Lifestyle
This daredevil has one of the most dangerous jobs. His priest is on standby
• Fifth-generation circus performer Daniel Eguino is guided by his focus and his faith as he performs inside the locked metal cage known as the Globe of Steel at Circus Vargas.
• A Sunday with the “most unique congregation on Earth”: from the jugglers to the flying trapeze artists to the daredevils — and Father Frank, their clown-turned-chaplain.
It’s almost 11 a.m. on a Sunday in early September, and it’s already 103 degrees here. Around 20 jugglers, trapeze artists and concession stand workers are filtering into the big top that the majestic Circus Vargas uses to perform across 25 California cities 11 months out of the year.
Seated in red chairs arranged in neat rows inside the ring, these members of the circus community have gathered to attend Mass, an optional circus tradition that happens at least once a year. In the space under the tent, you can see popcorn spilled from the previous day’s slate of three shows.
In the front row sits Daniel Eguino, 36, a daredevil who rides the Globe of Steel, or, as it’s also known in the circus world, the Globe of Death. For the act, Eguino and three other motorcyclists swoop about inside an 18-foot-high locked steel cage at speeds of up to 60 miles an hour, thrilling the watching crowds.
Father Frank Cancro leads Mass at Circus Vargas on Sept. 8 in Folsom, Calif., for a group of circus workers that includes jugglers, trapeze artists and concession stand workers.
On his lap is his wide-eyed 1-year-old daughter, Natasha, and next to him is his wife of eight years, Thatiana Fischer, 35. The two, who have been with Vargas for three years, met when they were with Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey. She’s a jazz dancer working as a “line manager” — someone who helps performers retain choreography — for Vargas, and appears in three acts, along with ushering.
Earlier that morning, Father Frank Cancro, 74, the National Circus Chaplain, laid out water, wine, communion wafers and a cross on a folding table adorned with a black tablecloth. Cancro is a former clown turned retired priest turned chaplain, appointed by the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops Circus and Traveling Shows Ministry, which dates back 100 years and serves more than 50 circuses around the world. For the past 15 years, he’s been going on the road with circuses to preside over Mass, perform sacraments and provide pastoral care. He doesn’t earn a salary and lives off his diocese retirement and special collections.
Serving what he calls the “most unique congregation on Earth,” he caters to the “spiritual and personal needs of all those who travel down the road without a ZIP Code.”
With his priest stole decorated with embroidered clowns, Cancro is part minister, part grandparent, part therapist and part human resources professional for a population that research shows can struggle with their mental health. (He sees two to three suicides per year in his work as circus chaplain, he says.)
Father Frank Cancro during Mass.
Eguino, Fischer and Cancro have been friends for years. In 2017, the priest assisted with the couple’s Holy Communion and confirmation; when he’s not traveling with them, he stays in touch via the Meta platform Messenger. For Eguino and Fischer, his presence brings comfort. “Sometimes it’s only 20 minutes, but the words he says during the Mass, sometimes it’s all we need to hear in that moment,” said Fischer.
Back under the tent, small fans around the ring blow cool air on the intimate group. Flying trapeze artist Mariella Arata-Quiroga, daughter of Nelson Quiroga and Katya Arata-Quiroga, Vargas owners and longtime friends of Cancro, turns to smile at her grandfather, Victor Arata, a retired high-wire performer. The Faltyny family from the Czech Republic, who perform as jugglers and unicyclists, look on contently.
Cancro preaches embracing wholeness — in other words, health, happiness and belonging — while on the road. He teaches from the book of Mark, telling the story of Jesus’ journey to Decapolis, where he restored a deaf man’s hearing and ability to speak, a physical healing signaling awe. When circus-goers witness acts like a triple somersault on the trapeze or spinning in a human hamster wheel without a harness, they see a fleeting moment that is said to have divine impact. “There’s an opportunity for people to see the reality of God’s presence and God’s face in you,” Cancro tells the group.
