A truly transcendent arena tunnel outfit starts as a dream. One that, as dreams so often do, leads to Paris. Last summer DeAndre Hopkins, the Houston Texans wide receiver with the gravitational field of an exploding star, who sucks every catchable ball into his orbit, went to the Maison Margiela Paris boutique in the hope of finding something special with only a fuzzy idea of what that might actually look like. Hopkins was waiting patiently as the sales clerk rooted around the back room, looking for one very specific item. He passed the time by chatting with Fear of God designer Jerry Lorenzo, who was there by chance. Then the clerk brought out a $6,000 vest constructed entirely out of belts, one of only three in the world. Hopkins remembers the feeling: “I got to have it.” Four months later, a photographer waiting in the tunnel in Houston before a Cowboys-Texans game snaps a picture of him wearing the vest. The dream becomes a fit.

These 8 Suits Will Keep You Winning in the Wild Style Era Charlie Plummer and DeAndre Hopkins show you how it's done.

Hopkins knows better than anyone the necessity of taking advantage of every opportunity, because no one has had to do more with less than he has. During his first four years in the league, Hopkins plowed through franchise receiving records while playing with an assembly line of mediocre quarterbacks who came and went faster than Trump cabinet members. NFL wide receivers often get credit for the numbers they pile up: receiving yards, touchdowns, catches. But Hopkins’s most impressive achievements are the goose eggs on his résumé. Like last season, when he tied a team record for catches but only by dropping exactly zero of passes.

Growing up in South Carolina, Hopkins had to learn how to capitalize on whatever was thrown his way. Money was tight, and his mom gave him a fixed amount to spend on birthdays and Christmas presents. While his siblings stacked up toys, Hopkins would go to Macy’s and inspect fabrics for durability. Then, armed with some new pants, a Calvin Klein button-up, or a rainbow Ralph Lauren scarf, he’d strut through his neighborhood. “I didn't want to come in the house,” he says. “I wanted to be seen.” He earned the nickname Ralph because he wore so much Polo.

These days Hopkins has the opportunity to broadcast his new clothes to a much wider audience, thanks to cameramen who stake out arena tunnels pregame. And, as on the field, he knows he can’t afford a drop. “[NFL players] don't get a lot of face time, so we've got to create those little moments for ourselves and make them last,” he explains. That’s where the $6,000 vest comes in.

But face time and branding opportunities are often a lower order of concern when playing in the NFL. In the last half-decade, football spectatorship has entered morally ambiguous territory. But playing in the NFL? “Hell yeah, it's weird,” he says.