Next week, Fernando Mendoza’s life will change dramatically. The Heisman Trophy-winning quarterback—who led Indiana University to its first-ever National Championship in January—will almost certainly be the No. 1 pick in the NFL draft. The scrutiny and pressure will be beyond intense. How does a guy barely old enough to legally drink deal with all of it? Last month, Esquire’s Ryan D’Agostino spent a day with Mendoza in Southern California. Turns out, this hot-shot QB is unlike any other—and he’s got lots to say about it. The profile, which you can read below, is the first in our annual Mavericks of Sports franchise. More to come tomorrow.
—Michael Sebastian, editor-in-chief
|
|
|
Yeah, he won the Heisman Trophy, and a college national championship, and earned his spot as the consensus No. 1 pick in the NFL draft. His life is going to get a lot harder when he lands in the league. Good thing he’s got a plan.
|
The room is too small for him. Even when he’s sitting, his presence overwhelms the space almost comically. Fernando Mendoza, the improbable national champion, unquestioned Heisman Trophy winner, and soon-to-be number-one NFL draft pick, is immured in a conference room in an office park in Irvine, California, at Excel Sports Management, the agency to which he has entrusted his future, talking about the daily drills and exercises he’s doing to make himself a better quarterback. There’s an idle flat-screen hanging on one wall, a whiteboard and some dry-erase markers, errant water bottles, and an Office Depot table with swivel chairs, one of which he is swiveling in.
Mendoza is explaining how he’s handling what they call the fishbowl, through which masses of people are watching him, analyzing him, prognosticating about him, doubting him, praising him, and expecting unreasonably high achievements from him at an age when he still gets carded. These masses include football fans broadly, of course. In his case, more specifically, they include fans at Cal, who wish he’d played all four years there instead of just two; fans at Indiana University, where he transferred for the 2025 season, his final year of eligibility, the year that made him; the front office of the Las Vegas Raiders (including part owner Tom Brady), the team that appears certain to draft Mendoza with its number-one pick; Catholic and Cuban American communities back in Miami, where he grew up; TV analysts and online columnists; and stud high school quarterbacks in every corner of America who believe they too might rise up to become a star through hard work and prayer.
It’s a lot. In delineating his coping strategy, Mendoza speaks with urgency and speed, like a kid who just got home from school and wants to tell you what happened on the bus.
|
|
|
J Divan Vance, the man who put the pest in Budapest, brought his noncharisma to bear on behalf of a Hungarian strongman only to have the voters commit themselves to a serious program of Orbán Renewal. By the time the votes were counted, Vance was off to screw up the Iran peace talks. And as several people have pointed out, Vance is clearly playing both sides against the middle on this issue so as to maintain his alleged viability in 2028. It appears that the elite political media is gearing up to help him become the next tinhorn Reasonable Republican, an exotic fauna that, like the cicadas, only emerges every four years to drown out the fact that the entire Republican party is 80 bulbs short of a chandelier. Unless that turns out to be Marco Rubio, the Incredible Shrinking Diplomat.
|
|
|
There’s never been a better time to be a pants-wearing human being. From a sheer selection standpoint, the current era is without rival. Whatever you’re pulling on, a cornucopia of fits and finishes awaits you. Options truly abound.
But abundance is a double-edged sword. The other day, I was talking to the head of men’s fashion at a major American department store, and he let me in on a secret: Men aren’t buying pants. They buy knits and jackets and sneakers—but nothing for their legs. The reason, I suppose, is that the volume of choices can leave some folks feeling confused. Paralyzed, even. Call it the tyranny of choice. You’d have to be some kind of borderline-obsessive pants enthusiast to come close to exploring all the stuff on the market.
Luckily for you, the Esquire office is full of borderline-obsessive pants enthusiasts. We’ve tried the skinny, the slim, the slim-straight, the straight, the baggy, and the ultra-baggy versions. We’ve played around with preferred rises. We’ve worn pleats—hell yeah, we have!—and flat fronts. Cropped cuts and ones that pool just so at the ankle. Wide legs and boot cuts. We’ve fixated, futzed, and failed to hit the mark a few times along the way. And we’ve done all that so you don’t have to.
|
|
|
|
No comments:
Post a Comment