Carry On Read online

  So my timing was not the greatest. Nor was my research.

  “Are they good athletes?” Tom asked.

  “Probably not the best,” I said. “It’s city league wrestling, and one has no legs.”

  “Are they articulate?” asked Valerie.

  “I have not spoken to them,” I said.

  “Are they friends?” Victor asked.

  “They must be. You don’t carry acquaintances around on your back. And their school is in a rough part of Cleveland, so I’m sure they’re poor in addition to disabled,” I said, as though poverty counted as bonus points.

  “Lisa, what exactly is the story?” Victor asked, turning back to the script in his hands. “Being blind, and maybe poor, and getting hit by a train seven years ago, while all very tragic, is not exactly current news.”

  “I know I’m lacking specifics here,” I admitted. “If I had to boil it down to a tagline, I would say it’s about the one who can’t walk being carried by the one who can’t see.”

  Begging for story approval was not my usual mode of operation. Victor expected his producers to do their homework, to preinterview subjects, to forecast shooting budgets. And then we engaged in an educated discussion with him. I had done none of that. But instead of pointing me back to my desk, Victor uncharacteristically rolled the dice.

  “Give me your honest gut feeling,” he said.

  I nodded cautiously, leaned in, and lowered my voice. “Victor, think about it: the one who cannot walk being carried by the one who cannot see,” I repeated slowly.

  He looked at the picture again, slowly scrunching his mouth from side to side three times before stopping on a sideways smirk and granting the permission that would permanently alter the course of three lives: “Have a nice trip to Cleveland.”

  THAT MORNING STARTED like every other for Dartanyon—flat back to the hard oak floor. He’d been staying with his teammate, Matt Sifers, on the lower west side that year, along with Matt’s little sister and their mom, Laura. Theirs was a simple place, just two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a small area to the left of it with a cracked leather reclining chair. After Dartanyon and his dad, Arthur, lost their place the previous fall, Arthur slept on that chair for a few weeks. Dartanyon didn’t mind, though; at least he knew where his dad was each night.

  Arthur’s sister on the east side eventually agreed to take him in, but the sense was that she never cared much for Dartanyon; the last time he stayed with her, she’d accused him of eating too much food. So Laura said Dartanyon could stay for a while, and she’d make sure he got to school and back with Matt. Though no one treated him as a burden, Dartanyon knew Laura struggled to make rent each month too, so he minded his manners and remembered to be grateful for his patched-up air mattress, which leaked most of its breath by morning.

  Dartanyon rolled to his side, his back creaking in rhythm with the floorboards. He could feel winter in his bones, but still found it easier to get up on that morning than others. Today was the city sectional wrestling tournament—the first qualifying meet on the road to the state championships—and Dartanyon’s confidence was high. One week earlier, he’d won the Senate Conference championship and earned league MVP. His dad had come to that meet as well, sober, making for three milestones in a day.

  Dartanyon quietly slipped out of the house and reached the bus stop just as the 7:00 a.m. westbound arrived. A few folks on the bus looked Dartanyon over as he got on, as though trying to place where they had seen him before. As the bus continued on, Dartanyon thought two men pointed at him and whispered to one another, but he couldn’t quite tell. Then an older black gentleman sitting opposite slowly glanced up from his newspaper, over his bifocals, down again to his paper, and then shot his head back up, chuckling at Dartanyon. The man pushed his fistful of newspaper onto Dartanyon’s chest. “Look at you man, you a hero!” he declared. And with that, the man hopped off the bus.

  Dartanyon pulled the page up close to his face. A color picture of him and Leroy sat smack in the middle of the sports section. He remembered the reporter at their conference championship last weekend, asking them questions about how they wrestled with their disabilities. But he certainly didn’t get the sense that the guy liked them enough to do a whole story on them. Dartanyon thought maybe there would be a few lines in the high school roundup notes, but he didn’t know when, or that there would be such a large photo. Poverty had taught him that he didn’t have the right to answers, and so he had gotten out of the habit of asking questions.

