Seventy to Seven in Orlando, and Rose's First Thanksgiving
Cleveland State70
UCF7
- Game
- 2031 Week 12
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 12-0
Vikings 70, UCF 7, in Orlando. TWELVE AND OH. Another perfect regular season!
Sixty-three points of daylight in the city where, four years ago, UCF beat us fifty-nine to twenty-seven on Halloween. I remember that night like a bruise. On Saturday, our guys pressed on the bruise until it didn’t hurt anymore.
Two straight perfect regular seasons, folks. Twelve and oh, twice. I’ve stopped counting jerseys and started counting miracles.
And Thanksgiving! Rose’s first. At our house. Bridget and Eli drove up with Rose in her car seat in, I’m sorry to report, a green Ohio sweater that Eli’s mother knitted. So now both grandmothers are knitting for opposite sides. It’s an arms race. Donna has already bought more yarn.
Ken and Teresa came. Kate and Sam came. Sam brought the T chair and set it next to Ken’s, and I watched Ken look at that chair with the T on it for a long time. At grace, I thanked God for Rose, and for the Vikings, and for “whatever’s going to happen soon that everyone knows about.” Kenny turned the color of cranberry sauce. Teresa looked at him. Then she looked at me. Then she smiled at her plate.
Five pierogi. And a whole tray for the table.
A sixty-three-point win in Orlando to finish a second straight twelve-and-oh regular season. The Vikings went eight and oh in the Big 12 and will play Kansas State for the conference title. Ohio, despite beating everyone else, finished third in the standings and won’t be there. That’s the thing about losing in your own building: it costs you.
Thanksgiving. Mickey’s grace included a line about “whatever’s going to happen soon that everyone knows about.” I’m considering legal action. Teresa smiled at her plate. I don’t know what that smile means. I’ve analyzed it for four days. My conclusion is “inconclusive, leaning favorable.”
After pie, Eli found me on the porch. He said, “Ken, can I give you advice?” I said, “You’re thirty-four. I’m forty-five.” He said, “I know. I told Bridget I loved her in a parking lot after a volleyball game. No plan. She said it back.” I said, “You didn’t have a plan?” He said, “The plan is her. The rest is details.” Then he went back inside to change a diaper. Eli Marsh, chemistry teacher, gave me the best advice I’ve received in a decade, and then went to deal with a diaper.
Back and forth
Eli told Bridget he loved her in a parking lot?
“The plan is her.” I wrote it down. I’m framing it next to my father’s napkin.
So, soon?
Mickey, I’m not telling you anything. You’d tell Donna, and Donna would tell Nadia, and Nadia would pay out the pool.
Seventy to seven where it once hurt the most, a second straight perfect regular season, Rose’s first Thanksgiving in the wrong sweater, and a chemistry teacher’s advice on the porch.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.