On the noisiest sports day of the year, Marshawn Lynch stole the national spotlight without saying a word. With just a photo of a hanging pair of cleats along with a peace sign emoji, he was gone. Retired from a game that thrust him into a spotlight he was never ready for, that demanded things he was never willing to give.

On the field, Lynch was as compelling a player as you’ll see. Violent, explosive, tenacious, dynamic, unyielding and utterly self-sacrificing. On the sidelines, Lynch was as captivating a sideshow as you’ll ever see. Tummy aches, halftime siestas, an insatiable sweet tooth, and an all-around weirdo.

And then there was off the field.

From the start, Lynch did it his way. In an era where few could escape the spotlight, and even fewer wanted to, Lynch did what no other sports star has managed to do in the last decade: remain a total mystery. No interviews, no desperate calls for attention, no subtweets. And we loved him for it. The more he shied away from the spotlight, the more mythical he became.

It would be one thing if Lynch was just a self-obsessed hermit, but he wasn’t. Part of his genius was how he steadfastly refused to be anything other than himself, and still parlayed his obstinate aloofness into cult hero status and all the attendant branding dollars. In an era where the “look at me! look at me! look at me!” tactics for brand-building are as tired as they are shameless, Lynch built an empire around his anti-hero antics (“I’m just here so I won’t get fined”) and his one-of-a-kind parlance (“I’m just ‘bout that action, boss”).

Whenever Lynch let us catch a glimpse of him, be it on the field or his glorious video game sessions with Conan O’Brien, it was appointment viewing.