  Dartanyon walked off that bus a few inches taller. He thought about showing the article around the halls at school but instead placed it carefully on the top shelf of his locker. Following their last eviction, Dartanyon’s dad put their few remaining belongings into a storage unit, but when he stopped making payments two months later, the owner confiscated Dartanyon’s athletic trophies and plaques and sold them off for scrap. Dartanyon vowed to protect his joy from that point on.

  Before first period, Coach Hons hung the article on his classroom blackboard with a magnet, feeling somewhat puzzled as he did. Certainly it was unique to have two disabled wrestlers on the same team—but front-page-worthy? Must have been a slow day in Cleveland sports, he thought. This was an incredible acknowledgment for his team, though. As each one of his wrestlers circled in to see the article, they beamed proudly in front of that blackboard. People in these neighborhoods make their names in the crime blotter, so when the Wolverine wrestlers saw two of their own representing good news, they felt they’d achieved something honorable together.

  “Congratulations on your boys, Hons!” Fellow teachers saluted Justin throughout the morning, and Dartanyon strutted those halls like he was The Man. This was strong momentum to take into sectionals, Coach Hons thought.

  “Pssst. Mr. Hons . . . ,” the school secretary said, poking her head around his classroom door. “Pssst. A woman from ESPN is on the phone. She wants to talk to you.”

  “We’re just about to start class,” he said. “Can I call her back?”

  “Um, well . . . I’m not a huge sports fan, but this sounds kind of important,” she replied. “I think she’s on her way to Cleveland.”

  MY FATHER PICKED me up at the airport later that afternoon, pleased his phone call resulted in a visit from his daughter. “I don’t know if you saw it,” he said, shaking his head as we drove out of the airport, “but the Cavs didn’t do anything at the trade deadline last night. Shaq stays in Phoenix. When will these general managers ever learn?” A minute later, he puffed his chest like a proud parent as he described the Plain Dealer’s recent ranking of LeBron’s best games so far that season.

  “You know,” he continued eagerly, “if this thing with the wrestlers doesn’t work out, maybe you could do something with that—a LeBron highlights thing, you know. Now that could make a good story for you.”

  “Thanks, Dad—I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Midpark High School, site of the Greater Cleveland sectional meet, was a short drive from the airport, past the billowing smoke stacks of the Ford and Chevy motor plants and just over the city line into the blue-collar suburb of Brook Park.

  “Does this happen often?” my father asked as we pulled in to the parking lot.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, where they let you just get on a plane like this?”

  I shook my head. “Never,” I replied.

  “Jeez, well, they may never let you do this again either, because I don’t think these two are going to be ESPN-worthy wrestlers,” he said, a tinge of worry in his voice. “I mean, if they were, they’d be wrestling over at St. Ed’s.”

  My videographer, Rick Hines, and his audio tech, Jon Wermuth, were waiting for me outside the gymnasium, and as we entered, there they were, walking straight at us: Leroy Sutton, riding on the back of Dartanyon Crockett. Rick hoisted his camera onto his shoulder, not wanting to miss a possible TV moment. A sudden knot in my chest prompted misgivings.

  “Please don’t film y
et,” I said. “Just hang back for a bit.” That morning’s frenzy of fielding my father’s call, gaining Victor’s approval, and racing to the airport had me intensely focused on pursuing this story. I had forgotten that walking toward me now was not a story, but rather two young kids just trying to get around and blend in. And here I appeared in ambush without even the respect of an introduction. I didn’t feel like a respectable journalist. I felt like paparazzi.

  A thundering voice from off to the side jolted me straight. “You the ESPN lady?”

  I turned to see a hefty man rumbling toward me, hustling in a sort of slow motion. “Oh, um, yes. Hi. My name is Lisa,” I stammered. “You must be Coach—”

  “Robinson, but that don’t matter,” he said as he reached me. He meant business. “All that matters is one thing and one thing only: You been sent here today by God, you know.”