Eguino, who says he was “born in the circus,” with five generations of his family performing, has worked in the Globe for the last 21 years — first in the Argentine circuses where he grew up, then in America starting in 2007. The son of a contortionist mother and a Globe of Steel rider father, Eguino has a tattoo of the steel cage on his left forearm along with a $100 bill, representing the act as his livelihood.
The Globe of Steel is also informally considered one of the 10 most dangerous circus acts, along with fire breathing and sword swallowing. Eguino knows of riders from Brazil and Colombia who have died or faced near-death experiences. Globe accidents were reported in Russia and the U.S. in 2015 and in the U.K. in 2018.
“My act is very dangerous,” Eguino says. He doesn’t like to talk about the accidents for fear people will judge him for continuing in his line of work. Instead, he emphasizes safety, practice, equipment maintenance, trust between riders and focus. And he relies on his faith to ground him: “After the Mass, I feel like I am protected. I feel more comfortable to do everything.”
Nearly 10 years ago, Cancro performed the anointing of the sick — laying hands on a person who is ill, spreading oil on their forehead and praying — on Eguino. The sacrament is often associated with end-of-life care, but in the circus it can occur in the context of accidents. Eguino was in the hospital awaiting surgery after breaking his jaw during practice at the Bradenton, Fla., winter quarters of Feld Entertainment, the company that owns Ringling. As Eguino recovered, no other rider would enter the Globe for fear of getting hurt. Cancro blessed it, sprinkling holy water both inside and out.
Under the tent, Cancro asks the crowd, “Is there anything or anyone someone wants to pray for? Just shout it out.”
Father Frank Cancro speaks with Daniel Eguino, holding Natasha, and Thatiana Fischer.
At first, silence follows. In a middle row, Ringmaster Johnathan Lee Iverson, who has known Cancro for two decades, and his wife, Priscilla Iverson, a dancer turned show liaison, hold hands.
One by one, people stand to offer requests.
“I want to pray for Larry, a visitor to the circus every year in Escondido, who I would chat with often. He knew many performers’ names. He passed away in April, and I just found out,” says juggler and unicyclist Emil Faltyny.
“I pray for a member of the circus community who is in the hospital,” Fischer says.
Following the 40-minute service, a sense of jubilation fills the tent.
“Today I feel very happy,” Eguino says. “It was the first Mass with my child.” During the service, Natasha had been seated on her father’s lap without a peep until the very end, when she spotted Arata’s dog and had to say hello. Afterward, she waddles through the ringside seating in her white and pink sparkly sneakers.
By the time the doors open at 2 p.m. for the show, Fischer is in her polyester usher uniform, helping audience members to their seats.
Attendees buy refreshments before entering the Circus Vargas tent.
By 2:15 p.m., she is dressed in a green gown with a fruit headdress on her head, representing her home country of Brazil, for the opening act: a roll call in which costumed performers greet the audience with song and dance introducing the 13 countries — from Italy to Bulgaria — they collectively represent.
By 3:30 p.m., the Globe riders are warming up, stretching and playing a quick game of pingpong at a table behind the tent.
At 3:40 p.m., the four motorcyclists head to their truck to claim their bikes and don chest protectors, heavy-duty knee-high boots, knee pads and bedazzled helmets. In selecting their matching white-and-gold outfits, Eguino, who is in charge of costumes, was inspired by Tommy from the Power Rangers franchise.
Backstage, Eguino leans his body against his motorcycle and closes his eyes for a quick prayer. Growing up in Argentina, faith was always a part of his life, he says, but it’s deepened as he’s grown closer to Cancro.
Fischer whispers “good luck” in her husband’s ear, and they kiss.
Daniel Eguino kisses his wife, Thatiana Fischer, before the Globe of Steel act.
“Are you ready?” the ringmaster roars from inside the tent.
On his bike backstage, Eguino steps on the gas twice.
Techno music plays as the riders enter the stage. Sweat is visible on their faces. Some 900 attendees stare, rapt, as the daredevils loop and arc on their bikes, the wheels illuminated. The tent is immersed in a deafening motorcycle hum. A mere arm’s length from one another, the riders stay steady, thanks to centripetal force and prayers.
