And
by
“trust,” I don’t mean the cute, corporate
kind - “we
trust
our process,” “we trust the locker room,”
“we trust the
analytics.”
I mean the
real
thing:
the lived, hard-earned trust that comes from
knowing the person in
charge won’t treat Black players like
disposable parts in a
billion-dollar machine. Because in the NFL,
Black men are the labor,
the collision, the spectacle, the receipts -
while ownership and the
upper suites still look like a country club
board meeting that
wandered into a helmet store and decided it
owns the place.
This
isn’t a new American arrangement. It’s an
old one with better
lighting. For most of this country’s
history, Black capability has
been welcomed only under White supervision -
Black strength, Black
discipline, Black sacrifice, carefully
managed by White authority.
Think about Black soldiers: time and again,
ready to fight, bleed,
and die for a flag that didn’t always salute
them back, often led
by White officers, evaluated through White
assumptions, and denied
full respect even when they delivered full
service.
The
message was consistent: we need your bodies,
we’ll take your
bravery, but don’t get bold and ask for the
clipboard.
That
same pattern didn’t stay on battlefields. It
moved into workplaces,
schools, boardrooms, newsrooms - everywhere
power gets decided. Black
workers can be the backbone, the engine, the
steady hands holding the
whole operation together, and still be
treated like they’re less
competent, less reliable, less “leadership
material.”
Intelligence questioned. Character doubted.
Work ethic treated like a
surprise when it’s been proven since
forever. Translation: Black
folks are trusted to do the work, but not
trusted to run the place.
The
NFL is just that story in high definition.
Now,
Cleveland has been here before. The Browns
already hired a Black head
coach - Hue Jackson - and that fact matters
because it reveals the
whole double bind. On one hand, it proves
Cleveland isn’t allergic
to Black leadership. On the other, it shows
how easily a franchise
can hand a Black coach a roster built out of
chaos, matchsticks, and
wishful thinking - then act shocked when the
house burns down and
somebody needs a scapegoat. Hue wore the
blame for years of
dysfunction that did not begin with him and
sure didn’t end when he
left.
That’s
why
I’m not asking for “representation.” I’m
asking for trust
- real trust - built into the structure of
the job. Because in
Cleveland, instability isn’t an accident.
It’s a gridiron
tradition. The Browns chew through
quarterbacks, coordinators, and
coaches like stress balls. Then they stare
into the camera like, “Why
can’t we ever find consistency?” Meanwhile,
the locker room is
thinking, So
what exactly
are we doing here besides wearing matching
clothes and pretending the
dysfunction is mysterious?
A
Black head coach - especially one with real
authority, not just a
title - signals something players can
actually feel:
“This organization understands the people
who make it run.”
It’s not magic. It’s proximity to the
reality on the field. The
NFL’s workforce is heavily Black. The pain
is Black. The public
criticism is dark, painted and tainted by
skin color. The injury
report is Black. And yet the power structure
too often treats Black
athletes as brilliant bodies and
questionable minds - praised when
obedient, punished when outspoken, tolerated
until they ask for
respect that isn’t conditional.
That
was the case with Colin Kaepernick, and the
case at hand with Shedeur
Sanders.
If
Cleveland is serious about Shedeur Sanders’
growth, they need to
place that investment under a Black head
coach.
Not
because melanin is a playbook, but because
trust is the quarterback’s
oxygen, and Shedeur’s career has already
featured too many people
trying to control his breathing. He doesn’t
need another “guru”
who hears confidence and translates it as
“problem.” He doesn’t
need another boss who mistakes poise for
arrogance, swagger for
disrespect, or leadership for “being
difficult.” He needs someone
who understands the extra rules Black
quarterbacks live under: be
brilliant, but not too bold; be vocal, but
not too visible; win, but
don’t make anybody upstairs feel small. A
Black coach is more
likely to read him correctly, defend him
publicly, correct him
privately, and create a room where he can be
coached hard without
being treated like a threat for having a
spine.
