by Lisa Fenn
Leroy always believed he would graduate, but his true goal was even grander: to walk across the stage to get his diploma. No one onstage that night understood that goal more than Dartanyon. That’s why, when Leroy’s name was called, Dartanyon stood too, right beside him. He helped Leroy stand—upon new prosthetic legs he had been fitted for just weeks earlier—then moved alongside him as Leroy crossed the stage, step for step, eye to eye. When Leroy stopped, put out his hand, and grasped his diploma, the audience rose and delivered a standing ovation.
What would you do for a friend, one you carried on your back all year long? You’d put him down and walk beside him, which was exactly what Dartanyon did.
After the photos were taken, the music stopped, and the tears dried, the two sat in the theater, side by side. I asked them to describe what the evening meant to them. This time, they had the words.
“As long as I can remember,” Dartanyon said, “I’ve been carrying Leroy from point A to B to C. Graduation was the first time I finally got to walk beside him.” He paused. “It was a privilege. It was an honor.”
Leroy’s eyes moistened, and he looked up.
“It meant so much to me,” he said, “to know I have a friend who was there to catch me if I stumbled.”
There was no stumble. There was no pun or punch line, no joke or jab. Just two friends, sharing one moment, smiling together in silence.
THE NEXT MORNING, it was my turn to cross a threshold. Navid and I had received word that a prospective birth mother was interested in meeting with us. Her name was Jayda, and she was living in a home for pregnant women on the eastern outskirts of Cleveland. As I sat in my childhood bedroom preparing to meet her, I drew strength from Leroy’s determined steps. I tried on a carousel of outfits, oscillating between a professional appearance and a more matronly one. I settled on a pleated summer skirt, chucked the string of pearls, and knelt beside my bed to thank God for planting this dream in my heart, in this room, and now bringing it to fruition. As I set out, palms clammy, I rehearsed answers to questions I thought Jayda might ask me—about our family dynamics, educational philosophies, and frameworks for discipline. I remained unprepared for her initial concern.
“I thought you’d be taller,” she said to me upon opening the door. Jayda stood at five feet ten inches, nearly a foot taller than me. Her comment made me feel like I ought to have been selling Girl Scout cookies.
I handed her a small bouquet of gerbera daisies instead. “I always thought I would be taller too.” This had been my wish in so many of the crossroad moments of my life—childhood camp, my ESPN interview, my first day at Lincoln-West, waiting in the car at the train tracks with Leroy. I often wished I stood a little taller.
Jayda’s skin was the color of melted caramel, and her stomach was swollen with child. She was twenty-five years old and five months pregnant. Brave but scared, Jayda was torn between the profound love she felt for the baby she carried and the knowledge that her circumstances would conspire against the stability and opportunity this child deserved. Jayda explained that she lost her job in early 2009, then lost her apartment, and finally lost custody of her five-year-old daughter. She was embroiled in a court battle for the girl, and if she kept this unborn child, placement into foster care was inevitable.
I explained my lifelong draw to adoption, and how caring for this child was not my backup plan. This was what I was born to do. Navid and I could provide the best education, a loving extended family, travel, and the chance to develop any interest this child might have. Jayda said she had been a fast runner in high school and traveled with a show choir, so she expected this child to be able to carry both a football and a tune pretty well.
We both had first-date jitters, unsure as to who was supposed to be winning over whom. At the end of our hour together, Jayda slid an envelope across the table to me, signaling that she had made her decision. “This is my ultrasound picture,” she said. “You are having a boy.” I pulled out the sonogram of my fetal son. I could see his peanut nose and every bone in his spine. His heart glowed like a firefly, and tiny ethereal bubbles floated around him as he rested in blessed ignorance of all of the forces vying for his life.
“Please take care of my son,” Jayda implored as she signed our adoption plan. The desperation in her voice echoed the voice of Juanita, Dartanyon’s mother, which had swept through my head and my heart during Dartanyon’s consolation match four months prior. It tugged, too, at the maternal instincts I felt toward Leroy, who was brought into this world by a woman similar to Jayda in certain ways.
