Ten and Oh in Orlando, and Ken Drives to Sarasota Again
Cleveland State63
UCF10
- Game
- 2033 Week 10
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 10-0
Vikings 63, UCF 10, in Orlando. TEN AND OH.
Fifty-three points of daylight against UCF, on the road, for our fifth straight win over the Knights. And ten and oh for the third time in four years. I don’t know how many times I can write “ten and oh” before it feels normal, folks. I’ve decided I never want it to.
Ohio comes to Cleveland next. Both teams undefeated. Bridget called me Sunday, not a text, a real call, and said, “Dad, how’s your heart?” I said, “It’s fine, kiddo.” She said, “I mean it. Next week’s going to be loud. Take your pill. Walk in the morning. Sit down in the fourth quarter.” I said, “I never sit down in the fourth quarter.” She said, “I know. That’s why I’m calling.” Then Rose got on the phone and said, “Hi Grandpa, Go Bobcats,” and then, very quietly, because Bridget had left the room, “and Go Vikings.” Folks, my granddaughter is a diplomat. She’s two.
I walked an extra block on Monday, in her honor.
Four pierogi. One in a paper cup.
A fifty-three-point road win at UCF. Ten and oh.
I didn’t write much about the game this week because I wasn’t really at it. I flew to Orlando for the game, and afterward I rented a car and drove to Sarasota, like I did in 2024 after the Vikings played UCF that year. Two hours down I-75 in the dark. My mother left the porch light on.
My father was asleep when I got there. In the morning he was at the kitchen table with his coffee, and he looked at me for a long time, and I could see him working on it, and I waited. Then he said, “Kenny.” And then, “You drove.” And then, “Did we win?” I said, “We won, Dad. Ten and oh.” He smiled. He said, “Ten.” He didn’t say anything else about football. We sat on the porch all morning and watched the birds. He named every one of them. He couldn’t name the Vikings’ coach. He knew every bird.
I flew home Sunday night. The notebook has a full page this week.
Back and forth
You drove to Sarasota.
Like 2024. Same road. Same porch light. Different man at the kitchen table. Same father.
He knew the birds.
Every one. I wrote them all down. I’m going to learn them.
Ten and oh in Orlando for the third time in four years, a two-year-old diplomat in Athens, and a son on a porch in Sarasota writing down the names of birds.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.