Who’s Afraid of the Unapologetic Black Man?

I wasn’t sure if I should write this.
Actually, I did write it- a month ago, during the NFL Draft.
And then I sat on it.

Not because it wasn’t finished, but because I wasn’t convinced I had the right to say any of it. I’m not a sports analyst. I didn’t grow up breaking down game or memorizing stats. Until recently, I thought “fullback” was just a slick insult for a player with a big ass.

But here’s what I’ve come to understand.
This piece was never really about football.
It’s about perception. Power. Permission.
It’s about what happens when a young Black man shows up in the fullness of who he is, and the world doesn’t know what to do with that.

So I’m releasing this now.
Not because it’s breaking news, but because the truth in it didn’t expire.
Because maybe you’ve questioned your own voice too.
And maybe you needed this reminder, just like I did.

You don’t have to be an expert to name what you see.
You don’t have to be credentialed to notice a pattern.
And when the pattern keeps repeating -
in sports, in politics, in boardrooms and classrooms,
sometimes the most radical thing you can do is call it out.

This year, being engaged to a man who treats Sunday football like sacred ritual, I found myself sitting through his animated breakdowns. I figured, fair is fair. He watches 90 Day Fiance with me, no complaints.
The least I could do was try to understand a first down.

And honestly? It wasn’t the game that hooked me.
It was the storylines. The arcs of redemption, rivalry, downfall, and hope.
The messy, very human sagas happening underneath the helmets.
I wasn’t rooting for teams. I was rooting for stories.

So when Shedeur Sanders slid all the way to the fifth round of the NFL draft, when a player once predicted to go in the first round became the subject of thinkpieces, debates, and social media noise,
I wasn’t dissecting combine stats.
I was watching a familiar narrative unfold.

Who’s afraid of the unapologetic Black man?

White confidence on a football field? That’s tradition.
Johnny Manziel built a brand off of it. “Johnny Football,” flashing money signs and partying like it was part of the job description.
It was sold as charisma.
Baker Mayfield literally said, “I’m not cocky, I’m confident,” and then planted Oklahoma’s flag on Ohio State’s field.
It wasn’t framed as disrespect. It was framed as fire.
Joe Burrow strolled into the NFL draft in a turtleneck and Cuban link chain, and suddenly swagger had a new face. “Ice in his veins,” they said.

Swagger sells. Until it’s wrapped in Black skin.
Then it becomes defiance.
Becomes threat.
Becomes something that must be put back in its place.

We’ve seen it before.
A young Venus Williams, sitting across from a white journalist, daring to believe in her own victory.
She said, “I know I can beat her.”
Not cocky. Just certain.
A certainty the world didn’t know how to hold,
especially not in a Black girl.
So the journalist pressed her.
Not out of curiosity, but as if her belief needed permission.
That’s when her father, Richard Williams, stepped in.
Not to correct her, but to protect her right to that confidence.
Because when you’re Black and sure of yourself, the world will always try to make you explain why.

Because when Black confidence walks into a room, the world scrambles to humble it.
Especially when it refuses to blink.
Especially when it dares to believe it’s supposed to win.

That was Venus.
And now? It’s Shedeur.

Here you have a young Black man, raised in privilege. Yes.
But also in protection.
Shaped by a father who never asked for space. He claimed it.
The kind of man who built the house and dared anyone to question it.
That’s the energy Shedeur inherited.
Not just confidence.
Legacy.
And that’s what threatens them.

Shedeur walks with that inheritance.
He carries the audacity of someone who knows exactly who he is.
And maybe more threatening than that?
He knows the truth. “Y’all need me more than I need y’all.”

And suits don’t like that.
Especially white ones.
Because in their world, talent is supposed to come packaged with gratitude,
or at least the performance of it.
Especially if you’re Black.
Especially if you’re young.

But Shedeur didn’t get the memo.
Or maybe he read it and threw it in the trash.

The same league that turned “Johnny Football” into a brand will tell you Shedeur Sanders is “too much.”
Too flashy.
Too confident.
Too arrogant for his own good.

But it was never really about confidence.
It’s always been about who gets to have it.

I turn 44 next month. And the truth is, I’m only just now learning to move this way —unapologetically.
Most of my professional life has been run by white men.
And if I’m being honest? I was great for them.
Until I showed them how great I could be without them.
That’s when the problems start.
That’s when the confidence becomes a threat.
That’s when they start looking for ways to remind you who’s in charge.

Because when you’re wrapped in Blackness, loud, proud, unshaken,
the world often mistakes the wrapping for the whole gift.

I’ve read enough Baldwin to know.
“To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time.”

But Baldwin didn’t write in rage.
He wrote like a mirror. Clear, steady, surgical.
Forcing the world to see itself, even when it wanted to turn away.

That’s what I’m trying to do.
To lead with truth.
To be strategic, not reckless.
Measured, not muted.
Unapologetic.
But undeniable.

Because in a world built to shrink me, every room I walk into is both a battlefield and a stage.
Some days, it feels like walking in with a microphone in one hand and armor in the other.
But I show up anyway.

Because silence never saved us.
And I didn’t come all this way just to whisper.