exercise their First Amendment right to peacefully protest “son of a b—-.” The next day, the president doubles down on Twitter, demanding those same players stand for the national anthem or face harsh discipline. A far cry from what he tweeted two days after his inauguration:

Then, on Sunday, more than 130 players from various teams kneeled, sat or locked arms during the national anthem. The Pittsburgh Steelers, Tennessee Titans and Seattle Seahawks remained in the locker room altogether. While all this is taking place, President Donald Trump’s administration goes on the offensive, suggesting the NFL should implement a rule with regard to anthem protests. Trump’s assertion Monday morning that kneeling for the anthem had “nothing to do with race” further sullies a yearlong campaign of former San Francisco 49ers quarterback Colin Kaepernick’s original point: It was never about the flag. It was never about disrespecting the troops — the men and women of the military protected his right to kneel. And it was never about the anthem itself. Lost in an endless cycle of debates and purposeful misdirections is that Kaepernick wanted to bring light to police brutality and economic disparities and injustices in lower-income communities.

Which brings us to Monday night’s iteration of Monday Night Football, quite possibly the most American weekly sports tradition of all. And on this Monday, as fate has so lavishly prepared, the schedule features the NFL’s most lucrative, popular, hated and polarizing franchise: the Dallas Cowboys (visiting the Arizona Cardinals). What example, if any, does America’s Team set after a weekend of protests that had been brewing for over a year since Kaepernick decided to take a knee and then-candidate Trump suggested the quarterback “find another country” to call home?


Born in North Carolina and raised in Virginia, I should have been a Washington fan, but family ties won out — in favor of Dallas. The Cowboys, since the mid-’90s, constitute my life’s most emotionally taxing relationship: perpetual heartbreak after perpetual heartbreak after perpetual heartbreak. My deepest connection to the Cowboys is through my mother. Her favorite player was Jethro Pugh, a ferocious yet warm defensive lineman who played college ball at North Carolina’s historically black Elizabeth City State University under my grandfather, coach John Marshall, in the early ’60s.

Everything is magnified when there’s a star on the helmet.

Pugh, who died in 2015, became one of the greatest players in Dallas history and a key cog in the Cowboys’ “Doomsday Defense” that helped deliver the franchise its first two Super Bowls. A pass rushing savant, Pugh also led the team in sacks for five straight seasons, 1968-72. My mother remained a Dallas fan over the years and grew to love former coach Tom Landry (and his fedora).

In the 1990s, when football became a major facet of my life, the Cowboys were lit. They won nearly as much as Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls, capturing three Super Bowls in four years. In truth, at least five Bowls were in order, had it not been for two fumbles: the first was Deion Sanders’ missed pass interference call on Michael Irvin in the 1994 NFC Championship Game against the San Francisco 49ers, and the second was owner Jerry Jones’ ego-driven decision to fire Jimmy Johnson after back-to-back Super Bowl victories.

Nevertheless, the Starter Jackets were fresh and, as trivial as it sounds now, the Dallas Cowboys — featuring names such as Michael Irvin, Deion Sanders, Emmitt Smith, Troy Aikman, Charles Haley and more — were bad boys and rock stars in the age of Tupac, Biggie, Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg and Nirvana. Their success on the field made them seem larger than life, and this outsize brand persona was made evident by Jeff Pearlman’s fascinating exploration of the teams’ 1990s run: Boys Will Be Boys: The Glory Days and Party Nights of the Dallas Cowboys Dynasty.

America loves its reality television, and in football there is none greater than the Cowboys, a team often too comfortable operating under a veil of chaos. What spinach was to Popeye, headlines and controversy are to Dallas — despite the fact that there have been only two playoff victories since the organization’s last Super Bowl in 1996. As a fan, it’s fun to wallow in that attention. The Terrell Owens years are a prime example. The Tony Romo era is another. But at times, Jones’ willingness to embrace controversy is anything but enjoyable — most notably Greg Hardy’s signing after a graphically publicized domestic violence case. Or the frustration that came with the immensely talented but troubled linebacker Rolando McClain.

What will the Cowboys do Monday night? Not surprisingly, Jones recently said on Dallas’ 105.3 The Fan that he felt strongly about recognizing the flag and the people who sacrificed for the liberties we enjoy: “I feel very strongly that everyone should save that moment for the recognition of the flag in a positive way, so I like the way the Cowboys do it.” Glenstone Limited Partnership helped fund a $1 million donation to Trump’s inaugural committee earlier this year. Glenstone Limited Partnership is a segment of Glenstone Corp., which is led by Jones.

Despite mysterious posts on social media and conflicting statements from “inside” sources, nothing suggests the Cowboys will do anything of note. Dallas has yet to have a player engage in protest, last season or this season. The Cowboys would not be the only team to keep it business as usual.

