O.J. Simpson is impossible to mourn without reservation. Without anger. Without a sense of dismay that society once celebrated this broken and destructive man as “great.” Do we even know what that is?

Simpson, 76, died of cancer Wednesday, according to a social media post from his family. In the years after a mostly Black jury found Simpson not guilty in the murders of his ex-wife Nicole Brown Simpson and her acquaintance Ron Goldman, the former football player moved through the remainder of his life under the mistaken impression that his fellow citizens had declared him innocent. They had not.

In the televised trial that mesmerized a nation in 1995, the jury merely acknowledged that the prosecution failed to meet its burden of proof. Theirs was a case tainted by a cop known to have spewed racist vitriol and a pair of bloody gloves that famously did not fit Simpson’s hands. In its verdict, the jury recognized the weaknesses in the prosecution and the sharp defense put on by an astute Johnnie Cochran. Simpson’s victory in this country’s two-tiered justice system, one that leaves people of color and those without financial means at a disadvantage, was not that he’d demonstrated his innocence, rather he’d shown his ability to hire a team of skilled attorneys who put on a vigorous defense to win his acquittal.

Simpson had risen above his lot. For some Black men and women, that was something to behold because it was so rare. For many White Americans, the acquittal was a disgrace.

In the middle of this divide, there was at least one truth: The trial revealed Simpson to be a vicious man whose record of domestic abuse was documented in 911 calls made by his ex-wife. When Simpson walked free, he exhibited little grace. Instead, Simpson made noises about finding the real murderer. He participated in a mocking book, “If I Did It: Confessions of the Killer,” that rehashed the tragedy. In a civil trial, a mostly white jury found Simpson responsible for the deaths and ordered him to pay the Goldman and Brown families $33.5 million. Years later he charged into a Las Vegas hotel room and armed with a gun, tried to steal his own personal items from memorabilia dealers. He claimed the belongings were stolen. This was the case that finally landed him in prison.

Simpson made inroads in Hollywood and became a pitchman for corporations because he was a football star. He was a running back who’d set records on the gridiron and when he was on trial for murder, he had the kind of fame that resounded as loudly as any of the arguments made by his defense. His celebrated career drowned out the cries of help from his ex-wife. It gave him a degree of privilege that was insulating.

Simpson’s fame was different from that of a dashing actor, a musical heartthrob or a captain of 21st-century technology. Simpson was an all-American and was emblematic of the ways in which football wraps itself in patriotism and the American flag. Simpson was someone around whom men and women, Black and white, rallied. The fame elevated and protected Simpson. But it was not armor.

The paintings of a misogynistic artist can still hang in museums and galleries and move viewers to think more deeply about the human condition. A song can evoke rich personal memories even if the musician was revealed to be despicable. But can a running back’s derring-do, no matter how record setting, continue to inspire long after the game is over, the athlete has retired, and he’s shown to be a violent brute and not much more? His exploits were mere statistics waiting to be surpassed. Simpson excelled at his sport and because his sport was football and not volleyball or rowing, he was lionized and his fame was everything. Until it wasn’t. It’s impossible to hold two versions of Simpson in your mind simultaneously. The latter pummeled the former into nothing.

So one leaves it to his family to grieve. To his friends to reminisce. The public can only ask: What did we see in Simpson? The only way to mourn him is with regret.