Seventy Points, Eleven Wins, and Ohio Waiting in the Title Game
Cleveland State70
TCU24
- Game
- 2028 Week 12
- Site
- Home
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 11-1
Vikings 70, TCU 24, at home. ELEVEN AND ONE. The regular season is over, and it’s the best regular season of the Dolan era. No ties this time, folks. No asterisks. Eleven wins.
And now, the Big 12 Championship. Against Ohio.
Of course it’s Ohio. It was always going to be Ohio. Bridget called me Sunday night. Not a text. A call. She said, “Dad, I told you the last one didn’t count.” I said, “You knew?” She said, “I’ve worked in this office five years. I know a rematch when I see one.” Then she said, “I’ll be in the press box. Wear the cardigan.” My own daughter, ordering me to wear the lucky cardigan against her own team. That’s love, folks. That’s a family that’s figured out how to be on both sides of something.
We had Thanksgiving this week. Sam made a third oak chair, for Teresa this time, with a little T carved on the back. Teresa cried. Ken pretended he had something in his eye. Big Stan sent over a tray of pierogi and a note that said “FOR THE REMATCH.”
Four pierogi. The fifth’s in Stan’s freezer, labeled.
The Vikings beat TCU by forty-six points to finish eleven and one, and I’m going to skip the analysis, because there’s only one thing anybody in this city cares about.
Ohio. Again. For the Big 12 title.
Three straight Ohio games in Cleveland, three straight losses. The Bobcats have our number, our address and, according to Sal, our spare key. This time it’s at a neutral site. That matters. Ohio plays in our stadium like they’re the home team. Somewhere else, they’re just a good team. We beat good teams.
Thanksgiving: I’ll confirm only that Sam’s chair is beautiful, that Teresa’s name is carved in it, and that I did not cry. My eyes were reacting to the horseradish on the relish tray. Donna can confirm there was horseradish. Donna, please confirm there was horseradish.
I called my father that night and told him about the chair. He said, “Somebody carved her name in a chair?” I said yes. He said, “Then you better marry her, Kenny.” I said, “Dad.” He said, “I’m seventy-six. I’ll say what I want.”
Back and forth
Ohio, Kenny. For the title.
I know. I’ve known since August. Everybody has.
Your dad said to marry her.
My dad says a lot of things now. He’s usually right about the big ones.
Eleven wins, a carved oak chair, a tray of pierogi labeled for the rematch, and everyone in two cities knowing exactly what comes next.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.