But everything is magnified when there’s a star on the helmet. Jones has lived off that bravado since he purchased the team in 1989. The players and fan base followed suit. It’s part of the territory that comes with being a team whose stadium could pass for the eighth wonder of the world. The franchise is valued at nearly $5 billion and comes with A-list fans such as LeBron James, Jay-Z, Denzel Washington, Russell Westbrook, Jamie Foxx and Allen Iverson.

Still, the team appears unified in neutrality. Second-year quarterback Dak Prescott didn’t plan on participating in protests, saying last month, “It’s just important for me to go out there, hand over my heart, represent our country and just be thankful, and not take anything I’ve been given and my freedom for granted.” This was before ungrateful-as-the-new-uppity became a narrative. Running back Ezekiel Elliott is a Crock-Pot of moving parts, rumors and controversies. Pro-Bowl linebackers Sean Lee and Jaylon Smith provided virtually the same answer: Both disagree with Trump’s statements but refused to expand any further. And star wideout Dez Bryant seems content with his stance. “I’m not criticizing nobody,” Bryant said recently of the swelling number of players in the league joining the protest. “They’re free to do whatever they want. Hell, no, I’m not doing none of that. Their beliefs are their beliefs, and I’m not saying they’re wrong because they’re feeling a certain way. They’re supposed to.”

But this particular juncture feels different because it is different. New York Giants defensive end Damon Harrison said of the moment the president placed the entire league in his crosshairs that it was “bigger than money, bigger than the game,” and that if he didn’t voice his frustrations he “wouldn’t be able to sleep or walk with my head held high as a man or father.” And Miami Dolphins safety Michael Thomas was moved to tears by the magnitude of Trump’s comments, and our racial climate overall. The Cowboys have their on-field issues. They haven’t looked particularly dominant, even in their lone victory over an Odell Beckham-less Giants. And a week later, Dallas had its muffin cap peeled back by the Denver Broncos.

Kneeling at NFL games during the national anthem in protest of systemic inequalities went from being “Kaepernick’s fight” or “Michael Bennett’s problem” to a movement the leader of the free world not only monitors but also attempts to eradicate (while at the same time, Puerto Rico pleads for help in the aftermath of Hurricane Maria that’s left most of the U.S. territory immobile and without electricity).

In an ideal world, the league’s most powerful owner and biggest cash cow of a team would make some sort of bold statement — more than locking arms or placing hands on shoulders. The president’s anger toward players who are not content with cashing checks and staying mum only scratches the surface of a far more cancerous issue: that players, who in the NFL are 70 percent black and are on the field destroying their bodies, are often seen as undeserving of earnings apparently awarded by owners to players who should be grateful for the money. White owners, on the other hand, are viewed as fully deserving of their billions.

The Cowboys may be fine with playing the role of an ostrich with its head buried in the turf. It’s the Cowboys I’ve come to expect. It still doesn’t make it any less weird that a franchise priding itself on being “America’s Team” remains self-muzzled during a time when America needs to be anything but, both in speech and in action. In a better world, and in a move that would shake both the league and the Oval Office to its core, the Cowboys would’ve long since signed Kaepernick — he’s of course far more polished than the team’s current backups, Kellen Moore and Cooper Rush. But this isn’t a better world. At least not yet.

Life before Death Row: The brief football career of Suge Knight The scariest man in rap was a star lineman at UNLV — and a scab Los Angeles Ram

Marion “Suge” Knight’s original terrordome was the defensive line. It’s where he starred for four years at Lynwood High School, 20 minutes from Compton, California’s much-loved Tam’s Burgers. Knight faces murder (among other) charges stemming from a January 2015 incident at Tam’s in which he is accused of barreling a Ford F-150 into two men.

Knight’s friend, Terry Carter, 55, was killed. Cle “Bone” Sloan, 51, was injured. All of this followed an argument near a filming location for the 2015 N.W.A. biopic Straight Outta Compton. For the better part of three years, Knight has been held at Los Angeles County Jail, where he awaits a January 2018 trial. He is claiming self-defense. “He left the scene,” attorney James Blatt said in February 2015, “because he was in fear for his safety, and life.” Knight has shuffled through more than four attorneys since.

Wealthy white kids at Hollywood high schools were often the target of Knight’s shakedowns when he was at Lynwood. During the early ’80s, however, Knight was far more focused on sports than thugging: He earned letters in track and football all four years.


Harvey Hyde became the head football coach of the University of Nevada, Las Vegas in 1981. At the time, the UNLV Rebels (recently on the wrong side of the most lopsided college football upset of all time) were new to Division I. The school, established in 1958, had gained national prominence via basketball coach Jerry Tarkanian’s “Runnin’ Rebels” program. It was up to Hyde to make UNLV a two-sport school.