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1. Circus performer Steve Caveagna entertains the crowd. 2. Daniel Eguino circles the ring holding Argentina’s flag. 3. Patrick and Josue Marinelli brave the spinning Wheel of Destiny. 4. A vendor sells cotton candy before the performances begin.
After five minutes, the riders come to a halt. A crew member opens the Globe’s gate, and Fischer enters the ring, handing a flag to each rider — Bulgaria for Lyubo Karamitrev, leader of the act; Colombia for Neker Mesa; Mexico for Tony Vetty; and Argentina for her husband. The riders circle the ring on their bikes, waving their flags and beaming with pride as the audience roars.
As the stage crew rolls the Globe out of the tent, the riders exit the ring, lingering by the large fan set up backstage. They’ll appear in the last act, when the whole cast sings “We Are One.” Then there’s a short break before the next show starts at 5:30 p.m.
Around intermission of the second show of the day, about a half-hour until the Globe of Death act, the sun sets over the lot in Folsom. Dressed in sweat-shorts and a T-shirt, with a calmness incongruous with his upcoming performance, Eguino sits on his patio. The air has cooled to below 100 degrees for the first time all week.
Fischer steps out of the trailer in a sundress, holding a baby monitor showing a sleeping Natasha. Cancro joins her and Eguino in their outdoor living room, where they talk about the next sacrament the family wants to tackle. Fellow Globe rider Mesa has a 5-month-old baby, and the families are considering a joint baptism. In 2019, Circus Vargas hosted six baptisms and six confirmations in one ceremony. Cancro tells the couple he’ll come back anytime to do it.
Eguino and Fischer express contentment with life, although they have had some struggles with finances. Working as independent contractors who aren’t reimbursed for travel expenses, making enough for groceries, clothing, the dogs (the couple have a Yorkie, a Maltese and a husky), the truck and the costs involved with having a baby can be a challenge. Fuel for the trailer, which they live in throughout the year — sometimes taking it on the road during their month off in December — can be particularly burdensome. They’re also navigating the constant transformation that comes with a new baby.
Father Frank Cancro exits the tent after leading Mass at Circus Vargas.
All three of them stare into the baby monitor as Natasha stirs but doesn’t wake.
“Father, can you give us a prayer before I go?” Eguino asks.
The three hold hands as Cancro prays for protection for the family. Fischer tears up at the mention of her daughter’s name, explaining she’s often emotional, whether it’s a sad movie or a visit with the circus priest. Eguino smiles and stands to go suit up for his last ride of the day.
Without really knowing it, every circus attendee shows up to see if the juggler will keep the balls in the air, if the flying trapeze artist will catch their partner, if the rider will survive the Globe. Today, with a little faith, Eguino emerges unscathed and ready for his next high-stakes ride.
Catch Circus Vargas in SoCal
Santa Clarita: Valencia Town Center, 24201 Valencia Blvd., Santa Clarita, through Sept. 23
Woodland Hills: The Promenade mall, CA-27 and Erwin Street, Los Angeles, Sept. 27-Oct. 14
Torrance: Del Amo Fashion Center, 3525 W. Carson St., Torrance, Oct. 18-Nov. 4
Get tickets and more information here.
This story was supported by a grant from the Chaplaincy Innovation Lab at Brandeis University in partnership with Templeton Religion Trust.
It’s 5:30 a.m. Allison Sheehan switches on the light in the bathroom of her New York City apartment and stretches in front of the mirror. “Welcome back to another morning in the life of an ‘investment baker,’ which means someone who works at an investment bank but also makes cakes,” she says at the beginning of the video, which she uploaded to TikTok in early 2025.
Tying an apron over her pajamas, Ms. Sheehan, now 26, proceeds to pipe lilac buttercream ruffles on a heart-shaped funfetti cake she had baked the night before.
At 6:50, she heads to the gym, filming herself doing crunches before heading home to shower, put on makeup and pick out an outfit. By 8:20, Ms. Sheehan heads to her wealth management job, at Goldman Sachs (she didn’t reveal the name of the bank in her videos while employed there).
