Bomani Babatunde Jones was born in Atlanta to an economist mother and a political scientist father. Bomani means “warrior,” and his first two names are a reflection of his father’s radical pan-Africanist politics. Even as a child he was precocious, with a flair for language. Recently he unearthed a notebook from his childhood—he estimates he couldn't have been more than five at the time—in which he had been tasked by a teacher with writing out the life story of Martin Luther King Jr. “I don't remember what I said at all at the beginning, but I do remember the last line,” Jones recalls.

“It was ‘And then the capitalists shot him.’”

When I meet the ESPN host at Amy Ruth’s in Harlem in November, he is waiting for me in front of the restaurant with his hands shoved in the pockets of a Tribe Called Quest hoodie, attempting to look inconspicuous and, at six-foot-four, failing. We grab a seat in the corner so that his back is to the rest of the room, and I tell him that the last time I was here, I saw the rapper A$AP Rocky, who made a restaurant employee delete a photo he stealthily took on his phone. This leads to a conversation about how Jones feels about potentially being recognized in public, and he explains to me his theory that there are two types of people on television. First, there are the people on the local news with perfect teeth and hair just so, living in the glow of a dream come true. These are the people who, as children, saw the local nightly news anchor and thought to themselves, that could be me.

Then there’s the other kind, the people who just sort of end up on TV, whether through luck or happenstance or some combination of the two. An aberration, if anything. As if to erase any doubt, Jones adds, “I’m the second kind.”

This year, ESPN is about to get a whole lot more of the second kind—a TV show Bomani Jones will co-host with Pablo Torre called High Noon (9 a.m. Pacific), which premieres June 4. Even if you don’t watch ESPN regularly, you might recognize Jones as the guy who went on Mike and Mike one morning, unzipped a hoodie, and immediately made white people across America flip out. (Sample headline: “Bomani Jones Wore a ‘Caucasians’ Shirt on ESPN and White People Flipped Out.”) Jones was wearing a T-shirt that featured an instantly recognizable sendup of the Indians’ absurd Chief Wahoo mascot. His hair is blond instead of black; a dollar sign hangs over his head rather than a single feather; and instead of the Cleveland logo, it says “Caucasians” in the Indians script. The ridiculous sideways look and the garish—even gruesome—grin are the same.

Jones claims he didn’t mean to be provocative, and that his intentions were perfectly innocent. Accidental or not, the Caucasians shirt recast a spotlight on a man who was already one of the country’s smartest and most outspoken commentators when it comes to difficult discussions about race and the athletic-industrial complex—a man often derided by right-wing bloggers as a “race huckster.”

In the context of ESPN, being loud and certain isn’t exactly an uncommon contribution unto itself. But compared to, say, Pardon the Interruption (a show I fondly refer to as I Truly Wish They Would Stop Yelling for Just Like Two Seconds This Is Really Stressing Me Out) or the walking, talking YouTube comments section that is Stephen A. Smith, Jones offers something different: a nuanced look at sports, backed up by rigorous evidence and a refreshing willingness to admit mistakes. As the Caucasians shirt made clear, the fact that Jones riles up the “stick to sports” segment of ESPN’s viewership isn’t a coincidence. Many viewers still think that these opinions have no place on a sports network, especially when they come from a black man. And especially one who, at most points in American history, would have been labeled an uppity Negro when he’s just trying to have a good ol’ time.