Hyde still calls Marion Knight “Sugar Bear,” Knight’s childhood and neighborhood nickname. They met on a recruiting trip that Hyde made to Los Angeles County’s El Camino Junior College, where Knight excelled in the defensive line’s trenches. The Compton native was 6-foot-2 with big hair and an imposing frame.

“How would anyone know who he was at the time? He was one of the guys that the Rams players were throwing eggs at.”

Hyde, a player’s coach, brought Knight to Las Vegas. As a junior, he started at nose guard and defensive tackle and immediately became one of the Rebels’ best defensive players. Knight was voted UNLV’s Rookie of the Year, named defensive captain and won first-team all conference honors. In a city full of sins, Knight was apparently UNLV’s biggest blessing.

“[Knight] played his butt off,” said Hyde, whose coaching portfolio includes NFL stars Randall Cunningham, Ickey Woods and 2017 Hall of Famer Terrell Davis. “[Knight] was a ‘yes sir, no sir’ guy … the type of player any college football coach would love to have on his team.” Hyde was let go in 1986 after a string of damaging events for the football program, including burglary, the beating by a player of an off-duty policeman, the embezzling of video and stereo equipment, sexual assault and domestic violence, among other issues. Knight, a part-time bouncer at Vegas’ then-hot Cotton Club, wasn’t a blip on Hyde’s disciplinary radar. “He never, ever gave me a problem in any way.”

To many members of the UNLV team, and his close friend Tarkanian, Hyde was the scapegoat for a program he helped save. The lack of institutional control, they believed, wasn’t Hyde’s fault. Hyde has never spoken ill or shifted blame to anyone.

Knight may have been yes-sir-no-sir, but he was side-hustling: Books. Jon Wolfson, who in the early 2000s was a publicist for Death Row Records and is now the manager of Hall and Oates, recalls a conversation he had with Knight about his UNLV days. “He’d say something like, ‘Then I’d play the dumb athlete role and say, ‘Oh, Coach, I lost my books.’ ” The staff never second-guessed Knight, said Wolfson. “They’d give him brand-new books, and he’d sell them to make some extra cash.” Knight enjoyed two impressive seasons at UNLV in 1985 and 1986, lettering in both.

Yet, per Randall Sullivan’s 2003 LAbyrinth: A Detective Investigates the Murders of Tupac Shakur and Notorious B.I.G., the Implication of Death Row Records’ Suge Knight, and the Origins of the Los Angeles Police Scandal, Knight’s demeanor became more ominous and reclusive during his senior campaign. Visitors from his hometown of Compton were frequently sighted, as Sullivan reported. Knight, too, moved in an apartment by himself, and was seen in several late-model sedans. And his reputation on campus evolved far beyond that of the friendly jokester he was the year before. He seemed a man involved in far more sophisticated situations.

Yet when Wayne Nunnely took over as coach in 1986, Knight’s athletic demeanor apparently remained consistent. “He wasn’t a problem guy at all,” Nunnely told the Las Vegas Sun in 1996. This was three days after Tupac Shakur was shot five times near the Las Vegas Strip by a drive-by assailant who remains unknown. Shakur and Knight were at the intersection of Koval Lane and Flamingo Road. Shakur, of course, died. Knight, by then better known as “Suge,” was then gangsta rap’s unquestioned, unrivaled and undisputed emperor. “You didn’t really see,” said Nunnely, “that street roughness in him.”

The gridiron roughness is something Knight didn’t hesitate to talk about. “I think the most important thing, when you play football,” Knight told comedian Jay Mohr in 2001, shortly after being released from prison for serving half of a nine-year sentence for assault charges stemming from the fight with Orlando Anderson in Vegas’ MGM Grand the night Shakur was shot, “you get the quarterback, you stick your hand in his helmet and peel the skin back off.”

He jokingly suggested, even after selling tens of millions of records and doing nearly a five-year bid, that he could still play in the league. “I think I could strap up and intimidate most of those [guys]. I think we could make a few deals and I’ll be like, ‘OK, look. Lemme get ’bout three, four sacks. I’ll let you get a few blocks. We’ll enjoy it.’ ”

According to teammates, Knight dropped out of UNLV before graduation. By 1987, he was back in Los Angeles. One of the biggest songs on the streets was Eazy-E’s gangsta rap bellwether “Boyz n Da Hood,” which dropped in March of that year. But before turning to hip-hop to plant the seeds of a future empire, Knight had one last gridiron itch to scratch: the National Football League.


The first overall pick in the 1987 NFL draft was Vinny Testaverde, who played until he was 44. The second overall pick was defensive stalwart Cornelius Bennett. There was also current University of Michigan head coach Jim Harbaugh, Christian “The Nigerian Nightmare” Okoye, 2002 NFL MVP Rich Gannon and Rod Woodson, the only Hall of Famer from this class. Former University of Oklahoma megastar linebacker Brian Bosworth and future Hall of Famer wide receiver Cris Carter were chosen in the supplemental draft. Marion Knight was not one of the 335 players selected. But the NFL eventually did come calling. The league was desperate.