In 2023, Ms. Sheehan, who has since made cakes for brands including Goop and LoveShackFancy as well as the model Gigi Hadid, was posting on social media as “The Investment Baker,” a persona she created for her custom-cake business, Alleycat.
On her Investment Baker Instagram and TikTok pages, Ms. Sheehan posted familiar influencer content like “What I eat in a week” and day-in-the-life videos, along with breakdowns of her corporate wardrobe. At the time, her DMs were inundated both with cake orders and with young women seeking advice on how to break into finance.
The finance industry remains one of the most sought-after sectors for college graduates. In 2025, Goldman Sachs saw 360,000 students competing for just 2,600 internships — up 15 percent from the previous year. It has also historically insisted that employees maintain a low profile on the internet. Ms. Sheehan was careful never to disclose the bank at which she worked in her videos, and she never filmed herself in the office, per her employer’s rules. In fact, she never discussed finance much at all. Still, the tension between the “two worlds of baking and being a financier was the whole allure,” Ms. Sheehan said.
Yet Ms. Sheehan was informed that her baking content was seen as a “reputational risk” for the firm. She was instructed to delete every post on her TikTok and Instagram and to change her handle so that it made no reference to the word “investment.” When Ms. Sheehan drew comparisons to the firm’s chief executive, David Solomon, who moonlights as a D.J., she was told she could not compare herself to him. She pushed back, saying that the firm’s policy should apply to everyone. “It doesn’t work like that,” she said she was told.
Like Ms. Sheehan, Sahilee Waitman, 28, used the fact of her employment at an investment bank as a hook for her TikTok videos. Ms. Waitman moved to New York City from Amsterdam to work in compliance at an investment bank in 2023. She soon started posting day-in-the-life content, detailing everything from her workouts to what she ate for lunch, with the goal of building financial autonomy outside her corporate role. Both women were clear that while they worked at investment banks, they were not investment bankers, often a point of contention or confusion in the comments section.
The New York Times reached out to many of the investment bank employees on TikTok, but they declined to comment for this article, fearing the risk to their reputation. The New York Times also reached out to 14 different banks, among them Goldman Sachs, but none responded to requests for comment regarding the matter of social media use among employees.
Despite these fears, investment banking content is going viral across social media. Nearly 60,400 videos tagged #investmentbanking have appeared on TikTok in recent years. Time-stamped 100-hour work weeks and late-night keyboard A.S.M.R. regularly draw hundreds of thousands of views on TikTok. Part of the appeal is that influencers offer a more realistic depiction of the world of work than can be gleaned from shows like “Industry” on HBO or from actual recruitment events.
Ms. Sheehan was determined to show that even bankers could have a life outside work. In October 2024, a year after posting her first video, a meeting with her manager appeared unexpectedly on Ms. Sheehan’s calendar. At first, she thought it might be good news. But the excitement was short-lived when she was greeted by three compliance officers. “We see you have an online persona called ‘The Investment Baker,’” she recalled them saying.
At present, there is no widely agreed-upon policy regarding employees’ personal social media use. The Financial Industry Regulatory Authority, the largest independent regulator for brokerage firms in the United States, and the Securities and Exchange Commission, a government agency that regulates the entire U.S. securities industry, have rules and guidance dictating that employees cannot share any information that is deemed confidential or in any way sensitive. But how firms apply their own internal policy is at their discretion.
Hannah Awonuga, the former head of colleague engagement at Barclays U.K. and a cultural transformation and inclusion consultant, sees both parties as at risk. Employees might find themselves on the wrong side of human resources. For employers, “once you allow staff to post freely,” she said, “you run the risk that they might express an opinion on a Saturday that goes against your values.”
For decades, “workism” — the belief that work is central to one’s identity — has infiltrated the American ethos, particularly for many city dwellers, whose hobbies and leisure activities can fall by the wayside. Increasingly, younger workers are pushing back, demanding a healthier work-life balance and actively working to decouple their identity from their careers.
