College National Championship: UM Miami Hurricanes vs Indiana, January 19 2026

 

THE NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP

 

On a cool January evening, as the lights of the national championship stadium burn bright against the winter sky, something more than a football game is unfolding. For the Cuban American diaspora—scattered across Miami, New Jersey, Texas, California, and countless towns in between—this night feels like a quiet miracle. Out of more than 5,000 colleges and universities in the United States, what are the chances that the two programs standing at the summit of college football would be guided there by sons of families who once crossed the Florida Straits with little more than hope in their pockets?

At one sideline stands Indiana University, led by Fernando Mendoza. His name rolls easily off the announcers’ tongues now, but behind it lies a story that began decades earlier, on a different shore. His grandparents, Fernando y Marta Mendoza, were part of the great wave of Cuban families forced to flee after the rise of the Castro dictatorship. They arrived in Miami with the ache of exile in their hearts and the stubborn determination to begin again. They found work, built community, and raised a son—also named Fernando—in a city that would become a mosaic of Cuban accents, cafecito windows, and Friday night lights.

Fernando Mendoza Sr. grew up in Miami and attended Christopher Columbus High School, where he played football on the same team as a young Mario Cristobal. Two boys, both sons of Cuban exiles, running drills on the same field, unaware that their paths would one day converge again under the brightest lights in American sports. Mendoza Sr. would go on to attend Brown University, choosing to row instead of play football, but the discipline, pride, and sense of possibility stayed with him—and passed quietly to his son.

Now that son, Fernando Mendoza Jr., stands at the pinnacle of college football. The first Cuban American to win the Heisman Trophy. The quarterback who led his team through an undefeated season. The young man who, in a stretch that feels almost mythical, threw more touchdown passes in five games than he did incomplete ones. For the Mendoza family, for the neighbors who watched him grow up, and for the countless Cuban Americans who see a piece of their own story in his, his success feels like a shared triumph.

But the Cuban American story on this field does not end there.

Across from Mendoza stands Mario Cristobal, a coach whose own life is woven from the same threads of exile and perseverance. Born to Cuban parents who fled the island in the 1960s, Cristobal grew up in a household shaped by sacrifice—his father had been a political prisoner in Cuba. Like the Mendozas, the Cristobals started from scratch in a new country, carrying forward the belief that hard work and education could open doors once thought forever closed.

Cristobal found his own glory at the University of Miami, helping the Hurricanes win two national championships as a player. He would go on to make history as the first Hispanic head coach of a Division I-A program, building a reputation for discipline, toughness, and heart. After successful years at Oregon, he returned home to Miami in 2021, answering a call not just to a job, but to a legacy. Under his guidance, the Hurricanes rose again, inching back toward the glory years that once defined them.

So when the ball is finally kicked off, it is more than a contest between Indiana and Miami. It is a celebration of journeys that began in Havana, in whispered goodbyes and hurried departures, in cramped apartments in Miami where families dreamed of futures their children might one day claim.

In living rooms across South Florida, flags of red, white, and blue mingle with the red, white, and blue of another homeland. Some of us, as Miami residents, will naturally cheer for the Hurricanes. Others will find themselves smiling just as wide when Mendoza drops back to pass, knowing what his success represents. Pride, tonight, is not confined to one set of colors.

And somewhere in the stands, perhaps, another Cuban American descendant—Secretary of State Marco Rubio—might be watching, quietly choosing which side of this beautiful story to root for.

But in truth, for the Cuban American community, the result almost feels secondary. Either way, when the final whistle blows, a descendant of exiles will be standing in victory. And in that moment, under the glow of the championship lights, an entire diaspora will see its own long journey reflected back at it—proof that from loss can come legacy, and from struggle, something worthy of a national stage.

Maria Eugenia