  I extended my hand and smiled nervously. “Oh, thank you, it’s so nice to meet you. I—”

  “You hear me?” He leaned in, his face inches from mine. “Every day I walk our track, praying for my boys. This year, I prayed hard for Sutton and Crockett. Because they good kids. Real good kids. But once they graduate, there ain’t nothin’ for them out there.” He paused to take a breath and a sly smile crept out, blowing his stern cover. “And then ESPN walks in the door? That ain’t no coincidence, little lady. You’ve been sent here for a reason.”

  I left the house each morning looking for glimpses of what God was doing in the world and the chance to be a part of it. But learning that someone else expected me to be the answer to a prayer applied a pressure I was not ready to assume.

  “Listen, I’ll introduce myself to the boys and then get out of the way during filming,” I said. “I know a lot rides on this tournament, so I don’t want my presence to make Leroy and Dartanyon uncomfortable. I can talk to you all later.”

  “Okay,” Robinson replied. “Just remember what I told you.” Robinson waved his index finger above his head as he turned to join his team on the warm-up mats across the gym. Most teams were decked out in brightly colored nylon tracksuits, sending the message that they had their act together. In contrast, the Lincoln-West kids, several of whom were barefoot, wore cheap navy-blue T-shirts that read “Matthew 18:20” on the front in white block letters; on the back, in both English and Spanish, they read:

  WOLVERINES PRAYER:

  WE PRAY NOT FOR EASIER LIVES BUT TO BE STRONGER MEN

  Robinson said he experienced God’s presence most profoundly when he was with his team. “For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them,” the scripture from Matthew reads. He spent every practice praying for those kids, and so in his mind, they were congregating in the Lord’s name. Robinson didn’t bother explaining the message to his boys, and none of them asked. They were just happy to look legit and to have a coach who loved them enough to put shirts on their backs.

  The buzzer signaled the end of warm-ups. “Please rise for the singing of our national anthem.” Dartanyon bent down to the ground. Leroy rose on his left knee, wrapping his arms around Dartanyon’s neck as Dartanyon hoisted him. Dartanyon stumbled three steps left and one to the right before securing his balance. Leroy pointed toward the flag so Dartanyon could align himself accordingly. He supported Leroy’s knee with his left hand; he kept his right hand on Leroy’s wrists, which were over Dartanyon’s heart. The surrounding wrestlers stood alongside as though this was perfectly natural.

  Following the anthem, Dartanyon scaled the bleachers, Leroy still on his back. Wrestling at 171 pounds, Leroy was not a light load. Dartanyon took the stairs in one fluid motion, harnessing momentum. Once they settled near the top, I headed up and slid beside Dartanyon. I explained that I was a producer for ESPN, had seen their picture in the paper that morning, and was interested in filming their matches. They said nothing. Dartanyon’s wandering eyes made it difficult for me to tell if he could see me, but I was certain from Leroy’s icy glare toward the mats that he chose not to.

  “So . . . do I have your permission to film you today?” I asked, more directly this time.

  “Sure!” Dartanyon exclaimed. “Anything for ESPN!”

  “Great, and then we can talk more later. I’ll just want to learn a little more about your lives, who you are, how you became friends. Those sorts of things.”

  Leroy slipped his earbuds back in. The letters P-A-I-N were written in pen across the four fingers of his left hand; he tapped them frenetically against his thigh. He was not interested in letting people get to know him, and he certainly wasn’t going to make an exception for me.

  Dartanyon, on the other hand, was enthusiastic. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, how has your season been?” I asked. “Do you have any favorite wins from this year?”

  Dartanyon pondered for a moment, as though it was a question that had never occurred to him. “No, I don’t remember any of my wins,” he said finally. “I only remember the losses.”