And
trust
matters most when the season goes sideways -
which it will.
Trust matters when a player is banged up and
wonders if the team sees
him as a
human being
or an asset
with a warranty. Trust matters when a young
star struggles and needs
development instead of humiliation. Trust
matters when the media
starts circling like vultures and the
organization needs a leader who
can keep the locker room from becoming a
reality show
And
let’s
not pretend this whole soap opera is
happening in a political
vacuum. It’s playing out in a league where
King Trump is somehow
both the
buddy
and the
boogeyman
- a love/hate romance with shoulder pads.
He’s close enough to some
owners to get invited to the cookout, and
hated enough by the league
office to get seated by the kitchen door.
Meanwhile the NFL ecosystem
- owners, coaches, players, fans - is
crawling with Trump supporters,
which tells you everything you need to know
about what’s in their
hearts when the cameras are off and the
anthem ends. That isn’t
“just politics.” That’s a worldview. That’s
a whole 1967
World Book Encyclopedia section on who
they are,
what they fear,
and what they think “order” should look
like.
And
yes, many of them will smile in your face.
They’ll dap you up.
They’ll call you “brother.” They’ll
compliment your
“athleticism” like it’s a personality trait.
But don’t
confuse friendliness with friendship -
especially when you’re a
Black man in a league that sells your body
on Sundays and
second-guesses your humanity on Mondays.
Because
the truth is: some of these people are sweet
as pie right up until
you ask for real power, real protection,
real respect. Then suddenly
the room gets cold. Suddenly you’re
“divisive.” Suddenly you’re
“not a culture fit.” Suddenly you’re “too
much.”
And
in
that kind of environment, it really can be
hard to tell salt
from
sugar
- until you
taste it. And by then, you’ve already
swallowed it.
So
yes,
let’s talk candidates - real names, not just
fan-fiction.
Brian Flores has
the
gravitas and the defensive IQ, and he’s not
afraid of power. Eric
Bieniemy
has
lived in
championship environments and has spent
years being treated like the
most qualified “maybe later” in modern
football.
Vance Joseph
is a steady
hand who’s done the job before and is
respected in the building
wherever he goes. Antonio
Pierce
has already shown
he can shift a culture fast - whether
organizations have the patience
to support that shift is the real question.
Marcus Freeman has
the
presence and discipline of a
program-builder. And
Deion Sanders
- Coach
Prime - will always hover over these
conversations because he brings
the one thing NFL owners love even more than
wins: attention.
And
let
me name one more candidate who deserves more
than a passing
mention: David
Shaw,
now with the Detroit Lions. Shaw is the rare
football mind who blends
intellectual heft with locker-room command -
calm, disciplined,
principled, and unshakably credible. He
built Stanford into a
legitimate power without theatrics, without
excuses, and without
begging for respect. He’s not a hype
machine; he’s a standard. If
Cleveland truly wants to stabilize the
franchise instead of just
rebranding the same dysfunction every three
years, Shaw is the kind
of leader you hire when you’re serious about
culture,
accountability, and long-term development.
Because
here’s
the truth Cleveland can’t keep running from:
hiring a
Black head coach isn’t the finish line.
Backing him is.
Giving
him authority is.
Protecting the locker room from front-office
chaos is. Providing
continuity, patience, and real alignment is.
Otherwise it’s the
same old American hustle: rent Black
excellence on Sundays, then
reserve leadership for the people upstairs
who never take the hits.
So
yes, I pray Cleveland hires a Black head
coach. Not because Black
people need charity. Because the Browns need
trust. And trust - in a
league and a country built on extraction -
is the rarest thing on the
menu.
Call
to
action:
If the NFL
wants to keep selling itself as a
meritocracy, it can start by acting
like one. Cleveland doesn’t need another
“fresh start.” It
needs a power structure willing to trust the
people who have always
carried the weight. Put a Black man in that
head coach chair - and
then do the radical thing: let him lead.