As documented in the new 30 for 30 film “Year of the Scab,” NFL players went on strike shortly after the start of the 1987 season. Today, football players influenced by exiled Super Bowl quarterback Colin Kaepernick fight for their freedom of expression. Thirty years ago, players bucked back at ownership for freedom of agency. In 1982, players went on strike demanding 55 percent of revenue. The 57-day standoff cost the league seven games and $275 million in revenues. And another $50 million returned to networks. While united in both strikes, the NFL Players Association (NFLPA) gained little ground in either.

“Free” agency in the 1980s wasn’t the spectacle it is today, with hundreds of players changing teams annually. “This was before free agency,” said veteran Los Angeles Times sports reporter Chris Dufresne. “[NFL players] really were indentured servants. They couldn’t go anywhere!” Players were, for lack of a better phrase, property — bound to teams for life. With rare exceptions, they did move to new teams, although many times those were star players with leverage, a la O.J. Simpson’s 1978 trade to the San Francisco 49ers.

Teams could sign free agents, but the cost was steep. The “Rozelle Rule” stated the NFL commissioner could reward the player’s original team with draft picks, often first-round selections, or players. NFL salaries did rise in the ’80s, primarily because of the brief existence of the United States Football League (an entity that featured team owner Donald Trump) and its willingness to lure NFL players with large contracts. But by 1985, the USFL was defunct. Even that era couldn’t hold a candle to the second strike. “The 1987 Rams season,” said Dufresne, “was the craziest I’ve ever had in journalism.”

In a city full of sins, Knight was apparently UNLV’s biggest blessing.

Training camp started with star running back Eric Dickerson warring for a new contract. On Aug. 21, 1987, running back and former Heisman Trophy winner Charles White, after drug issues that plagued him while with the Cleveland Browns and at USC, was arrested after being found in a field. “[He had a] trash can lid, pretending to be the Trojan Warrior,” Dufresne recalled. “That’s how the summer started.” White led the NFL in rushing that same strike season, with 1,374 yards.

The strike started after Week 3. Players said they wouldn’t show up for Week 4, owners called what they thought was bluff, and then had to scramble to fill rosters with replacement players: former college players, undrafted players, construction workers, bartenders, even ex-cons. Replacement players, otherwise known as “scabs,” were ridiculed.

Somewhat like Faizon Love and Orlando Jones in 2000’s The Replacements, Knight was one of those replacement players. Dufresne, 30 years later, doesn’t recall the future head of a gangsta rap empire. “I have no recollection of Suge being there. I must have seen him,” he said. “[But] why would I remember him? How would anyone know who he was at the time? He was one of the guys that the Rams players were throwing eggs at.”

The strike lasted only a few weeks, but it got ugly. It sounds ridiculous to say Knight was bullied, but such was life in the NFL during the 1987 lockout for “scabs.” Knight, a man who would evolve into an intimidating pop culture tour de force, had eggs thrown at him. First-year Rams offensive tackle Robert Cox smashed the window of a van carrying replacement players after union players began rocking the van.

These incidents were common throughout the league. Frustrations were at a boiling point. Once stars such as Dallas Cowboys’ Tony Dorsett, San Francisco’s Joe Montana, the Oakland Raiders’ Howie Long and Seattle’s Steve Largent crossed the line, the NFLPA recognized the ship was sinking. “They had a weak union compared to the baseball union,” Dufresne said. “But the things they were fighting for were real.”

The strike lasted 24 days. Knight officially played two games as a Los Angeles Ram, against the Pittsburgh Steelers and against the Atlanta Falcons. Although Knight’s official stats are all but lost to history, this YouTube video compiled his official NFL stat line: eight plays, zero sacks, zero tackles and one penalty. John Robinson, Rams head coach from 1983-91, said the team had too many bodies that year between union and replacement players. He, too, has no recollection of coaching Knight.

“Suge,” said Dufresne, “was just an anonymous nobody in the surroundings.” The anonymity wouldn’t last long.


In October 1987, as the regular NFL players reported back to work, Knight’s rap sheet ballooned and his boogeyman persona began to take shape. In Los Angeles, Knight was charged with domestic violence after grabbing future ex-wife Sharitha Golden (whom he’d later implicate in Shakur’s murder) by the hair and chopping her ponytail off in the driveway of her mother’s home. That Halloween, he was arrested in Vegas for shooting a man in the wrist and in the leg, and for stealing his Nissan Maxima. With felony charges looming, Knight skated away from any serious penalty in part because of a contrite courtroom appearance and his history in the city as a famed football player. The felonies were reduced to misdemeanors: a $1,000 fine and three years probation. “I shot him with his own gun,” Knight told The Washington Post in 2007.

