Provo Again, and Leo Reyes Is a High School Freshman
Cleveland State56
BYU31
- Game
- 2032 Week 4
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 4-0
Vikings 56, BYU 31, in Provo. Four and oh.
Twenty-five points of daylight, our fifth straight win over BYU, and our third trip to Provo since 2028. I’ve stopped writing about how clean their city is. They know. Everyone knows.
Big news next door: Leo Reyes is fourteen and a freshman in high school. He made the freshman team as a cornerback. A real high school team, with real pads and a real coach who isn’t me. I went to his first game on a Thursday afternoon. I stood on the far side of the fence with Marco and Jess and didn’t yell once. Not once, folks. Marco said, “Mickey, are you okay?” I said, “It’s not my team, Marco. I’m just a fan.” He said, “You’ve never been just a fan in your life.” He’s right. I yelled in the fourth quarter. Just once. Leo heard it. He pointed at me from the field, the way he did in 2028 when he made his first real tackle.
And Sofia, twelve, aged out of the Lakers this year. She’s now my assistant coach, like Leo was, with a clipboard, a whistle and the official title of “Statistics and Morale.” She’s better at both than Leo was. Don’t tell Leo.
Four pierogi.
A twenty-five-point win in Provo. Four and oh. The defense, under its new coordinator, Larry Trufant, has given up thirty-one points twice in four games. The offense has scored at least fifty-five every game. That math works until it doesn’t.
I want to note something for the record. In 2024, Leo Reyes was six years old and thought Mickey was a pirate. In 2032, he’s a high school cornerback. I’ve covered a football program for eight years and a little boy for eight years at the same time, and I’m not sure which one has made more progress. Probably Leo. The Vikings were already good.
My father called on Sunday, a good day. He asked about “the boy next door.” I told him Leo plays high school football now. He said, “What position?” I said cornerback. He said, “That’s the loneliest position on the field. Tell him it gets less lonely.” I asked him how he knew that. He said, “I played corner, Kenny. In 1968. At Parma.” I didn’t know that. Forty-six years of conversations, and I didn’t know my father played cornerback.
Back and forth
Your dad played corner?
In 1968. At Parma. I’ve known him forty-six years and he never told me.
I’ll tell Leo what he said.
Tell him exactly. “It gets less lonely.” Tell him it’s from a man who knows.
Four and oh in Provo, a fourteen-year-old’s first high school game, a twelve-year-old promoted to Statistics and Morale, and a father who finally told his son he played cornerback.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.