The world of high finance is one of the last sectors to catch up. “Once you work in these industries,” Ms. Waitman said, “you’re essentially taught to choose one lane.” You are either a “serious professional,” she said, or a “creative.” “I just don’t believe those things are mutually exclusive,” she added.
Ms. Waitman, who is Black, hoped that by posting on TikTok, she would be promoting diversity in the industry. She received the occasional negative comment, insisting she must be a “secretary,” but a majority of her messages were positive, she said, and came from other women seeking her advice about pursuing careers in finance.
At the time, Ms. Waitman did not receive pushback from her employer on her videos, though she made sure to declare any outside business activity to compliance and her director. “I think firms are just now catching on to this,” Ms. Waitman said. “Once they find out, you have compliance on your neck.”
A recent glossy fashion spread in Interview Magazine entitled “Meet the Finest Boys in Finance” highlighted what can happen when young finance professionals attract the wrong kind of publicity. The designer-heavy photo shoot was mocked and meme-ified online for violating Wall Street’s sacrosanct rule against flashiness.
Across social media, some women were quick to point out the double standard at play. “But women get fired from Goldman for being influencers …” read one comment left on a TikTok video about the spread.
In fact, many of the people posting influencer-like content are young women, which is at odds with the traditionally male-dominated world of high finance.
A spokesperson for Goldman Sachs told Bloomberg that the interviews in Interview Magazine were not approved by the firm.
After the compliance meeting, Ms. Sheehan did as she was instructed and archived all her social media posts. Three months later, though, she put them back up. “I didn’t see my posts as a violation of the bylaws,” she said. Immediately, another meeting with compliance landed on her calendar. This time, her cake business was taking off, and Ms. Sheehan decided to hand in her resignation. (Goldman Sachs did not respond to requests for comment.)
As banks are forced to iron out their policies in an ever more online world, workers sharing the minutiae of their days is likely to become an increasing headache for compliance. “If you have five followers, there’s no need to make anyone aware,” Ms. Awonuga said. But, she added, “as more Gen Z’s come into the workplace and grow in their roles, I just don’t know how feasible it becomes to say you’re not allowed a social media presence.”
Ms. Sheehan, meanwhile, has no regrets. “I cannot believe,” she said, “that they were concerned about me making pink cakes when people are insider trading.”
Leigh McDaniel always knew she was destined to become a witch. Growing up in Hawaii, she came from a long line of “kitchen witches,” she explains — women who intuited measurements, spices and when a cake was done from the next room. “There was always a part of me that was like: Yeah, I’m a witch,” says McDaniel from her California sun-soaked studio.
Today, McDaniel — who calls herself a “womb witch”— practices a different kind of magic: pelvic care bodywork. Based in a bright studio in Glendale, McDaniel serves clients of all genders. Before each session, McDaniel invites clients to share their personal histories, and then McDaniel performs bodywork through touch as sage smoke curls in the air.
“A person who left today had their first session and was like, ‘I’m so much lighter in my body,’” McDaniel says.
McDaniel’s work is rooted in holistic pelvic health and touch therapy, which she discovered after giving birth to her second child at age 46. Before her daughter was born, McDaniel says she met her in a dream. The child introduced herself as “Luna.” The name stuck. After her birth, McDaniel theorized that her daughter had “reorganized her pelvic bowl.” When she sought out answers from her midwife and OB-GYN, they were dismissive; the experience prompted her to explore alternative care.
“It sent me down a few rabbit holes,” McDaniel says. “Previously, I had studied naturopathy with the intention of going to a naturopathic school — herbalism, Reiki and light touch therapy.”
Leigh McDaniel says that after one session her clients often feel an immediate shift in their bodies.
(Dania Maxwell / For The Times)
While body wisdom and alternative healing are framed as part of the Goop-conscious modern wellness movement, McDaniel explains that these practices are not new. She cites Ubuntu, a South African philosophy that informs her healing approach. “Indigenous practices knew how to hold people in trauma,” she says. “We’re only just beginning to figure it out.”
