Tucson, and a Small Pill Every Morning
Cleveland State63
Arizona25
- Game
- 2033 Week 8
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 8-0
Vikings 63, Arizona 25, in Tucson. Eight and oh.
Thirty-eight points of daylight in the desert. In 2026, folks, we won in Tucson by one point and Big Stan lifted me off the ground when I got home. This year we won by thirty-eight and Stan, whose back has opinions, just shook my hand very firmly. Times change. Handshakes get firmer.
The test results came back. I’ll tell you exactly what the doctor said, because you’ve been reading me for a long time and you deserve to know: “Mr. Bridges, your heart is working harder than it should. We’re going to watch it.” I’m on a small pill every morning now. I’m supposed to walk thirty minutes a day. I’m supposed to eat, and I’m quoting, “fewer pierogi.”
Fewer pierogi. I asked the doctor what “fewer” meant numerically. He said, “Fewer than you’re eating now.” I said, “That’s not a number.” He said, “Mr. Bridges, I’ve read your column.”
So I walk every morning now. Around the block, past the Reyes house, past the Browns fans’ house, past the corner, and back. Viking comes with me for the first half-block and then sits down and waits for me to come back. He’s fourteen. He’s earned it. Leo walks with me on weekends.
Four pierogi. In print only. On the plate: two.
A thirty-eight-point win in Tucson. Eight and oh. The Vikings haven’t lost a regular-season game to anyone but Ohio since Texas Tech in 2029. That’s a strange statistic. It’s still true.
Mickey’s heart is “working harder than it should.” I’ve learned more about cardiology this week than in my whole life, because Teresa is an ER nurse and I asked her eleven questions. She answered all of them. Then she said, “Kenny, he’s going to be fine. People live a long time with this. But he has to actually walk.” I said, “He’ll walk.” She said, “Mickey Bridges? Will walk?” She’s met him.
He’s walking. Leo Reyes texted me a photo Saturday morning: Mickey in a Vikings windbreaker, on the sidewalk, mid-stride, with a beagle sitting on the curb behind him. The caption was “WALKING.” In capital letters. Leo understands the stakes.
My father, Sunday: two minutes. He knew my voice. He said, “Is it cold up there?” I said, “Getting there, Dad.” He said, “Wear a coat.” I said I would. I wrote it down. Some weeks the notebook gets one line. This week it was “Wear a coat.” It’s a good line.
Back and forth
Fewer pierogi, Kenny. Fewer.
I’ve seen the plate. Two. I’m proud of you.
Your dad said wear a coat.
I’m wearing it. Indoors, even. Old habits.
Thirty-eight points in Tucson, a small pill every morning and a walk around the block, a beagle who waits at the curb, and a father who said “wear a coat” and meant all of it.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.