As I drove away, my heart swelled with thoughts of all three boys, linked by the same calling. Back home, my father was less impressed with the beauty of this symmetry.
“Oh, jeez, she’s black!”
That was his knee-jerk response to a photo I shared of Jayda and me posed together. He broke into a cold sweat looking at that picture, trying to figure out how to explain to his golfing buddies that he was about to become a grandfather to a black child. His reaction did not surprise me; hearing it aloud, so brazen and unapologetic, did.
Navid’s and my choice defied the generational racism that had been handed down to my father by his parents, and to them by their parents, as well as by a culture that, during my father’s formative years, enforced the belief that skin color should separate us. Segregation had prevented my father from learning the lesson that I’d gleaned on Big Ma’s front porch: when you know someone’s story, it becomes impossible to hate him.
My father could not reverse the beliefs that the culture of his era had instilled in him. And I could not dismiss the shame I felt toward him because of it. So there we stood, both hot in the cheeks. He disapproved of me, and I disapproved of him. And even though neither of us was speaking, we were still managing to have this conversation, all while staring at a photo of a black woman carrying a child who had the power to fix us both.
STORYTELLERS DISTILL MEANING. We boil down complexities. We extract importance. We erect guideposts. In television, the edit room is a storyteller’s laboratory. It is where facts and art must reach equilibrium, as we cull the best elements to present to our viewers. With more than sixty hours of footage collected on Leroy and Dartanyon over four months—five times what I would have normally shot for a story—choosing the right moments in the proper order grew into a maddening chess match. We had to condense four months of nuance into ten minutes of compelling television.
In past edits, I’d relied upon my own intuition when I arrived at a crossroads. I had learned to look for the split second of video that caused me to hold my breath or clench my fists—and if it did that for me, I trusted it would do the same for a viewer. But for the first time in my career, I questioned my instincts. Did I like a shot sequence because it was truly fascinating, or because my bias toward Leroy and Dartanyon skewed my judgment? How could I detach myself? Should I detach myself?
I tried to focus on the key themes. Determination over despair. The rejection of pity. Humor as a weapon against challenge. Tom and I strove to weave these intricacies delicately throughout the piece, ensuring that each thread led back to the friendship, cast in sport and layered in the context of teammates. With my editor, Josh Drake, piloting our efforts, we worked twelve-hour sessions throughout the summer, after which I headed home to pore over music and rehash wordings, often until I fell asleep at my dining room table. By early August, our script had undergone twenty-two rewrites as we toiled to reconstruct something as mystical as the chemistry between two people. And this incessant dissection only spun me further into blurred confusion. Had I merely convinced myself that this was a compelling story, or was the supporting evidence truly on these tapes?
During one late-night session, Victor mentioned that ESPN was debuting oversize plasma monitors behind anchors for their on-camera lead-ins. To fill those screens, our features now needed titles. Leroy and Dartanyon’s story would be the first on our network with a name more telling than “Sunday Feature.”
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p; “What do we call it?” I asked Tom as we looked at the crumpled stack of scripts on my desk, feeling a little like giving up. Paused on the monitor before us was a still photo of Leroy on top of Dartanyon’s back, looking back at us with the same twinkle that had compelled me to get out of bed and onto a plane five months before.
“I think there’s only one thing we can call it,” Tom said. “‘Carry On.’” We smiled at one another, renewed in our efforts to untangle the task before us, with Leroy and Dartanyon as our muses.
“Carry on,” I repeated. “If they can do it, so can we.”
For their part, Leroy and Dartanyon provided comedic relief, calling throughout the summer. “You need to come back,” Dartanyon would say. “I’m riding on Leroy’s back now. You gotta film it.” They never asked how the edit was unfolding, or even when their segment might air. They weren’t concerned with how they might be portrayed. They trusted me implicitly, which further drove my desire to fill every frame of television with the greatness they deserved.
