Coleridge Bernard Stroud IV stepped onto the podium, squinted into the camera lights and nestled into his seat behind an array of reporters.
Two days before kickoff of the College Football Playoff semifinals, the centerpiece of Ohio State’s media day was none other than its quarterback, a two-time Heisman Trophy finalist and passing record-breaker that the nation knows by two initials: C.J.
As Stroud surveys the scene at the College Football Hall of Fame in downtown Atlanta, having led his team to the pinnacle of the sport, there is a tinge of disbelief that he is here—not because of some loss on the field to an archrival, but because of so much more.
“It’s kind of, like, surreal to be in this chair right now,” he said. “A lot of times you lose hope and you lose faith.”
Portions of C.J. Stroud’s story have been told, but never the entire tale. That may never be told, its contents too private and personal to be pushed into the public. Maybe one day, C.J. and his mother, Kimberly, will pen a book together about their plight in life, all of it unfolding at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains, a Hollywood story birthed near Beverly Hills itself.
C.J.’s father, Coleridge Bernard Stroud III, is serving a 38-year prison sentence in upstate California. He pleaded guilty in 2015 to charges of carjacking, kidnapping, robbery and misdemeanor sexual battery stemming from a drug-related incident that ended with his evading police by jumping into the San Diego Bay.
Once a minister and the breadwinner of a family of six, Coleridge’s incarceration (the second of his life) sent the Strouds into financial ruin and destroyed his relationship with his then 13-year-old quarterback of a son. C.J.’s life was rocked by the development. The youngest of four children, his high school years were spent living in a small apartment above a storage facility. At one point, the Strouds nearly went homeless.
As C.J. grew into a talented quarterback prospect, there was little money for new cleats (he got blisters wearing old ones); or new contact lenses (he once played a game without a lens in one eye); or a private quarterback coach (he studied videos on YouTube); or, at times, good nutritious food (his high school often sent the Strouds packaged meals). On the football field, things weren’t much better. C.J. entered his junior season of high school having thrown about 50 pass attempts and had received one scholarship offer.
So on Wednesday, as he tossed passes during practice inside Mercedes-Benz Stadium, C.J. stepped aside for a moment to himself. And it hit him.
“It’s just amazing that I do all these cool things now,” he said.
Cool things: like the $200,000 Bentley he now drives from name, image and likeness (NIL) deals; like the four-bedroom California home he bought his mother and sister; like the $500 Express gift cards he distributed to each of his teammates; like the 13 school passing marks that may forever be his in the Ohio State record books.
And, yes, don’t forget about this—his shot to win a national championship. His team is two victories away from ending the Buckeyes’ seven-season title dry spell and potentially, if Michigan beats TCU in the other semifinal, exacting a level of revenge that few can comprehend.
Given his past, this all seems improbable and unbelievable. Yet here he is.
“He had a choice when his father went away,” says Kimberly. “He was going to let that motivate him and be the best or he was going to succumb to it and become a statistic of a kid whose parent did something they shouldn’t.
“I sit and I’m amazed at how resilient he is. C.J. is the most amazing human I have ever met.”
