Ten and Oh, and Viking the Beagle Retires First
Cleveland State52
Arizona State17
- Game
- 2031 Week 10
- Site
- Home
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 10-0
Vikings 52, Arizona State 17, at home. TEN AND OH.
Thirty-five points of daylight. Our fifth straight win over the Sun Devils. Ten and oh for the second straight year. Folks, I’ve been doing this since 1994, and I want you to understand that I’m not used to this. I’ll never be used to this. Every week I wake up thinking, “This is the week.” And every week our guys say, “No, it isn’t.”
News from the porch. Viking, our beagle, the third beagle named Viking, is twelve now. He’s slowed down. He doesn’t chase the Reyes kids’ football anymore; he lies on the porch in the sun and watches it go by. Donna says he’s “retired.” I said, “Can a beagle retire?” She said, “He’s doing it better than you did.” That stung. It was accurate.
Leo and Sofia come over every Saturday before the game to sit with him. Sofia reads him her stat sheet. Leo tells him the scouting report. Viking listens to both with great seriousness and then falls asleep. That’s the best review either of them has ever gotten.
Sam made him a little ramp for the porch steps. Walnut. Matches the rocking chair. Sam can’t help himself.
Four pierogi. One for Viking, cut into small pieces.
Ten and oh, and a thirty-five-point win over Arizona State. The Vikings have won ten straight to open a season for the second year in a row. Last year it ended in the semifinal against Ohio. This year Ohio is already behind them on the schedule; the only way they meet again is the bracket. Everybody in Athens assumes it will.
I want to write about Viking the beagle, because Mickey won’t do it right. Viking is twelve, slow and dignified, and every Saturday two children sit on Mickey’s porch and read him football. Last week I sat with them. Sofia read the stat sheet. Leo read the scouting report. Viking put his head on my shoe. I didn’t move for forty minutes.
When I told Teresa, she said, “You let a dog sleep on your foot for forty minutes?” I said, “He seemed to need it.” She looked at me for a long time. Then she said, “Kenny, you’re going to be a good—” and stopped, and went into the kitchen. I don’t know how that sentence ended. I’ve thought about it all week.
The Doom Model has a “Perfect?” tab again. This time, it made a second one beside it: “Ohio?” Both are blinking.
Back and forth
Viking slept on your shoe for forty minutes?
He needed a shoe. I had one.
Teresa said you’re going to be a good what?
She didn’t finish. She went to the kitchen. I didn’t follow. I was being a shoe.
Ten and oh for the second straight year, a twelve-year-old beagle retiring with more grace than his owner, and Ken spending forty minutes as a pillow.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.