After an explanation of the nervous system, consent and the pelvic floor, her sessions begin with McDaniel burning sage or mugwort while the client is on the table. She asks for consent before touching the client and offers a prayer or blessing. McDaniel explains she’s feeling for energy before moving on to the abdomen, where she applies various levels of pressure. She compares it to a guided meditation as she incorporates breathwork while asking clients to breathe into her fingers. She emphasizes that the client controls the pace and asks for consent at each step.
“I think consent and boundaries are so critical to taking care of your body,” she says.
The intimate nature of McDaniel’s practice has garnered attention — and occasional skepticism. Comedian Ali Macofsky, for example, says with a smile, “I go in person to this womb witch,” on “The Endless Honeymoon” podcast. The hosts are baffled and intrigued. Macofsky adds, “It feels very old school the way women have to go through things.”
Macofsky discovered Leigh through actor and comedian Syd Steinberg who highly recommended her work. “I went to help with some CPTSD [complex post-traumatic stress disorder] and TMJ [temporomandibular joint] pain and she helped,” says Steinberg. “She really is a miracle worker.”
Macofsky was intrigued by the whimsical title of “Womb Witch.” “I was like, I’ll make an appointment and see what happens.” After a phone call, McDaniel explained that she helped clients with physical intimacy and sexual trauma through bodywork. The comedian was hooked.
Macofsky notes that in a culture where female pleasure is not prioritized, it’s hard to know where to seek advice. After a session with Leigh where she discussed advocating for oneself sexually, Macofsky began to see the results take hold in surprising ways. “It’s helping me in other areas where normally I’d be uncomfortable to advocate for myself or speak up about what I want.”
Clients seek out the womb witch for a variety of reasons. Some report physical discomfort during sexual encounters, while others come after experiencing sexual assault, abuse or consent violation. At other times, clients may experience stiffness or pain that McDaniel believes may be a reaction to trauma.
Her session also focuses on sexual health. McDaniel gives her clients a tutorial on pleasure anatomy and consent, most recently teaching sexual health lessons to a gathering in Silver Lake. “I like to show a lot about the pleasure anatomy, the mobility of the uterus, and where the cervix is at different times of the month,” she explains.
McDaniel argues that pleasure is an important part of daily life. “Female pleasure is finally being noticed,” she says. “Pleasure is a birthright. There’s pleasure and there’s grief. To be full-spectrum humans, we need to be feeling pleasure.” McDaniel cites that recent studies claim the clitoris has 10,000 nerve endings.
Leigh McDaniel holds a bowl of coconut and castor oil that she often uses with clients.
(Dania Maxwell / For The Times)
McDaniel says that everyday stress — including sexual harassment and misogyny — manifests in the body, often leading to chronic pain. “In patriarchy, the comments land in your body, and you find yourself bracing every time you pass them,” she says. “They can seem so small and harmless, but even those little things add up. They’re felt. It’s part of feeling unsafe in the world.”
Though many people struggle to navigate the American healthcare system, more Americans are turning to a spiritual wellness approach. The National Institutes of Health reports that holistic care methods such as meditation, acupuncture and yoga have grown significantly in recent years. Ancient Chinese medicine techniques have gone viral on TikTok, capturing the attention of Gen Z. “People are more willing to look outside the Western medicine model,” McDaniel explains. “I have people that come here to see me because of medical trauma too.”
Dr. Tanaz R. Ferzandi, director of urogynecology and reconstructive pelvic surgery at Keck Medicine of USC, believes that holistic medicine can be a potent adjunct to more traditional remedies. She has recommended acupuncture to her patients who have experienced sexual trauma. “The whole idea of acupuncture is you’re lying there, and coming to peace with yourself and your body,” she explains. “It’s a forced therapy where you can be alone with yourself and shut out the rest of the world.”
Simultaneously, Ferzandi believes a healthy amount of skepticism is good. “We have to stay scientific — what’s the evidence behind it? As long as women understand that we don’t know if there’s data to support some of the things they’re doing,” she says. “I’m very cautious about touting certain things that are somehow going to be a panacea.”