Three years later, in Vegas once again, he pleaded guilty to felony assault with a deadly weapon after pistol-whipping a man with a loaded gun and breaking his jaw. Knight again evaded serious penalty.

Knight by then was immersing himself in the music industry, serving as a bodyguard for superstars such as Bobby Brown. He eventually maneuvered his way into the circles of rappers like The D.O.C., Dr. Dre, Ice Cube and Eazy-E. Knight partnered with Dr. Dre to create Death Row Records in 1991. Dr. Dre’s 1992 The Chronic (Death Row/Priority) and Snoop Dogg’s Doggystyle (Death Row/Interscope) the following year became instant pop gospels and solidified Knight and Death Row as not only major players but also undeniable and controversial cultural focal points.

It’s been years since Coach Hyde has seen his former player. He’s not sure if he will again, but, “You can’t get me to say anything negative about Suge Knight,” he said. “Whatever somebody is accused of, he’s still a football player of mine. He’s still part of the family when I was at UNLV.” Hyde pauses momentarily, then continues, “I’m not endorsing all the certain things they accuse him of, because I really don’t know. I have no idea! He doesn’t judge me and I don’t judge him. We just have our old feelings of each other. I just think that’s what it’s all about. You don’t forget people.”

“When I watch the news, it’s like I’m watching someone else,” Jon Wolfson said. “That’s not the guy I know.”

As for Dufresne, he’s not on either side of the aisle. He’s more shocked that Marion Knight, a guy he only mentioned in passing through roster lists, morphed into Suge Knight, the Death Row Records impresario who was once worth more than $100 million. Suge, he recalled, wasn’t the only notorious figure to come about during his time covering the Rams. Darryl Henley, a former cornerback for the Rams (1989-94), was convicted of cocaine trafficking in 1995. He is currently serving a 41-year prison term for conspiring to murder the federal judge who presided over his trial, as well as the former Rams cheerleader who testified against him. And the Rams’ 1996 first round pick, running back Lawrence Phillips, received a 31-year sentence for domestic violence, spousal abuse, false imprisonment and vehicle theft and was later charged with first-degree murder of his cellmate. Phillips committed suicide in 2016.

Dufresne recalled the bitterness of rap in the ’90s, the “East/West thing” as he dubbed it. And he remembered the personal sadness that followed Shakur’s murder. Yet, it wasn’t until this phone call where he put one and one together. Marion is Suge. Suge was Marion. Suge Knight was a replacement player during the most untamed year of my career.

“Marion Knight, out of UNLV, who did what a lot of guys did and had a dream to play [in the NFL] and maybe didn’t understand what the players were fighting for, he was just another guy,” he said. He stops, as if he’s shocked. “Little did we know.”

Why Floyd Mayweather can still box after beating women No photos, no central authority and black victims

He might be a coarse, past-his-prime boxer, but plenty of people are still willing to pony up the paper to see 40-year-old Floyd “Money” Mayweather fight again and risk his unblemished record of 49-0. And even if boxing spectators are aware of the physical and emotional damage he’s inflicted on the black women in his life for nearly two decades, there’s little in American society that’s more beside the point.

Why does Mayweather remain such a compelling figure despite his repeated and documented instances of domestic abuse? Let us count the ways: There are no publicly available photos showing the evidence of his crimes; there’s no central organization to hold Mayweather and other abusive boxers to account; and there’s an understanding, however contentious, that some boxers are inherently violent, their rage uncontrollable. Furthermore, there’s a long-standing pattern of victims, especially black women, holding their tongues to protect the black men who hit them.

All of those factors leave some fans torn, some indifferent and some completely disgusted. Despite the moral split decision, many boxing fans remain reliable spectators who continue to reward Mayweather with cultural cachet, fame and money, money, money.


Mayweather has consistently deflected and dismissed the abuse he’s inflicted. His explanations are twofold: “Only God can judge me,” he’s repeatedly said. He’s also maintained that there is no photographic evidence of his misdeeds. (That’s because it’s been locked away or legally destroyed by Las Vegas officials, according to reporting by Deadspin.)

ESPN Video Player

Mayweather, for all the talk of his over-the-top public persona (his other nickname is “Pretty Boy”) is a savvy media operator. He understands the damning nature of video and photography, which is why he’s repeatedly insisted on pointing out that there are no photographs of his crimes. In 2015, after journalists Michelle Beadle of ESPN and Rachel Nichols, then of CNN, publicly challenged Mayweather on his history of domestic abuse, the boxer responded by trying to ban them from covering his fight with Manny Pacquiao.

Mayweather’s representatives did not offer any comment when contacted this week by The Undefeated.

