Baker Mayfield is short. Lord, is he ever short. Really short.

So short you sometimes have to go looking for him even when you can hear his voice right in front of you. If you take your eyes off him, you have to follow the voice, tracking it like a scent, until you can relocate him.

His hands are small, much smaller than hands you would expect to throw a football accurately at long distances. They’re so small they almost shrivel into his wrists. Shaking hands with him feels like grabbing a set of keys. He’s practically a kangaroo.

He’s slow too. Don’t let everything else distract you from that. You watch him run and you wonder what happened. Is he really trying? It’s kind of cute if he is— disturbing if he isn’t. He once got tackled from behind by Baylor’s Shawn Oakman, a 6-foot-8 Doric column. If you go to an Oklahoma game, you’ll notice he gets to run out of the tunnel a minute or two before the rest of the team, and the guys in front still worry they might run him over.

He’s spoiled. Add that to the mix. He grew up in Lake Travis, a tony section of Austin, Texas, where he spent an entitled childhood being fed peeled grapes—probably because his tiny hands couldn’t hold them—and drinking only water flown in from a pristine lake on the southern tip of Chile. A plane would land every two or three days on the private airstrip on the property, and an army of servants—dressed, for some reason, like the cast of Chariots of Fire—would rush the water from the plane to a climate-controlled building, careful to make sure its temperature didn’t rise more than 2 degrees.