McDaniel’s explains its rare she encounters skeptics at her practice. “I never try to convince anyone to come in for a session,” she says. “There are scientific studies on the efficacy of different types of work that are adjacent to, or similar to what I do, but nothing exact.”
She acknowledges elements of her work are difficult to quantify. “There is also a mysterious space between bodies, the client and myself, where something happens that I cannot really explain, but it feels magical,” she says. “I don’t think any of this would convince anyone who is inherently skeptical though.”
McDaniel views her daughter Luna’s birth as the inciting incident into her true calling — becoming the “Womb Witch.” “Everything that happened to my own body after her birth, it was a calling to do this,” she says. “I’ve done so many things, and this is the first time I really feel settled in what I do.”
You want to see some real fashion ingenuity? Watch the N.F.L. draft.
I’m not saying it’s all good, but where else are you going to see someone in a double-breasted suit made by a company better known for making yoga pants? Or an Abercrombie & Fitch suit jacket so short that it exposes the belt loops on the pants beneath?
On the whole, the style on display at the N.F.L. draft last night was very overeager senior formal: a lot of suits in colors beyond basic blue. The quarterback Ty Simpson wore a custom suit by the athleisure label Alo, which, I have to say, looked better than I would have envisioned had you said the words “Alo Yoga suit” to me.
I thought it might have been from Suitsupply, but the conspicuous “Alo” pin on his right lapel put that idea to rest. Simpson, smartly, unfastened that beacon before appearing onstage as the 13th pick to the Los Angeles Rams. He had, perhaps, satisfied his contractual obligations by that point.
Earlier in the evening, as the wide receiver Carnell Tate threw up his arms in exaltation after being picked fourth by the Tennessee Titans, his cropped Abercrombie & Fitch jacket revealed a swatch of rib cage. He looked like a mâitre d’ who had just hit the Mega Millions.
During the N.B.A.’s extended fashion awakening, its draft has become a sandbox for luxury brands to cozy up to would-be endorsers. The Frenchman Victor Wembanyama broke a kind of cashmere ceiling when he wore Louis Vuitton to go first overall in the 2023 N.B.A. draft.
The N.F.L. draft has none of that. The brands you see are often not brands at all, but custom tailors that reach the league’s neophytes through a whisper network among players. The draft is also a platform to raise the curtain on longer-term brand deals that better suit these rookies. We may, for instance, never see Simpson in a suit again. Nearly every photo from his time at Alabama shows him in a T-shirt or hoodie. It makes sense for him to sign with Alo.
Football is the most mainstream of American cultural entities. And it’s one that still hasn’t, in spite of the league’s best efforts, taken off overseas. Few players, save some quarterbacks and a tight end who happens to be engaged to a pop star, feel bigger than the game itself. If you’re a new-to-the-league linebacker, you’ll most likely never harness the star power to grab the attention of Armani, but you might have just the right pull for Abercrombie.
The N.F.L. draft is therefore one of the few red carpets where the brands worn by the athletes may also be worn by those watching at home. How many people watching the Oscars will ever own clothes from Louis Vuitton or Chanel? People may comment online about Lady Gaga wearing Matières Fécales to the Grammys, but how many of those fans and viewers could afford to buy clothes from it?
The Japanese designers changing fashion
Yesterday, I published a deep dive into how a newish crop of Japanese designers are soaking up all the attention in men’s fashion right now. This was a piece I was writing in my head long before I sat down and finally started typing. I remember sitting at a fashion show in Paris over a year ago — I believe it was Dior — and being asked by my seatmate if I’d made it over to a showroom in the Marais to check out A.Presse. That Tokyo-based brand is now part of a vanguard of Japanese labels that, on many days, seems to be all anyone in fashion wants to talk about. I spent months talking with designers, store owners and big-time shoppers to make sense of why these brands have kicked up so much buzz and, more than that, what makes their clothes so great. You can read the story here.
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