“Everything has been allegations,” Mayweather told The Guardian in 2015, despite court cases that said otherwise. “Nothing has been proven. So that’s life.”

When the news organization pressed him about the contradiction, Mayweather responded, “Once again, no pictures, just hearsay and allegations.”


Mayweather’s record of domestic abuse:

2001: Mayweather punches Melissa Brim, the mother of his daughter, Iyanna, in the neck during an argument over child support at a Las Vegas mall. In March 2002, according to the Las Vegas Review-Journal, he pleaded guilty to two counts of battery against Brim and received a suspended sentence.

2003: Mayweather is accused of punching two female friends of Josie Harris, mother to three Mayweather children, at a Las Vegas nightclub and chasing them out of the club. Mayweather receives a suspended sentence after being convicted of two counts of battery, according to the Las Vegas Sun. He’s ordered to undergo “impulse control” counseling. The verdict is later vacated and the charges “dismissed per negotiations.”

2005: Mayweather stands trial for felony battery after allegedly punching and kicking Harris and dragging her out of his Bentley after she confronts him about cheating. Harris changes her story on the witness stand and says she lied to police about the fight and Mayweather’s history of abuse. Mayweather is acquitted.

2010: Mayweather and Harris have split, but she still lives in a house Mayweather owns. Mayweather confronts Harris at the house for dating NBA guard C.J. Watson. After police head off the initial fight, Mayweather returns shortly before dawn and beats Harris in the back of the head and threatens to beat his children if they call the police, according to the arrest report. In an account given to Las Vegas police, Harris’ son Koraun, then 10 years old, says, “I saw my dad was on my mom and my mom said go to the office my dad was hitting her… my dad kick my mom and he told me to go in my room.” Mayweather, who contends that he was trying to restrain Harris, is charged with multiple felonies. He pleads guilty to misdemeanor domestic assault and harassment and is sentenced to 90 days in jail, the Associated Press reported. He’s released a month early for good behavior.


Photographs may be the new burden of proof in the era of 24/7 cable news and social media, but Mayweather’s abuse isn’t “alleged.” He’s served jail time for it. So why hasn’t he suffered more professional repercussions, like former Baltimore Ravens running back Ray Rice? In 2014, the NFL suspended Rice for two games for hitting his then-girlfriend, now-wife Janay Palmer, knocking her out, and dragging her unconscious body out of an elevator at an Atlantic City, New Jersey, casino. It wasn’t until TMZ published video of the incident that the NFL treated it more seriously. Commissioner Roger Goodell eventually suspended Rice from the league indefinitely. That decision was eventually overturned in federal court, but no team has signed Rice since.

According to boxing experts, it’s not just the video that’s missing, it’s also the ability of the sport to sanction fighters or even maintain the most basic rules and standards of behavior.

Football has something boxing does not. That’s “a governing body,” said Rock Newman, a former boxing promoter whose most famous fighter, Riddick Bowe, was a two-time heavyweight champion. “Baseball, football, basketball, most professional sports, soccer, you know, hockey, you pretty much have a clearly defined set of rules in which you’re expected to operate by on the field and, by extension, off the field,” said Newman, who now hosts a public affairs show on Howard University Television.

There’s no central authority in professional boxing. Four sanctioning bodies govern the sport, and they each award their own belts: the World Boxing Council (WBC), the World Boxing Association (WBA), the International Boxing Federation (IBF) and the World Boxing Organization (WBO). Even if one decides to suspend a boxer, there are three others that may decide otherwise, which means there’s going to be a fight somewhere, sanctioned by someone, especially if there’s a lot of money on the line.

Newman, a longtime advocate for oversight to curtail the exploitation of fighters, says a single governing body could also insist on putting moral turpitude clauses in fighters’ contracts that would affect their ability to earn a living.

Gary “Digital” Williams, creator of the Boxing Along the Beltway blog, agrees. “There’s no one entity that can say to a boxer, ‘You cannot fight because you have had issues with domestic violence.’ ” And there’s a long history of boxers who’ve had those issues.

Some are famous names: Jack Johnson beat women (some of them white) as he rose to fame in the early 20th century. Decades later, Joe Louis beat Lena Horne. Mike Tyson, Sugar Ray Leonard and Riddick Bowe all had issues with domestic abuse. In 2014, Robin Givens wrote a first-person account for Time explaining why she stayed after Tyson hit her. Leonard told sportswriter Buzz Bissinger he hit his wife, Juanita Wilkinson, while she was holding their infant child and threatened to kill himself if she left him. Bowe was not only arrested for second-degree assault, but served prison time for kidnapping his first wife and their five children. Edwin Valero, a WBA and WBC featherweight and lightweight champion, committed suicide in a Venezuelan jail cell after his arrest for stabbing his wife to death.


