On Olympian Sha'Carri Richardson's dire need for "Amazing Grace"

I can't seem to get U.S. sprinter Sha’Carri Richardson, 21, out of my head, and while I am glad that she will be able to compete in at least one event at the upcoming Olympics, I remain somewhat surprised by the chorus of “she knew the rules,” “do the crime, do the time” rebukes that I read about her marijuana use on social media—particularly from those who I would expect to be forgiving within the Black community.

Thus, today's quite personal Hobbservation on Grace!

To begin, people who knew (or have seen photos of) my Dad have often remarked "your old man looked like he didn't play." He didn't, and there were a few occasions growing up that the look below was accompanied with a belt or switches when my behavior fell below the mark.

The summer before my 8th grade year at FAMU High, I joined several of my classmates in foregoing our final season of Tallahassee Parks & Recreation football to play for the Baby Rattlers JV team. We went through two-a-days in Florida's blistering heat playing strictly with the older varsity boys until school started, when about 25 more guys in 7th, 8th, and 9th grade came out to form a JV squad.

Now, most of us had good size for our age but there was a distinct difference in size and strength between us and the 10th-12th graders who would soon be playing college ball. Nevertheless we practiced each day among ourselves and at least once per week, heard Coach Harry Jacobs yell out to our Coach, Lance Paul, "send me my JV's"—a sign that we were about to go "give a look" (read-get smashed) by the varsity team that was ranked in the Top Five of our classification all season.

And we loved it!

As our JV games were typically on a Tuesday or Wednesday evening, most of us JV players marched in the band during the Friday night varsity games. Which means that after a full day of school from 8:05 a.m. to 2:55 p.m., that we would practice with the band from 3:10 to 4:30, then dress out to practice football from about 4:45 to sometimes as late as 7:30 to 7:45 p.m.

Suffice it to say that our young bodies and minds were WORN OUT! Now, I had always been an honor roll student, having never made less than a "B" in any class in school because "getting that lesson" was my "job" according to my parents. But I was so exhausted each day that I was literally falling asleep in Dr. Barbara Barnes's Honors English, Mrs. Norish Adams's Honors Algebra I, and Mrs. Sherry Hendricks's World History classes—and I was falling behind in all of the above. Mrs. Hendricks was the wife of my dad's college roommate and close friend, Colonel Bernard Hendricks, and she called me aside after class one day after noticing that I was slumped down and sleeping through my favorite subject and said "do I need to call Charlie Weaver (Dad) and tell him that you are snoring in my class?" "No ma'am," I quickly replied, and promised to get to sleep earlier and do better.

A few weeks later, report cards came out during the first week of October and on the day that they were issued, we had a home game scheduled at Bragg Stadium against the hated North Florida Christian School Eagles. After Dr. Barnes handed me my report card with a frown on her face, one that we now call the "side-eye," I instantly got the "bubble guts”—that tremor of fear that what I was about to see would not be pretty 😆.

It wasn't pretty, as my ledger read:

English Honors: B

Intermediate Band: B

World History: C

Physical Science: C

Algebra (Honors): D

Art: D

Now, I was not (and still am not) a crier, so I held it all together, but trust when I say that I was sad, hurt, and deeply disappointed in myself. Moreover, due to having a very stern dad, I was fearful that I was gonna get a whoopin' for those piss poor marks. What was even worse was that my mom, Vivian Hobbs, was out of town recruiting high school scholars with recently deceased FAMU President Frederick Humphries and his team, so my deeper fear was that if Dad was really "on one" as the kids say today, that there would be no one at the house to say "Charles, that's enough!" 😆

Resigned to my fate, we went on to play that night and we played quite well, as we took out what I soon learned was our collective grade frustrations on the North Florida JV team. After the game, Dad, waiting for me at the gym in his truck, asked me if I was hungry, so off we went to Shingles Chicken Shack where I ate the chicken dinner and Dad had his favorite, the mullet—fried hard. Dad complimented my play, reminding me once more about "leverage" and using my hands to "shed blockers" on defense, and how it seemed that his private backyard tutoring was paying off.