  DARTANYON’S FIRST LOSS had smelled uncomfortably like roses at every turn. There was the deep crimson rose on his father’s dashboard when he picked Dartanyon up early from school to tell him the news. Then the small white bud his sister pinned on his shirt before they all headed to the church. And now the ground where he stood was literally covered in petals of red and pearl, their fragrance thickening the air in his throat as he leaned over the open grave. When you come across a rose petal, you know how it takes a few strokes in between your fingers and your thumb before you can tell whether it’s real or artificial? Well, that’s similar to how Dartanyon felt, leaning over this open grave with a handful of velvety petals. He knew that was his mother in the casket, but was she really not coming back?

  Dartanyon was with his second-grade class the week before when Mrs. McKenna told him to pack up his things, that his father had come to get him. Dartanyon panicked, scrolling through his day, trying to figure out what he could have done wrong to warrant his father showing up to school. But Dartanyon was the one wronged this time. “Your mother is dead,” his dad told him when they reached the car. “She had a stroke and died this morning.” Arthur thought there was no other way to say it to a child than point-blank, to make sure he understood. Dartanyon didn’t think a little sympathy would have muddied the message any.

  “Do you want to go see her?” Arthur asked. Dartanyon nodded. His five older siblings were already at the morgue, crying and holding one another up. Dartanyon ran to his mother’s side and slipped his hands into hers. “Come on, Mama, please get up,” he whispered as he leaned in closer. “Let’s go home.” He knew his mother was sick, but he never had any reason to believe she wouldn’t get better. Mothers just don’t up and leave their seven children. Especially not Juanita Crockett. She held her family and half the neighborhood together. She could patch her own drywall, change a tire, and serve up Thanksgiving dinner for thirty people in the same afternoon, all while chasing around her house full of kids. Juanita was seventeen years old when she had her first child with Darnell Crockett. Irquois, as he was known, was both her first love and—as a light-skinned black man—her crown jewel. Back in that day, if a dark-skinned black woman like Juanita could get herself a lighter black man who could turn even a few heads on the block, she reeled him in as fast as she could. Juanita got one and could never let go.

  The problem was that she had hooked herself some trouble rather than a big fish. As the story goes, Irquois took a hit to the head while working at the Ford motor factory when he was twenty-one years old and was never quite right after that. Most felt he could have gone back to work, but the disability income from social security covered his liquor just fine. Juanita worked long days as a stylist at Mirror Mirror Salon and then came home to Irquois and his no-good drinking cronies. As far as anyone could tell, he never used a dime of his monthly checks to buy groceries, never paid a bill, never diapered a baby. But Juanita didn’t complain. No matter what condition Irquois was in, she was just glad he was still there when she c
ame home from work each day.

  However, it wasn’t long before Irquois was lured away by the neighborhood mistress: crack. He would disappear for stretches of time, but he always seemed to remember his vows toward the end of the month when he ran low on cash and rocks. Juanita would take him back, part hoping she could change him and part fearing he’d beat her if she didn’t.

  Juanita took up with a few other men along the way until she could figure out how to clean Irquois up and keep him home for good. And because of that, she was never quite sure about the paternity of some of her seven children. Some were lighter in complexion, some darker. Either way, she quietly listed Darnell Crockett as the father on all of their birth certificates. To further connect them, she named each child according to Irquois’s initials, D.C.: Dionna, Darnell Jr., Darlene, Dominique, Davielle, Dartanyon, and Danielle. She said she did so to ensure all of her kids grew unified as a family, and there was probably some truth to that. But her desire to hold on to Irquois was equally true.

  Juanita carried all of her babies home like the gold at a rainbow’s end. She tucked them into their beds each night, and by morning, a pack of three or four of them would be sleeping beside her, right up under her like a litter of puppies. And that’s the way she liked things. She was comfortable with chaos, with kids running wild, the banister hanging by its hinge and crusted ketchup on the couch. It was the type of bedlam that gave holy purpose to her struggles.

  Juanita thought Dartanyon would be her last child. She hemorrhaged badly during his delivery, and her obstetrician said that additional pregnancies could threaten her life. Perhaps that’s why she always looked at him with an extra twinkle in her eye, held him a little dearer. She’d nestle her new boy into her cheek and say, “Isn’t he just the cutest baby you’ve ever seen?”