Boxer Floyd Mayweather Jr. goes through moves during a media workout at the Mayweather Boxing Club on Aug. 10 in Las Vegas.

John Gurzinski/AFP/Getty Images

Boxing’s appeal is atavistic. It’s the same reason everyone runs toward the school yard melee when somebody yells “Fight!” And the qualities that make someone an excellent boxer do not necessarily translate well outside of the ring.

“If somebody hits them too hard in the ring, they can retaliate any way they like, as long as the referee doesn’t call them on it,” said Gail Wyatt, a professor of psychiatry and biobehavioral sciences at UCLA. “At home, if somebody pisses them off, it’s hard to say, ‘Well, now, I’m not supposed to exhibit the same kind of behavior here as I am there.’ So many times, they act like they are in a ring.

“They’re actually at war. Many times they don’t have any kind of anger management, because anger management, it’s only appropriate for those people who require it. You can’t have anger management in boxing — you wouldn’t box. … There are some sports that just work against a person understanding the kind of respect and boundaries that people have to have in a relationship to keep a partner safe.”

Sugar Ray Robinson used to say that “boxing is the hurt business.” Newman says that’s true both inside the ring and out. We cheer the fighter who walks into the ring knowing he’s going to get “his face smashed in, but continuing to come back” when most people would run. “They stand there and endure that, and we cheer. We rise to our feet and cheer that kind of gladiator mentality, and we’re surprised or act like we’re shocked when they’re caught doing 110 mph in a 30 mph zone, or when they beat the hell out of their wife.”

Mayweather comes from a troubled home. His mother was a drug addict. His father was a drug dealer who was part of a family of renowned boxing brothers. Mayweather’s father was imprisoned for drug trafficking when the boxer was a teenager. Newman has known Mayweather since he was an 8-year-old watching his father and uncles fight and mimicking their every move.

In Newman’s experience, fighters often come from tough or abusive homes. “That gladiator appeal is a result of, most times, of fighters who come from homes that have been taught very little in the way of conflict resolution skills,” he said.

“It’s ‘God damn it, you took my crab cakes, I’m going to beat the s— out of you.’ ”

We are conditioned to expect domestic violence among poor people because economic insecurity is often tied to increases in domestic violence, according to the American Psychological Association. But leaning too heavily on that correlation can be dangerous. Since we expect higher rates of domestic violence from poor people, we’re more likely to excuse it.

Being brought up in poverty alone does not cause domestic violence. Rich men enjoying the spoils of generational wealth beat up their partners too, and they use the same excuses to explain or minimize it. It’s just that their wealth and social status can sometimes allow them to outrun the stain in ways that their less economically fortunate counterparts cannot.

When Mayweather uses the Las Vegas judicial system to reclaim or disappear photographic evidence of his crimes, he’s doing what rich and powerful men do: Use their wealth to quash the less savory aspects of themselves they’d prefer not be revealed.


Floyd Mayweather on Jimmy Kimmel Live! on Aug. 15.

Randy Holmes/ABC via Getty Images

Despite his notoriety, Mayweather is still seen as a compelling, charismatic figure in the court of public opinion. Last week, for instance, he was a guest on Jimmy Kimmel Live! and the interview wasn’t even briefly uncomfortable for Mayweather.

Kimmel’s interview was another late night exhibition of fawning grotesquerie: 12 minutes of chatting about money, boxing and strippers in which it would have been bad form to bring up that time you beat your girlfriend’s ass. The only time women even entered the conversation was when Kimmel asked about — and, as a result, plugged — Mayweather’s Las Vegas strip club.

“I got into the strip club business because I knew breasts, the vagina, alcohol and music would never go out of style,” Mayweather said confidently. Kimmel laughed, then cut to commercial.

We have a hard time reconciling our understanding of such men with intimate partner violence. That’s in part because of how we consume and distill our understanding of such violence through pop culture. On screen or stage, domestic abusers are often pitched as obsessive, psychotic, mouth-breathing villains, from the titular character in Othello to Billy Campbell in the 2001 film Enough to Patrick Bergin’s in Sleeping With the Enemy (1991).

On-screen fictive portraits of domestic abusers are often flat in the same way portraits of racists are. In film and television, racists are typically depicted without nuance, as unambiguously evil, isolated individuals. They provide an emotional shorthand for audiences: This guy is bad. And so we see such characters as evil, mean, with no particularly redeeming qualities, rather than as humans who are messy and complicated and morally ambiguous. It’s more difficult to process accusations of assault when they’re aimed at people we find likable.

In the case of intimate partner violence, this also makes it easier to blame women for the abuse they endure. If he’s so awful, society asks, then why does she stay?