On weekends, as I folded tiny blue pajamas and lined the crib with plush teddy bears in preparation for my son, the bulk of my thoughts remained with Leroy and Dartanyon. I grieved the tender touches they had likely missed out on as children. I missed their laughter. Then I worried about their harsher days ahead. Graduation was done. Our cameras had gone. Neither had submitted a college application. I wanted Leroy to dream bigger than Big Ma’s fusty basement; I wanted Dartanyon to find his elusive home, to be rewarded for bypassing his father’s footsteps. How could I plan for my unborn child in such thorough detail and neglect Leroy and Dartanyon’s futures? Where did God’s responsibility end and mine begin? What was the backup plan should Carry On air to mediocre reviews? As I looked at the empty bedrooms in our cozy home, the answer seemed apparent: Leroy and Dartanyon should live with us.
“Honey, that would be incredibly challenging,” Navid said. “We are maxed out as it is.”
“But they don’t have anywhere to go,” I argued. “They wouldn’t need much.”
“Lisa, we don’t even have a ramp.”
I knew “ramp” was metaphorical for “we can’t do this.” Navid, now in a sports medicine fellowship, worked up to eighty hours a week. I traveled frequently. We had a newborn on the way. But I stomped out to the garage to look for some scrap wood and nails any way. Regardless of what our social worker thought, I reckoned I might just be crazy enough.
Carry On AIRED in early August 2009, and the piece began with a simple question: “What would you do for a friend?”
Thirteen minutes later, it ended with this fact: “While both boys wished to attend college, neither had the means to do so.”
That plea, issued against the backdrop of Leroy and Dartanyon’s resilience, sparked an incredible response from viewers across the country.
FROM NEW YORK: Thank you to Leroy and Dartanyon for showing us that our lowest moments don’t have to hold us back. They can make us better.
FROM FLORIDA: As Leroy explained, it is not about pity. It is, however, about the true meaning of the human spirit.
FROM CALIFORNIA: Nothing like crying in a cube farm. That was the highlight of my week.
FROM INDIANA: Not only does this bring tears to my eyes, but Leroy and Dartanyon restore belief in mankind!
FROM MASSACHUSETTS: There are no physical boundaries in life that are more powerful than a positive attitude to succeed. Thank you, Leroy and Dartanyon, for showing us that today.
These messages arrived in tidal waves to my in-box. I could hardly finish one before another crossed. An hour may have passed before I blinked. Finally I dropped down on the kitchen floor, weeping, relying on the cold hardwood to shock me back from what was surely a dream. I had left the edit at four o’clock in the morning—just six hours before air time—convinced I had lost the pulse of the piece. And yet it worked. The piece took a template—overcoming challenges to achieve success—and amplified it in nearly every way. Here were two people, with physical challenges of different kinds, and another set of challenges that were less apparent. Here was success in terms not of victory but of persistence and selflessness. Here was a portrait of love shared by two young men of color—not always the central focus of such portraits. Here were two young men who so obviously needed help, but rather than wallow in wait, they helped themselves and each other, genuinely and selflessly.
As a result, viewers wondered: Could I be that strong?
FROM GEORGIA: Thank you Leroy and Dartanyon for never giving up. Because of you, I will never give up.
FROM CALIFORNIA: Tell Leroy, the next time he finds himself struggling with the question of “Why my legs?” to think about all the people who were wondering, “Where’s my heart?” until he helped us find it.
FROM FLORIDA: I am missing a leg too and want to wrestle. Can I talk to the two wrestlers on ESPN? They are my heroes!
FROM CALIFORNIA: I have been an addict for nearly ten years. Today I am going to rehab. If Leroy and Dartanyon don’t feel sorry for themselves, I am not going to either.
FROM LONDON: Every morning I take a train from Cambridge to London. Like most Mondays, it’s tough to stay grateful. But as my eyes watered as Leroy walked onstage alongside Dartanyon, it made me realize how grateful I am for my own life today. Thank you.
FROM OHIO: I was not only touched by this amazing story of strength and friendship, I was humbled by the grace and humanity of these remarkable young men. Tragedy is not what happened to Leroy—tragedy would be not supporting his dreams. How can we help these boys?
