"When people see me play, they see the antics of, like, a heroism, you know. Superman—”

Here he does the gesture, his two giant hands parting an imaginary business suit to reveal the logo underneath. “A taunt. Or whatever you may call it. And I’ve always been called Superman. Or Super Cam.”

Super Cam! Let’s just linger here for one more second. Because it’s true, he looks fucking invincible out there. Bigger, stronger, faster. A less-than-once-in-a-generation athlete. It’s just him; there’s never really been anyone like him. Everything else is noise, in a way. He’s been marked for this since he was very young. Always the biggest in his grade. “Every team that I’ve ever been on past high school, they won a national championship.” Heisman Trophy winner. Rookie of the Year. And still nothing gets at the pure narcotic sports rush that happens when Cam Newton takes the field. Like a video game. The player his fellow players admire most. A homicidal competitor, like his idol and North Carolina neighbor Michael Jordan. Seventeen wins in 19 games last season and he could care less. Still burning up about having lost twice.

“People expect certain things from you. Undue things, and easy things. And that’s cool, you know.”

He orders a green tea and a Shirley Temple, extra syrup. He orders the deviled eggs. He orders the mussels. He orders shrimp and grits, and also trout. He’s a pescatarian out of pure self-discipline. No other reason—just to prove to himself that he can. “I feel if I can control myself not to eat meat, I can control myself not to litter. If you can control yourself not to litter, then you can control your choice of words. If you control your choice of words, you can, you know, kind of go down from there.” He’s obsessed with testing himself. Obsessed with a certain level of control.

When the food comes he bows his head and prays:

Dear my Father Lord, I thank you for waking us up this morning, starting us on our way, putting food on our table, clothes on our body, shoes on our feet. Lord, bless this food that we’re about to receive. Let it be the nourishment of our body in Christ’s name. Amen.

The waiters can’t get enough of him; they explain the menu so many times I think I might dream about it. He is matter-of-fact about being this kind of public figure. “My thing is: There’s no off switch. I can’t just sit up here and say, ‘Okay, tshewww, I’m John Doe and I can eat dinner with my son or my family and people won’t know who I am.’ Because that’s not true.” He is Cam Newton, everywhere he goes.

Later, we walk into a cigar store around the corner from the restaurant. He started smoking cigars two years ago, he says; after the Super Bowl loss he started drinking white wine, too, mostly Chardonnays. Part of discipline is knowing when to change things up. The salesman at the cigar store, Ben, a friendly guy with a bushy beard and a green tie, just lights up like someone shot off a bottle rocket in front of him.

“Man,” Ben says, dazed, half to himself. “You’re bigger in person.”

“That’s what she said,” Cam says, his timing immaculate.

When he and his girlfriend, Kia Proctor, had Chosen, they decided not to tell anyone at first. A few days after his son was born, but before anyone knew, Cam celebrated a touchdown against Atlanta by gently rocking an imaginary baby on the field. Then, a few days later, after the Panthers had lost the Atlanta game, their first and only loss of the regular season, he posted a statement announcing the birth and asking for privacy in this joyous time. A woman by the name of Patricia Broderick, writing to The Charlotte Observer, responded with a statement of her own: “Congratulations would be in order if he had been man enough to marry the mother of his child and make a home.” Patricia was just “very sorry.” She was “very disappointed.”

Waiters banging plates down all around us. Cam nodding grimly as I read Patricia’s letter to him. It’s not the first letter that’s been written to The Charlotte Observer about what Cam Newton should and shouldn’t do. They were getting bags full of them the whole damn season. Then reporters like the one sitting in front of him right now would ask Cam about them. If you can control yourself not to litter, then you can control your choice of words. Exhibit A, right here: All season long, people writing in to criticize or berate Cam, and Cam instead finding the truth in the letter, acknowledging the sentiment, controlling the exchange. Using it to grow, even.

“What do you want me to do, write another letter back to her? No. And she’s preaching to the choir. When she mentions those things, those are all things that I’ve thought about. With my father being a preacher, you don’t think I’ve had this discussion before?”

Now he’s laughing. Patricia’s got a point! For somebody who is supposed to be me-first, Cam is very good at imagining and understanding what is in other people’s heads. He just doesn’t always happen to agree. “What, are you gonna hate me for it? I’m not perfect. I’m not presuming to be. Nor am I expecting somebody else to be perfect. We all make mistakes. We all have things that we would not want others to know. But in my case, everybody knows everything.”

Going all the way back.

“Yeah.”

Yeah. We don’t need to recount all these things that he would prefer other people not to know, right? Not in 2016? For a decade now—ever since he left the University of Florida under controversial circumstances, and Auburn, where he wound up, also under controversial circumstances—Cam’s been apologizing for the teenager he was. C’mon. The NCAA is a cartel, anyway. “We all have life lessons that we most dearly learn from. And I just want to be the voice of that.” He’s a better man at 27 than he was at 18, even as he regularly endures condescension far worse than what he got as a kid.

Seriously. Look at what he’s gone through since college. All these so-called experts calling him, in effect, lazy. NFL Network’s Mike Mayock: “It’s just this gut feeling that I have that I don’t know how great he wants to be.” And: “Something tells me he’ll be content to be a multimillionaire who’s pretty good.” He came into the league under the shadow of real prejudice. He told the football writer Peter King he wanted to be considered an “entertainer and icon” in addition to a football player, and America reacted like that isn’t exactly what we want our quarterbacks to be. We acted like he’d said he wanted to join Mobb Deep and play QB in his spare time.

Jacket, $500, by Armani Exchange / Sweater, $280, by MP Massimo Piombo

/ Cap by New Era Suit, $2,495, by Ralph Lauren / Hoodie, $32, by King Threads at amazon.com / Watch by Rolex / Bead bracelets throughout by Lokai / Headphones throughout by Beats by Dr. Dre / Sneakers, $1,195, by Christian Louboutin x Sporty Henri at Christian Louboutin Men’s, N.Y.C. MT

Then the owner of the Panthers, Jerry Richardson, went on Charlie Rose and bragged about telling Newton that he couldn’t get any tattoos or piercings as a condition of being drafted by the team. That he couldn’t so much as grow his hair out. Even Charlie Rose was taken aback. He was incredulous. “I just sound reasonable to me,” a then 75-year-old Richardson said. (Cam denies this part of the conversation between him and Richardson ever took place—“He never said that,” Cam says. Control the narrative. Obviate distraction. Discipline. But Richardson’s account survives on YouTube; look it up, if you want to break something.)

As a rookie, Cam wears No. 1 because his teammate and future backup, Jimmy Clausen, already has Cam’s old number, No. 2, and won’t give it up. He sulks after losses; his own coach, Ron Rivera, calls him “Mr. Mopeyhead.” A legit charge, maybe: The Panthers were losing constantly then. Cam on the sidelines with a towel over his head. But that wasn’t the reason they were losing, Cam says now. They were losing because their team wasn’t good. “You had certain guys that didn’t know how to win that would make bonehead mistakes.” But people wanted to blame the towel, or whatever Cam had on that day. “If you’re losing, it’s like, Oh, my God, they’re losing because he’s wearing, you know, white shoes! Everybody else is wearing orange!”