Back in the Press Box, With a Stent and a Story About Ken
Cleveland State38
Kent State7
- Game
- 2034 Week 1
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 1-0
Vikings 38, Kent State 7, in Kent. One and oh. And I was there.
Folks, I owe you a story. In April, on a Tuesday morning walk around the block, I sat down on the Reyes family’s front steps because my chest felt like somebody had parked a truck on it. Leo found me. Leo, sixteen, called the ambulance, then Donna, then sat with me on the steps and held my hand and talked to me about the scouting report for his spring game until the ambulance came. He didn’t let go once.
They put a stent in my heart at the Clinic that afternoon. The doctor says I’m fine. Better than fine. The truck’s gone.
And now I’m going to tell you something Kenny will hate. He came to the hospital every day. Every single day for nine days. He brought me the newspaper and read me the box scores of the spring games, out loud, in his doubter’s voice. On the fourth day a nurse said to me, “Your friend’s very kind.” I said, “Ken? Kind?” She said, “He asked me how my shift was. Every day.” Folks, I caught him. I caught Ken Hogmanes being kind.
Thirty-one points of daylight. Jersey forty-one, on a new third rack, walnut, by Sam.
Four pierogi. On the plate: one.
A thirty-one-point opening win at my alma mater. Mickey Bridges was in the press box. That’s the headline. The score is a footnote.
I’ll respond to the allegations. Yes, I visited the hospital daily. It was on my way to nothing. Yes, I read him box scores. He was bored, and boredom is bad for the heart; Teresa confirmed this professionally. Yes, I asked the nurses about their shifts. My wife is a nurse. It’s a professional courtesy. That’s all it was.
Here’s what I didn’t tell him, and what I’ll tell you, since he’s told everyone everything else. On the second day, while he slept, Donna and I sat in the hallway, and she said, “Ken, he’d be lost without you.” I said, “He’d be louder without me.” She said, “That’s what I mean.” I’ve thought about that every day since April.
In May I ran a 10K in Lakewood with Teresa. My first. She said I didn’t run “yet.” I ran. Mickey watched from a lawn chair at the finish line, six weeks after his stent, holding a sign Sofia Reyes had made: “GO DOUBTER GO.” I finished. Badly. With conviction.
“Lil,” because the nurses asked: a hospital intake form, in 1986. The box was too small.
Back and forth
You were kind, Kenny. Admit it.
I was present. That’s different.
You ran a 10K!
I ran a 10K. You held a sign that said “GO DOUBTER GO.” We’re even. Don’t do April again.
A believer back in the press box after a stent in April, a sixteen-year-old who held his hand on the front steps, and a doubter caught being kind every day for nine days.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.