From the Road to the River
The Athletic's Leon Carter on how he turned a walk down a hill into a life of giving back.
In 1994, when I was 21, I boarded a plane from Raleigh and headed for the middle of the country alone, knowing that the people on the other side of that flight were expecting me, pulling for me, believing in me—even though we had yet to meet.
No one at Carolina had suggested I apply for this newfangled Sports Journalism Institute,1 a nine-week summer training and internship program designed to increase opportunities for women and minorities in the field. A flyer advertising the one-year-old program had caught my eye.
I don’t even recall informing my rather managerial family that I intended to spend the summer before my senior year traversing the country from Kansas to California to Dallas—not until well after my acceptance letter had arrived by campus mail. I threw a protective cloak around its possibilities, concealing it from external doubt.
It’s how I knew the opportunity mattered; back then, I kept the important stuff to myself. The 5,000 miles of travel I logged from June through early August were formative, the young adult version of a shape sorting puzzle: a square peg, a round hole, an expedition for independence and belonging.
And I had one of the most knowledgeable and supportive guides possible in The Athletic’s Leon Carter.
Carter, who co-founded the Sports Journalism Institute with Sandy Rosenbush in 1993 (see my interview with her here), has had a big career, the kind that no one expects when they grow up on a farm in South Boston, Va. He climbed from The (Norfolk) Virginian-Pilot to The (Louisville) Courier-Journal to Newsday, from the Daily News to ESPN to editor at large for The Athletic. In 2022, he won the Red Smith Award from the Associated Press Sports Editors for his contributions to sports journalism, the highest honor given in the field.
But in the weeks I spent learning from him before heading to my internship at The Dallas Morning News—where I would also meet friends who encouraged and validated me for years to come—I missed the chance to ask Carter about his own youthful expeditions, how he sorted the shapes for himself and built his own belonging.
Until we spoke again last month, I didn’t know how he had grounded himself between the place he was from and the places he went. How much the land he grew up on still means to the man he became. How he made his own star and then multiplied its wattage to share with everyone who came after him.
But now I do, and it’s my favorite kind of story.
Maybe it’s yours, too.
Mr. Carter, I cannot believe I don’t know more about your start, other than that you grew up on a farm.
Scandal!
Ha! I know! It truly is. Can we correct it? Tell me about growing up.
South Boston, Va., was a town about two hours from Richmond, where you knew a lot of the people in it. And yes, I grew up on a farm. The house sat on a hill, then you come down the hill and walked along the farm from the road to the river—which is one day going to be the title of my book, by the way, From the Road to the River. And as you take that walk from the road to the river, you see the vast fields where the corn, tobacco, cows, pigs, watermelon, cantaloupe, and vegetable gardens were. And this is where I and my brothers, we worked our butts off during the summertime in the hot sun.
But in my free time, I did a lot of reading. I was always interested in the local paper when it came. I started clipping articles and rewriting articles, and talking into my tape recorder like a broadcaster.
I recall doing similar. How old were you when you started to do those things?
I was somewhere between 10 and 14.
What surprises you about your younger self when you think about him now?
What’s crazy is that, growing up on a farm, I didn’t know any journalists, and no journalists of color. Usually, you aspire to do something or to be someone who you see around you, someone you meet—whether that’s a fireman, a teacher, a doctor, or a lawyer. But for me, I just got excited every time a newspaper came out.
So I was guided by something, and I didn’t know what it was at the time. When I look back on it, it would’ve been great if somebody had said to me: “OK, if you want to be a journalist, here’s how I did it.” Someone who could tell me the things that you guys learned in SJI.
When you talk about being the only one, of having no examples around you of who you wanted to become … You really made your career from scratch. Where did your drive come from?
I remember sitting in the guidance counselor’s office in high school—her last name was Carter, and her voice was kind of crusty because she was a smoker. So I was sitting there and she was smoking that long cigarette. We went over a bunch of occupations. Doctor. Lawyer. Fireman. Teacher. And I was just saying, “No, no, no, no.” Journalism was never on the list. But I remember she said, “Well, if you don’t pick anything, you’re going to be a farmer.” Then my eyes opened up. I didn’t want to work on a farm.
And I said, “OK, sign me up for this writing class.” That allowed me to work for the school paper, and luckily I had instructors who encouraged me to stick with it, because there was no one at my school paper who looked like me, either. When I graduated from college, I didn’t see a lot of people who looked like me. When I went to work at The (Louisville) Courier-Journal, same thing. When I got to Newsday three years later, same thing. It was still a white dominated profession.
Did you feel isolated?
No, no, no, no. Because when you write a story, people see your byline, they look at you, they begin to look up to you right away. So you are inspired by that. Your inspiration came from the assignments. I wasn’t inspired by any one person. There was something guiding me internally.
I just know that whatever you have achieved in life, it doesn’t mean anything unless you can turn around and open the door to help somebody else.
So, how did you go from being a self-driven striver to spreading that motivation to 400-plus women and students of color?
I got a chance to teach and mentor at my alma mater, Norfolk State, as a journalist in residence for a year in 1992. I took a sabbatical from Newsday. I could see the immediate impact of helping students get better, and it was just unbelievable. And to give students what I didn’t have—the idea that there were others who looked like them in the field. So that led to discussing something bigger, to creating the Sports Journalism Institute the following year.
Originally, we had a three-year grant to do it. If we had been told we were committing to decades of SJI, we probably would have run away! But lo and behold, here it is 2024. We just trained our 32nd class, and we have close to 400 alumni. The impact it had on people’s lives was bigger than we thought it would be, and it’s not just an immediate impact. It lasts a lifetime, whether they stay in journalism or find a different calling. It’s what I’m most proud of in my career.
And The Athletic is beginning an internship program now that will be named for you.
Yes, that’s true, and I’m getting that off the ground now. I’m so honored by all the things that have come my way.
How do the people back home feel about your success? Do they treat you differently?
Oh, they are very proud. When I go back to visit and go to church, they immediately usher me to the front of the church: “We read about you in the newspaper. We read about the Red Smith Award.”
Here’s the other thing: In that area, there are very few articles written on African Americans who are doing well. So they write about me a lot. And I appreciate that recognition, but I didn’t get into the business for people to be proud of me, and I don’t go back and talk about myself. I did those things because I saw a need. I just know that whatever you have achieved in life, it doesn’t mean anything unless you can turn around and open the door to help somebody else.
Every time I have to make a big decision, I go back home and make that walk from the road to the river and just think. I love to take that walk. The farm is in my and my brother’s names now, and when I retire, I hope to build my dream house there. It’s just sort of funny that the place that you ran from in your early age is a place that you now want to go back to and retire after you have done all the things you wanted to do.
That’s beautiful. You left a farm and then created a place for other people to grow.
That’s true.
Including me. I just want to say again how much I appreciate all you’ve done.
Well, you’re welcome. And I could not believe when you reached out that you worried I might not remember. Of course I remember! I remember everyone from SJI.
That was no reflection on you; that’s a “me” problem. Because I left sports journalism, I worried that I didn’t do as much as I could have with all that you gave me. But what never left was the knowledge that you guys believed in me and in all of us.
Yes, because that belief takes you from step A to step B, from step B to step C, and then you take it from there. That belief takes you anywhere. ♣
NEXT WEEK: A Sandbox wrap-up issue on reconnecting with my time in sports journalism and the bittersweet lessons I’ve learned about family and fandom.
SOON: A coming-of-age Intrepid Post on hope, football, and broken hearts—and a new series of Wednesday interviews with three thoughtful stewards of life stories.
Though one professor did suggest that I stop wearing my baseball hat and “dress more like a girl sometimes.”