Toledo, Rosalind at Ninety-Three, and a Card From the Counter
Cleveland State42
Toledo21
- Game
- 2034 Week 2
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 2-0
Vikings 42, Toledo 21, in Toledo. Two and oh.
Twenty-one points of daylight on the road against the Rockets, our seventh straight win over them. I didn’t go to Toledo; my doctor says no long drives until October. But Rosalind, Sam’s grandmother, ninety-three now, called me from her living room in Toledo after the game. She said, “Michael, I heard about your heart.” I said, “I’m fine, Rosalind.” She said, “Good. Then you can afford to lose to us someday. It would be good for you.” Then she hung up. I’ve decided that’s the nicest thing anyone said to me all summer.
And here’s something I haven’t told you yet. When I was in the hospital in April, a card came. A big one, the size of a sandwich board. It was from the counter council at Big Stan’s. Seven signatures. Stan’s, huge, across the top. Walt’s. Gerald’s, very neat. The others. And at the bottom, in small, shaky letters, a signature I’d never seen before in forty years: “Chester.”
Under his name, Chester had written four words: “Come back, Mick. Please.”
Four words. From Chester. I’ve had the card framed. It’s next to the national championship jersey.
Four pierogi. One on the plate.
A twenty-one-point road win at Toledo. Two and oh. The offense is led by Kaleb DuBose, now a redshirt sophomore, and Titus Reece, a sophomore and the reigning Heisman Trophy winner. It’s the first time I’ve covered a team with a returning Heisman winner who’s still a teenager.
I saw the card from the counter council. Mickey showed me in the hospital. I’ll confirm that Chester’s signature is real; I’ve seen his handwriting once before, on the voting slip in 2033 when he voted for the first time. It’s the same shaky hand. “Come back, Mick. Please.” That’s the longest thing Chester has ever written. I asked Big Stan if Chester had help. Stan said, “No. He sat at the counter for an hour with the pen. Then he wrote it. Then he went home.” That’s an hour for four words. That’s how much they cost him.
My father, Sunday. Short. He said, “Is your friend okay? The loud one?” My mother had told him in April. He’d held onto it all summer. I said, “He’s okay, Dad. He’s back.” My father said, “Good. Tell him to stay.” I told him. Mickey went quiet.
Back and forth
Chester wrote me four words.
An hour for four words. I’ve written a million words in my career. None of them cost that much.
Your dad asked about me.
“Tell him to stay.” He held onto it since April. Stay.
Seven straight over Toledo, a ninety-three-year-old who thinks a loss would be good for Mickey’s heart, and four words from Chester that took an hour to write.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.