35-7 in Athens: The Pennant Goes to the Wall Again
Cleveland State35
Ohio7
- Game
- 2027 Week 9
- Date
- 2027-11-07
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 8-1
VIKINGS 35, OHIO 7. IN ATHENS.
I told you, friends. I told you this team answers its worst day with its best. One week after Orlando, our guys went down to Athens, into Tim Slocombe’s house, against a Bobcats team that’s having a great year, and held them to SEVEN POINTS. Seven! The defense everybody’s been worried about (I’m looking at you, Kenny) showed up in green and white and slammed every door in the building.
I was there. Bridget was in the press box. I sent the text at 6:58 p.m.: “sorry, kiddo.” She wrote back: “Dad. Seven points. SEVEN.” Then a minute later: “I’m proud of your guys. Don’t tell anyone.” I’m telling everyone. That’s my job.
And Monday at Sal’s, I didn’t say a word. I just sat. Sal cut. Halfway through, he put down the clippers, walked over to the mirror and turned the pennant to face the wall. Then he came back and said, very quietly, “We’re still winning the conference, Mick.” And you know what? He might be. Ohio’s good. We just happened to be better on one beautiful November afternoon.
Five pierogi. A polka for Athens.
Seven points. The Vikings held Ohio to seven points in Athens a week after giving up fifty-nine in Orlando. I’ve been doing this for thirteen years, and I can’t explain that, so I won’t try.
What I can say: it’s the most complete performance of the Dolan era. The offense did its job and the defense did something I’d stopped believing it could do. If this team can play defense like that in December, I’m going to need to rethink some things. Maybe all the things.
Teresa watched with me at my apartment. When the Vikings went up three scores, she looked at me and said, “You’re doing a thing with your face.” I asked what thing. She said, “Smiling, I think. It’s hard to tell with you.” She took a picture. She says she’s going to frame it next to a photo of a solar eclipse, “for rarity.”
My father said Sunday, “We beat Ohio?” I said, “By twenty-eight, Dad.” He said, “Write that down, Kenny. That doesn’t happen.” I wrote it down.
Back and forth
Seven points, Kenny!
My dad told me to write it down. It’s written.
You smiled. Teresa has proof.
It was a facial anomaly. She’s a nurse; she should know better.
Ohio held to seven in Athens, a pennant back to the wall, and photographic evidence that Ken Hogmanes can smile, framed next to an eclipse.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.