Seventy to Seven, and Leo Gets a Letter
Cleveland State70
Kansas7
- Game
- 2034 Week 9
- Site
- Home
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 9-0
Vikings 70, Kansas 7, at home. Nine and oh.
Sixty-three points of daylight against the Jayhawks. Nine and oh. Seven points allowed. I’ve run out of words for this defense, folks. The thesaurus is out of words. I’ve started making up my own. This defense is “Chester-like”: it says nothing and gives you nothing.
Now, Leo. Leo Reyes, sixteen, a junior cornerback, got a letter this week. A real one, on letterhead. From a college. A small one, a Division III school in Pennsylvania, interested in him as a cornerback and, the letter said, “as a student.” Marco showed it to me on the porch with his hands shaking. Jess had it in a plastic sleeve already. Leo was trying very hard to act like it was nothing.
Then Leo said, “Coach Mickey, can I ask you something?” I said yes. He said, “Did you ever want to play?” I said, “Leo, I wanted to play more than anything. I was five-foot-six and slow. So I learned to watch.” He said, “Is watching enough?” I said, “Kiddo, watching is how I got to know all of you.”
He nodded. Then he went inside and put the letter on the refrigerator next to Sofia’s stat sheets and Rose’s crayon drawing of a Viking from when she visited in August.
Four pierogi. One on the plate.
A sixty-three-point home win over Kansas. Nine and oh. The defense, which Mickey now calls “Chester-like,” has allowed ninety points in nine games.
Leo got a letter from a college. I asked Mickey if I could write about it and he said, “Ask Leo.” So I asked Leo, by text. He wrote back, “Yes, Mr. Ken. But say it’s small. I don’t want anybody to think I’m a big deal.” So: it’s small. It’s a small college. It’s a small letter. Leo Reyes is not a big deal. Leo Reyes is a sixteen-year-old cornerback who held Mickey’s hand on his front steps in April while they waited for an ambulance, and who told my father, through two other people, that cornerback was getting less lonely. He’s the biggest small deal I know.
Teresa says I’ve started using the word “kiddo.” I deny it.
Back and forth
He asked if watching is enough.
You told him it’s how you got to know everybody. That’s the truest thing you’ve ever said in print.
You said “kiddo” to Sofia on the phone.
I did not. I said “kid.” There’s a difference. Teresa says there isn’t.
Seventy to seven and a defense with no words left, a small letter from a small college for the biggest small deal on the block, and a believer who learned to watch because he couldn’t play.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.