Seventy to Sixteen, and Leo Plays His Last Home Game
Cleveland State70
Iowa State16
- Game
- 2035 Week 8
- Site
- Home
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 8-0
VIKINGS 70, IOWA STATE 16. EIGHT AND OH.
Fifty-four points of daylight. Six wins in six tries against the Cyclones. Titus Reece, our junior from Iowa, against Iowa State again, and the Iowa State fans stood and clapped for him again, the way they did in 2033. That’s twice now. Iowa’s a gracious state, folks. I’ve decided to visit someday. I’ll have the corn.
On Friday night, the night before, Leo Reyes played his last home game for his high school. Senior night. The seniors walk out with their parents. Leo walked out with Marco and Jess, and then, at the end of the line, he stopped, turned around and waved at the bleachers. At me. He waved me down. I said, “Leo, I’m not your parent.” He said, “Coach Mickey, come on.” So I walked out onto the field, sixty-seven years old, with a stent, in my Vikings windbreaker, and stood with the Reyes family while the announcer read his name.
Sofia was in the press box. She came on the loudspeaker, with permission, and said, “Number twenty-four, Leo Reyes, and his coach, Mr. Mickey Bridges.” The whole stadium clapped. For me. At a high school game. I don’t know what to do with that, folks. I’m still not sure.
Five pierogi.
A fifty-four-point home win over Iowa State. Eight and oh.
I was at Leo’s senior night. Teresa insisted. We sat in the bleachers with Donna, and I watched Leo stop at the end of the line and wave Mickey down, and I watched Mickey refuse twice and then walk out anyway. Donna held Teresa’s hand. Teresa held mine. Sofia’s voice came over the speaker. I’ve been in a lot of stadiums. I’ve never been in one that felt like that.
Here’s the thing I keep coming back to. For years I wrote about Mickey’s hope as if it were a flaw in his method. I meant it as an insult. Eleven years later, I watched a high school stadium in Cleveland stand up for him, because a boy he coached in flag football at seven asked him to walk out on senior night. Hope, it turns out, is an analytical framework. It just measures different things. It measures who shows up.
The Doom Model has a new tab. I made this one. It’s called “Who Shows Up.” It has every name from this column for eleven years. It’s the longest tab in the file.
Back and forth
He waved me down, Kenny.
Twice. You refused twice. Then you walked out. That’s the whole story of you.
“Who Shows Up”?
My new tab. Eleven years of names. You’re in the first row.
Eight and oh and a freshman-turned-junior applauded twice by Iowa State, a boy who waved his old flag-football coach onto the field on senior night, and a spreadsheet tab called “Who Shows Up.”
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.