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.