With Navid away on a camping trip, I spent the day savoring these messages, treasuring them in my heart in the quiet of our house. The only ones not bowled over by Leroy and Dartanyon were Leroy and Dartanyon.
“The piece was good,” Leroy said, as though trying to convince himself.
“Yah, that was . . . yah,” Dartanyon said. “I didn’t really know what to expect.”
Over the next twenty-four hours, more than four million viewers tuned in to ESPN to watch Carry On, and another half million watched on ESPN.com. From Ipswich to Idaho, housewives to sports fans to NFL executives answered the question, “What would you do for a friend?” by emulating Leroy and Dartanyon’s example: They offered to carry Leroy and Dartanyon in return.
FROM NEW JERSEY: Thank you for touching my heart. I have watched many stories over my lifetime and have wanted to do something to help but never did. Today I want that to be different. I don’t have much, but I can do something.
FROM WASHINGTON: Unbelievable story on ESPN about Leroy and Dartanyon. My entire family is sitting here in tears. Does Leroy need a wheelchair van?
FROM TEXAS: I can’t remember the last time I’ve been as affected by a story as I was today. Has anyone set up a fund for these two young men? I can’t imagine two people more deserving of an opportunity to continue their education.
FROM PENNSYLVANIA: I for one do not want money to be the factor that keeps Leroy and Dartanyon from reaching any future goals. I don’t have much, so I am heading out to buy a Powerball ticket. If I win, it’s theirs.
FROM MARYLAND: If there is a scholarship fund or anything I can do to facilitate their college aspirations, I will contribute in a heartbeat.
FROM TEXAS: I would like to donate at least $1,000 to each of them for their education.
FROM ILLINOIS: With me being a college student myself, I don’t have much money but would be willing to put $40 in to get the fund started.
FROM TENNESSEE: Amazing. Heartwarming. Goose bumps. Happy Tears. Sad Tears. I haven’t much to give, but I sat on my bed this morning and said a prayer for both of them. For all of us.
I had prayed for one viewer with deep pockets and a heart of mercy to be drawn to Leroy and Dartanyon. Instead, I got a legion of allies—each one eager to right the wrongs of these boys’ pasts. Every respondent that is, except one:
ESPN CANNOT BE ASSOCIATED WITH ANY FUND-RAISING CAMPAIGN ON BEHALF OF LEROY AND DARTANYON. YOU ARE NOT PERMITTED
TO INVOLVE YOURSELF ANY FURTHER.
ESPN’s mailboxes and phone lines had been receiving viewer inquiries throughout Sunday, and by Monday morning, the network saw the need to remind me that it could not incur the liability associated with collecting money for individuals. While I understood the corporate position, its lack of empathy hit me like a bowed arrow to the sternum. Wouldn’t a phone call to brainstorm solutions have been more appropriate? Did they expect me to forward a torrent of e-mails to a blind kid with no computer? Leroy and Dartanyon had no bank accounts, no family members equipped to harness this outpouring of generosity. ESPN had to understand that to rebuff this support would have been exploiting two vulnerable, deserving boys. Miniature tornadoes of bewilderment, then anger, then betrayal spun through me, overtaking my sensibilities. I was pounding out my resignation when Victor appeared behind my cubicle.
“I saw the cease and desist order,” he said, running his hand through his hair.
“Victor, I will quit before I turn my back on those boys. I’ll quit right now,” I said. That day, I would be brave. That day, I would stand tall. “This is their chance. It’s the only one they’re ever going to get.”
Victor’s eyes grew soft, and he nodded ever so slightly. “Take whatever time off you need, and don’t worry about the legalities,” he said. “Go change the world. Our secret.”
CHAPTER 10
NEW LIVES
It has been said that our lives are shaped by only a handful of moments—some delicate, some severe. They are points of decision. Choices made. Consequences suffered. Love lost or gained. Our remaining hours are spent living out those pivotal moments and being refined by them. Who decides where our course will veer and in which direction it will head? The turn in Leroy and Dartanyon’s story was decided not by them, nor by its narrator. Instead, a chorus of a thousand strangers made the decision.
