Quite simply, he did everything. Scored goals. Collected glitzy individual hardware (two Rocket Richard trophies, the only Art Ross Trophy in Flames' history). Wore the C, with distinction. Answered the tough questions. And sometimes fought the tough guys.
In the doing, and in the way he conducted himself - with humility, magnanimity - he became as much a symbol of the organization as that Flaming C logo, as much of a symbol of this town as the Tower.
Our best selves, for the entire hockey world to admire.
When after years upon years of struggle, he found the improbable 2004 dream punctured at the final hurdle, Game 7, in Tampa, his hurt was our hurt.
"This is the worst feeling you can have, the worst I've ever felt, anything I've been a part of," Iginla said in the wake of the 2-1 loss, voice barely audible in a dead-silent room,
"The toughest loss by a thousand times.
"We fought … so hard.
"We came … so close."
That night, a city denied a second taste of refracted glory felt every bid as bad for him as it did for itself.
He'd return in other guises after his 2012 exit, of course. As a Bruin. An Avalanche. A King. But those nights always seemed to be little more than costume-party one-offs.
Nothing could ever fit him the way the original duds had.
And now, 22 years after arriving on our doorstep, Iginla returns to put the close on a singular career.
To share that with this city, too, the way he has so many touchstone moments.
So take a bow.
A long, deep, richly-deserved bow.
But please try to stay patient. The applause may take a while to die down.