Seventy to Three in Kent, and a Married Man in the Press Box
Cleveland State70
Kent State3
- Game
- 2032 Week 1
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 1-0
Vikings 70, Kent State 3, in Kent. One and oh.
But you don’t want to hear about Kent State, folks. You want to hear about the wedding.
Kenneth Hogmanes married Teresa Kowalczyk in June, at St. Stanislaus in Slavic Village, three blocks from Big Stan’s, on the hottest day of the year. Teresa was beautiful. Ken was sweating through a gray suit he’d bought for the occasion, “for gravitas.” I was the best man. I’d like to report on my toast.
Donna timed it. It was eleven minutes. She says seven and a half of those minutes were about football. That’s seventy percent. I stand by it. I told the story of Ken’s 2014 column. I told the story of the national title night. I told the story of the coat pocket. And then, for the last three and a half minutes, I talked about how a man who doubts everything finally found the one thing he never doubted. Teresa cried. Ken said, “Respectfully, Mick, that was a lot of football.” Then he hugged me for a long time.
Ray was there. He flew up from Sarasota with Carol. He knew everyone. He danced with Teresa. Folks, I’ll never forget it.
Four pierogi. Jersey thirty-nine. The wedding gets the rest.
Sixty-seven points of daylight in Kent. I texted Phil, the Kent State sports information director, before he could text me. I wrote: “I know.” He wrote back: “Congratulations on the wedding, Ken. The score is your wedding present from us.” Phil’s a better man than I am.
The wedding. I’ll make three statements and then stop. One: Mickey’s toast was eleven minutes long and contained a full analysis of the 2028 Big 12 championship game. Two: Big Stan catered, and every guest left with a pierogi in a little white box with a gold ribbon. Three: my father knew me all day. All day. He walked into the church on his own, sat in the second row, held my mother’s hand, and when I came down the aisle with Teresa he said, out loud, “That’s my boy.” He danced with Teresa to a Sinatra record. He told her, “Make him go outside.” He told me that eight years ago. He told her anyway.
We honeymooned for four days at Put-in-Bay. I spent one afternoon reading the depth chart on my phone. Teresa noticed. She took the phone and threw it, gently, into a hotel pool. It survived. I’ve decided not to mention it again.
“Lil,” for my new wife, who asked on the honeymoon: a ring bearer at a cousin’s wedding in 1989. I was the small one. She said, “You’re lying.” She’s right. I’ll never tell.
Back and forth
Seventy percent football, Kenny. And I’d do it again.
I know you would. Teresa says you’re never giving another toast. You’ll give one anyway.
Your dad danced!
He danced. He knew me all day. That’s the best present anyone’s ever given me.
Seventy points in Kent, a wedding at St. Stanislaus with pierogi favors and an eleven-minute toast, and a father in the second row who knew his son all day.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.