A Real Hero Wakes From the Daze of Celebrity

Two years ago, the bodies of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman were found on that sidewalk in Brentwood, igniting an extraordinary national discussion about heroes, about celebrity, about justice. The O.J. Simpson murder trial became a perverse sort of national pastime, moving most of us to far greater passion than a slow game on an emerald diamond ever could.

In the Hayn household in Santa Monica, they are passionate about baseball. And they were also passionate about the Simpson trial. Strange, but about three weeks ago, baseball and their feelings about O.J. Simpson collided unexpectedly, uncomfortably and memorably.

Kathy Hayn, 38, was home with her second son, a toddler, during the Simpson legal spectacle. She gave up soap operas for the trial. Michael Hayn, 49, a carpenter, would call home during the day to compare notes and discuss talk radio’s deconstruction of courtroom events.

Kathy admits sheepishly: “I was one of those icky people who drove by Bundy.”

She and her mother-in-law spoke daily, opining (as did we all) on Marcia Clark’s changing clothes and hairdos. When an abrasive defense attorney ripped into a beleaguered LAPD criminologist with an explosive “How about that, Mr. Fung?” Kathy was instantly on the phone with her mother-in-law, both of them laughing at the line, which has since become a running family joke.

The Hayns, who believe Simpson is guilty, were stunned by the verdict and talked about how they might react if they ever encountered him in person.

“We decided we would get up and walk out,” says Kathy.

Which is why what happened one recent Saturday is a classic illustration of how values and conviction melt like Ben and Jerry’s ice cream on a balmy L.A. night in the glow of a celebrity who can charm even those who believe he is a vicious double murderer.

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While his parents couldn’t get enough of it, the Simpson trial registered only fleetingly on the childhood radar of Timmy Hayn, who is 9 1/2 and has an obsession for baseball bordering on addiction.

“Baseball is not just a game,” the third-grader at John Muir Elementary says without smiling. “It’s my life.”

Timmy is in his fourth year of Little League, a second baseman for the Pirates.

“I have a really good arm,” he says. “As soon as I touch that ball, it goes to first base.”

Every year, Timmy’s dad customizes a bat for him, stamping his team number onto the base, staining the grip with a special design. This year’s Louisville Slugger, though beautiful, had proven unwieldy and Michael decided his son would do better with an aluminum bat. There was regret; here is, after all, a man who makes a living taming wood.

On May 18, Michael drove Timmy and his brother, Sean, to Big 5 Sporting Goods on Wilshire in Santa Monica.

As Michael and Sean checked out baseballs, Timmy picked out bats.

“Lemme see your swing,” said the familiar stranger. Timmy sliced the air.

“You have a good arm,” said O.J. Simpson, who offered to pitch a couple of balls, then thought better of it.

Michael Hayn instantly forgot every resolution he’d made about shunning Simpson. He borrowed a black marker from a cashier and asked Simpson to sign Timmy’s new bat.

Simpson obliged.

On the way home, as the glow of the moment began to dim, Michael felt a twinge.

“Mom is probably going to be mad,” he told the boys. “The poo is gonna happen.”

Still, they stopped at a lumber store to show the bat to a friend, and the guy actually offered Timmy $50 for the $30 bat. Could be worth something, thought Michael. So before they walked into the house, he and the boys went into the garage. Michael sealed the signature with four layers of lacquer.

Then they walked into the house and told Kathy what had happened.

“Now I’ll be able to murder the ball!” said Timmy.

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Kathy’s eyes met Michael’s. No need for words: We’ll talk later.

“It was bad karma,” says Kathy. “This was not a good message for our son. I didn’t like how it made my insides feel.”

“I was totally repentant,” says Michael. After the kids went to bed, Kathy got out a supermarket tabloid that she had saved, the one with pictures of the Bundy crime scene.

“That was my wake-up call,” says Michael. “I felt like I was in confession . . . mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”

Next morning, everyone but Kathy got up early. “Timmy,” said Michael, “we have a problem.”

They could sell the bat, or keep it, Michael said, but Timmy could not use it in games.

“We could wash the signature off,” Timmy said. “It’s better than wasting our money on another bat.”

The game was an hour away. Michael took the bat into the garage, removed the four coats of lacquer, repainted and relacquered the bat and delivered it to his son with 30 minutes to spare.

“He got it done in 20 minutes!” says Timmy. “There’s nothing my Dad can’t fix.”

Timmy got a base hit that day. The Pirates won.

And so, in a way, did Michael Hayn. No question in my mind who Timmy Hayn’s real hero is.

* Robin Abcarian’s column appears on Sundays and Wednesdays. Readers may write to her at the Los Angeles Times, Life & Style, Times Mirror Square, Los Angeles, CA 90053.