Fourteen and Oh, and Ohio a Third Time
Cleveland State42
Texas A&M13
- Game
- 2030 CFP Quarterfinal
- Site
- Neutral site
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 14-0
Vikings 42, Texas A&M 13. FOURTEEN AND OH. INTO THE NATIONAL SEMIFINAL.
Twenty-nine points of daylight in the playoff quarterfinals against an SEC team. We had the bye, we had the rest, and our guys came out like they’d been waiting all month to hit somebody. Which they had.
Fourteen and oh, folks. Fourteen! I counted it on my fingers twice, and then Leo counted it for me to be sure.
And now Ohio. A third time. In the semifinal.
I know what you’re thinking, my people, because I’m thinking it too. Last year we lost to the RedHawks twice and beat them the third time. This year we’ve beaten Ohio twice. Kenny has a theory about this. I’ve told him to keep it to himself.
Sam came by on Sunday with the rocking chair. Finished. Stained. Dark walnut. He set it on my porch and said, “Kate told me to stain it. She says you’ll need it either way.” I said, “What does ‘either way’ mean?” Sam said, “I don’t know, Mickey. I’m a carpenter.” Then he left. I sat in it. It’s a very good chair. It might be the best chair I’ve ever sat in. I don’t want to talk about why that scares me.
Five pierogi.
A twenty-nine-point quarterfinal win over Texas A&M. Fourteen and oh. The best start of the Dolan era, with one game to win to reach the national championship game for the second straight year.
The theory Mickey asked me to keep to myself: in a three-game series, the team that’s lost twice has nothing left to protect. The team that’s won twice has everything. Last year the Vikings were the team with nothing to protect. This year they’re the other one. That’s not analysis. It’s a feeling, and I don’t trust my feelings, which is why I’m telling you.
The Doom Model’s “Perfect?” tab has updated. It now says “Perfect? (1 game).” I’ve never seen it so close to an answer. It’s never been so quiet.
I called my father on Sunday. A good day. He said, “Kenny, who’s next?” I said, “Ohio, Dad. Third time.” He was quiet a long time. Then he said, “In my day, if you played a team three times, two of ‘em were fights.” He’d said it last year. He didn’t remember saying it. I said, “We won the first two this time, Dad.” He said, “Then they’ll be mad.” He’s right. They will be.
Back and forth
Sam finished the rocking chair.
“Either way.” That’s the most ominous thing a carpenter has ever said.
Your theory’s wrong, Kenny.
I hope so. I’ve never hoped harder to be wrong.
Fourteen and oh for the first time ever, a stained walnut rocking chair waiting on the porch “either way,” and Ohio, a third time, mad.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.