Midnight Strikes for Cinderella: The Vikings Are Playing for It All
Cleveland State45
Charlotte28
- Game
- 2028 CFP Semifinal
- Site
- Neutral site
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 14-1
Vikings 45, Charlotte 28. WE’RE IN THE NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP GAME.
Look out the window, Northeast Ohio. That’s what a city holding its breath looks like.
Charlotte was a wonderful story, folks: first-round winners, a quarterfinal upset, all heart. Somebody had to be the clock striking midnight. Seventeen points, a semifinal win, and now one game left. Georgia. For everything.
At Big Stan’s Sunday, the whole deli was full by eight a.m. Stan didn’t even open the register. He just stood behind the counter in his apron, looking at the blank board. RESERVED. The counter council stood next to him. Then Chester (Chester, who has spoken a total of maybe four sentences since 2024) walked up, put his hand flat on the blank board and said, “One more.” Then he went back to his stool and ordered soup, like nothing had happened.
I had to go stand outside in the cold for a minute.
Five pierogi. Walt has taken the seating chart out of his breast pocket. It’s taped to the wall now. It’s official.
The Vikings beat Charlotte by seventeen and are playing for the national championship. I’ve written that sentence four times and deleted it three, because it doesn’t look real on a screen. I’m leaving it the fourth time.
The Doom Model crashed this morning. Not a dramatic crash. It just opened to a blank sheet with one cell filled in, top left, in bold: “OK.” I’ve decided to take that as a blessing.
I’ll be honest about the next game, because that’s the job. Georgia is physical, deep and has been here before. The Vikings have not. That matters. Experience matters. It also matters less than people think.
My father called me. He picked up the phone himself and dialed. My mother told me later he’d been practicing my number all afternoon. When I answered, he said, “Kenny. Georgia?” I said, “Georgia, Dad.” He said, “We’re playing Georgia for the whole thing?” I said yes. He said, “When I was a boy, we couldn’t beat Kent State.” I said, “I know, Dad.” He said, “Write it down, Kenny. All of it.”
Back and forth
One more, Kenny. Chester said it.
Chester put his hand on the board. I’ve never been more afraid of a deli.
Your dad dialed you himself!
He practiced my number all afternoon. I’m writing it all down, Dad. All of it.
Cinderella’s clock struck, Chester laid his hand on the reserved board, the Doom Model said “OK,” and a father practiced his son’s phone number all afternoon to ask about Georgia.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.