Donna and Nadia Meet in Oxford, and the Bet Flips Back
Cleveland State52
Miami (OH)42
- Game
- 2030 Week 11
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 11-0
Vikings 52, Miami (OH) 42, in Oxford. ELEVEN AND OH.
Donna wore the cape. Of course she wore the cape. That’s four trips to Oxford, folks, in 2024, 2026, 2028 and now 2030, and four wins, plus the playoff game last year on a neutral field. Donna Bridges is five and oh against the RedHawks anywhere that isn’t our house. She’s thinking about selling the cape’s services to other programs. I told her it’s not for sale. She said, “Everything’s for sale, Michael, except the beagle.”
And then something happened I’ll never forget. In the third quarter, a woman in a RedHawks jersey came down the aisle, stopped at our row and said, “You must be Donna.” It was Nadia. From the Lantern Room. She’d driven down from Cleveland to sit in the visitors’ section, “to keep an eye on Ken’s people.” Donna looked her up and down, moved her purse and said, “Sit.” Nadia sat. They talked the whole fourth quarter. I don’t know about what. When I asked, Donna said, “Women’s business.” Nadia said, “Cape business.”
Five pierogi. One for Nadia, who drove four hours to watch her team lose next to my wife and said it was “worth it for the company.”
A ten-point win in Oxford. Eleven and oh. One regular-season game from perfection, which I’m not saying.
The bet. On Tuesday, back at the Lantern Room, Nadia Petrakis walked behind her own bar, pulled me a beer, set it down and said, loud enough for the room: “Your team is better than mine.” Six times now in seven years. The bar applauded. I raised the glass. She pointed at the green ribbon, which I’ve carried in my wallet since last January, and said, “Keep it, Ken. You’re on a run.” Then she said, quieter, “Donna’s wonderful. Why didn’t you tell me?” I said, “I told you a hundred times.” She said, “You told me she’s practical. You didn’t say she’s funny.”
Nadia and Donna exchanged phone numbers. I don’t know how I feel about that. Mickey doesn’t either. We’ve agreed it’s the most dangerous alliance in northeast Ohio.
I called my father. He knew the score before I said it; my mother had told him. He said, “Eleven, Kenny.” I said, “Eleven, Dad.” He said, “Pops never had eleven.” Pops is my grandfather. He’s been gone since 1988. My father brings him up maybe twice a year. Only when it matters.
Back and forth
Donna and Nadia exchanged numbers!
I’m aware. I’ve been dreading it all week.
Your dad said “Pops never had eleven.”
He only brings up Pops when it matters. That’s how I know it matters.
The cape goes five and oh away from home, the bet flips back, and two women from opposite sides of a rivalry trade phone numbers in the fourth quarter.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.