Mayweather’s five documented accusers are all black women. In response to their allegations, he has cast himself as the true victim, a beleaguered black man bearing the cross of race-based resentment in a white society that doesn’t want to see him succeed. In a January interview with ESPN’s Cari Champion, Mayweather’s language was a reminder of Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas’s testimony after Anita Hill accused him of sexual harassment during his 1991 Senate confirmation hearings. Thomas referred to the process as a “high-tech lynching” and cast Hill as an agent of white supremacy angling to bring a black man down. Mayweather, too, was defiant.

“That was in my past, and of course, with any situation, when someone talks about domestic violence with a fighter like myself, when they say, ‘Floyd was involved with domestic violence’ — restraining someone, yes I did that,” Mayweather told Champion. “I’m guilty of restraining. But as far as stomp, kicking, beating a woman, I think that the world would see photos.

“You must realize this. For so many years, for so many years, they tried to defeat me in so many different ways — negative things. But I couldn’t be defeated inside the ring, so they tried to defeat me on the outside, far as trying to discourage me. Do I think they want … for me to break Rocky Marciano’s record? Absolutely not. Do I think — do people want to see me fail? Absolutely. But I beat all odds.”

Finding themselves in this compromising position has deep roots for black women, and there are plenty of examples of black men who are celebrated despite accusations of abuse, among them O.J. Simpson, Miles Davis, R. Kelly, and Chris Brown.

“If we only frame race in terms of what is best for black men and that what is best for black men is in aggregate best for black people, then we’re always going to find assault and other forms of gender-based violence as second-tier, secondary issues,” said Treva Lindsey, an associate professor of women’s, gender and sexuality studies at Ohio State University. “What allows this violence to continue is that we don’t believe black women, we don’t trust black women and girls.”

Even when photographic evidence exists and gets released to the public, it’s not necessarily enough.

“So when we get these videos … this objective lens of a camera is presenting us these things and we’re still trying to find ways to justify our interest in a player, celebrity, whoever who are committing these atrocities against black women,” Lindsey said. “It’s still saying even with that kind of truth, we’re willing to forgo the accountability. Even in the face of truth.”


When Cat Taylor isn’t working with her crew cleaning D.C. roadways, she’s attending fights as the Number One Boxing Fan, a title bestowed by the Boxing Along the Beltway blog. It’s a title she takes seriously. She works out to fit in flamboyant outfits, sits ringside and yells. “I travel all over the country in support of all the fighters,” she said.

Taylor originally planned to attend the Mayweather-McGregor fight, but she’s had a change of heart. “I support all fighters, but Mayweather is no longer fighting,” she said. “This is a one-time shot for Mayweather to come out of retirement” and make a lot of money.

Ask her about Mayweather and domestic violence and it’s complicated: “Well, a lot of times, you know, as the Number One Boxing Fan, I try not to get caught into their social lives. However, it is times like this when I’m faced with my opinion on it. In his case, my opinion of that is that Mayweather needs help. Domestic violence is an underlying issue that stems from childhood. That’s not something that was done overnight,” Taylor said. “And it’s sad because his wife or his significant other, she’s a victim, but he’s also a victim too.”

Taylor doesn’t believe court-ordered anger management counseling is sufficient to turn things around. “That’s not enough to get you through that pain and get you through that heartache. The same type of training that he is doing for boxing is basically the same type of training he has to endure to overcome that anger that was admitted into him with that domestic violence.”

Tyrieshia Douglas, a 28-year-old super flyweight from Baltimore and UBF world female flyweight champion, has strong opinions about domestic abuse. “I don’t support men putting their hands on women; I’m totally against that,” she said. “I believe he put his hands on you once, he gonna do it again. And again and again and again and after.”

And that’s why women should learn how to defend themselves, she says, although Douglas hesitates at what, if anything, the sanction should be for Mayweather. “It’s a good question,” she said, but she rejects the notion that, as a boxer, Mayweather might have a harder time turning off the aggression. “I don’t understand how it’s hard to turn it off. At the end of the day, you are a man, you are much stronger.”

Fight fans are fickle, Taylor contends. When the boxer is up they chant for him, but when he’s down, “they’re calling him dumb and saying he’s a nobody.” To her, a fan’s responsibility is to encourage fighters to make them better. Taylor respects the way other fighters admire Mayweather. They tout his craft and his philanthropy: supporting people around him and donating to charitable causes.

“As a fan, and hearing that about him, that means in my eyes, the good outweighs the bad,” she said. “OK, he has this negative thing that’s in the media, but that doesn’t outweigh what he do as a man. … Yes, he has his flaws, but he still is a great man overall, and that’s what I would tend to gravitate more to push him and uplift him.”

It’s that posture — that up-from-poverty, can’t-keep-a-black-man-down, bespoke suit-flaunting, look-at-my-damn-private-jet insistence on claiming his props — that Mayweather so expertly converts into benefit of the doubt and pay-per-view dividends. More than anything, that’s what “Money” is taking to the bank.