Toledo Hangs Around, and Rose Says Her First Word
Cleveland State55
Toledo31
- Game
- 2032 Week 2
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 2-0
Vikings 55, Toledo 31, in Toledo. Two and oh.
Twenty-four points of daylight on the road, and Toledo made us work for it in their building. Sam’s grandmother Rosalind, ninety-one now, watched from her living room in Toledo and called Kate afterward to say, “Tell your father it was better this time.” I don’t know if she meant the football or our manners. I’m taking it as both.
Now, the most important news of the year. Rose turned one in July. And Rose has started talking. Her first word, according to Bridget, came on a Sunday video call, while I was singing the Vikings fight song and Bridget was waiting to sing the Ohio one.
Rose looked at the phone, pointed and said, “GO.”
Just “go.” And folks, the debate has been going ever since. I say she was finishing “Go Vikings.” Bridget says she was starting “Go Bobcats.” Eli, a scientist, says, “She said a single syllable, and it’s not a complete sentence in either direction.” Donna says, “She said it to the dishwasher once, too.” I’m choosing to believe it was for me. Rose’s first word was a Vikings word. I’ve written it in the family Bible.
Bridget has written “Go Bobcats” in the same Bible, right under mine.
Four pierogi.
A twenty-four-point road win at Toledo. Two and oh. Greg Price, now a fifth-year senior, rated 89, is playing his last season, and so far he’s playing it like he wants people to remember.
On Rose: I’ve been asked by both sides of the family to adjudicate the first-word controversy, as the only member of the extended family “trained in evidence.” My ruling: the word was “go.” It was uttered during the Vikings fight song. It was also uttered while the Ohio fight song was queued up. Timing favors the Vikings. Context favors Ohio. The ruling is “inconclusive,” which made everyone angry, which is how I know it’s correct.
Married life, two months in: Teresa now has a key to the record closet, and she’s started reorganizing it. Not alphabetically. By “mood.” There’s a shelf labeled “Kenny After Ohio.” It’s the biggest shelf. I didn’t make it. She did. She knows me.
Back and forth
“Go,” Kenny. A Vikings word.
My ruling stands. Inconclusive.
Teresa made you a shelf?
“Kenny After Ohio.” It’s very well stocked. I’m told I’ll need it.
Two and oh after a hard day in Toledo, a one-year-old’s first word that both families claim, and a newlywed’s record closet reorganized by mood.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.