Coach Lance Paul and Big Mike Anderson helping me to the sideline (and a very distraught Momma Hobbs) during the season opener at North Florida Christian 😆

So I got the sense that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't gonna get a whoopin' after all?!? I figured that perhaps Dad didn't even much know that report cards had been issued and that maybe, just maybe, I could...hide the report card...til the next six weeks when I would be back to my old high grade earning ways? Alas, I went to bed that night with a full belly and a sense of peace that all would be well with the world soon!

The very next morning, as I was getting ready for school and dad was polishing his shoes for work, he yelled out from across the hall, "Chuckieeee, where's that report card, boy?" The dreaded bubble guts returned with a vengeance and I took a deep breath, exhaled, and after what seemed like an eternity, replied, "it's in my backpack in the car, sir!" Dad followed, "get my keys and go get it so I can see how you did!" And so I did, and as I returned inside and began the "dead man walking stroll" down the hallway to his room, I handed it to him—fully ready to take my whoopin' "like a man."

Dad got quiet...eerily so...slowly reading each class name and the corresponding grade listed above. When he got to the "C" for World History, knowing that the two of us were history nerds, he repeated with a half chuckle, "C? My son, Chuckie Hobbs, got a C in history?" Returning to silence, Dad finally let out an audible "humph" and handed the card back to me. Instead of hearing the rhetorical "where's my belt" of whoopins past, what came out of his mouth next was the crux of today's Hobbservation on Grace: "It's ok, boy, it's ok."

Confused, heart racing but confused, I looked at him in awe but wasn't even 'bout to ask "what's ok"—lest the matter go the other way. So I just kept quiet and leaning against the wall as he went back to buffing his shoes, eyes transfixed like Forrest Gump shining his boots, when he broke his silence and said, "I got the sense weeks ago that your schedule was too rough for you as a 13-year old boy, and I went against my better judgment to see if you could handle it." Dad then added that there had been several evenings where he had to knock on the door to wake me up after soaking in the tub, and that looking back, that there was "no way in Hell" that I could "get my lesson" with "14-15 hour days."

With tears welling up in my eyes, Dad looked at me and said "Suck those tears up—you know how I feel about crying." He then pronounced his sentence: "I can tell you're hurting right now, and that's punishment itself. But later today, you go to Coach Jacobs and turn your pads in so that you can get home at a decent hour to get your lesson, and if he has any questions, you tell him to call me." The ONLY response to that was "yes sir," but timidly pushing the advantage, I eeked out the query, "do I still get to go to marching band practice?" Dad, a concert band trumpet player himself in middle and high school, said "yes, you are in that band class and I want that B to turn into an 'A;" as soon as band practice is done, you head straight to my office and start on that lesson until I can get you home to work."

Trust when I tell you that the glee I had was the same one I would observe years later when King Joffrey Joffer "punished" Semi by restricting him to his room at the Waldorf-Astoria in "Coming to America," and I was ready to tackle my classes with a renewed vigor!

The next six weeks, thanks to my father's wisdom and grace in not "taking me out," as some old school parents used to threaten, I earned five A's and one B (in Algebra—math did not come very easily for me at all)!

But the lesson I learned way back in the Fall of 1985 that guides me to this day is that we all fall short, and we can at times get angry or frustrated when others around us fall short. But the key is to remember that there are lessons even in falling short with setbacks, and that in displaying grace, that we can remind those who have missed the mark and are remorseful that each day allows them to begin anew on their quests to live life abundantly and happily!

So, here's hoping that young Olympics sprinter Sha'Carri Richardson has kin and friends in her inner circle who will surround her with the love and grace in the days ahead that my old man, the Colonel, showed to me in '85!