Ohio Again. By Three. In Our House. Again.
Cleveland State38
Ohio41
- Game
- 2028 Week 8
- Site
- Home
- Result
- Loss
- Record
- 7-1
Ohio 41, Vikings 38.
I’ll start with my phone, because my phone told me before the scoreboard did. “sorry, Dad.” Green heart. And then a second text from Bridget, a minute later: “this one doesn’t count. you’ll see.” I don’t know what she meant. I’ve been staring at it for a day.
Three points. At home. Three straight Ohio games in Cleveland now, folks, and three straight losses, by twenty-five, by one and now by three. Tim Slocombe’s Bobcats walk into our building like they hold the deed. I respect them. I’m tired of respecting them.
Monday I went to Sal’s. I didn’t look at the pennant. I didn’t have to. Sal didn’t gloat. He cut in silence, and then, at the end, he said something I didn’t expect. He said, “Mick. You guys are the best team in the conference. We just know your address.” Then he charged me half price. I didn’t know what to do with that, so I tipped him the other half.
Seven and one. The season isn’t over. The season is very not over. But tonight I’m eating stuffed cabbage, Donna’s recipe, in the dark. Zero pierogi.
Three points, at home, to Ohio. I could write the column in my sleep. I have. I’ve written it twice before.
But I’ll tell you what’s different, and I want to be precise. The Vikings didn’t get pushed around. They lost a three-point game to a very good team. That’s a coin flip, not a verdict. In 2024 this was a seminar. In 2028, it’s a close loss to a rival in a game either team could’ve won.
I came home and Teresa had the soup ready. Preventive care that turned into acute care. She didn’t say anything. She ladled it, set it down and sat across from me while I ate. After a while she said, “Is it over? The season?” I said, “No. It’s just a loss.” She said, “Then why do you look like that?” I said, “Because it was Ohio.” She nodded like a doctor writing something down and said, “I’m going to need to meet this Ohio.”
Bridget’s text, by the way, Mickey showed me. “This one doesn’t count. You’ll see.” I’ve been thinking about it too. I think she knows something about December we don’t.
Back and forth
Three in a row in our house, Kenny.
By twenty-five, one and three. The gap’s closing.
Sal charged me half price.
That’s the scariest thing Sal’s ever done. He knows something too.
Three points to Ohio, a cryptic text from Athens, a half-price haircut from a barber who sees December coming, and soup that turned from preventive to acute.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.