Eight Straight Over the Sun Devils, and Rose Is Three
Cleveland State63
Arizona State10
- Game
- 2034 Week 4
- Site
- Home
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 4-0
Vikings 63, Arizona State 10, at home. Four and oh.
Fifty-three points of daylight, our eighth straight win over the Sun Devils. The defense gave up ten. In four games now, the defense has given up thirty-eight points total. Folks, I’ve been writing about this program’s offense for ten years. I’m going to have to learn how to write about defense. I’m going to need a thesaurus.
Now, Rose. Rose turned three in July. She has opinions now, mostly about which stuffed animal sits where, and also, increasingly, about football. Last Sunday on our video call she held up two little flags, one Bobcat green, one Vikings forest green, and asked me, very seriously, “Grandpa, which one do I wave today?” I said, “Today you wave the Vikings one, sweetheart. Ohio’s not playing us.” She waved it. Then she looked off-camera and asked her mother, “Is that okay?” Bridget said, “Yes, baby, it’s okay when they’re not playing Ohio.”
So there are rules now. Rose has a treaty. My granddaughter is three and she’s already negotiating with both governments.
Eli got on afterward and asked how my heart was. Eli asks every week. I like Eli more every year. Don’t tell him.
Four pierogi. One on the plate.
A fifty-three-point home win over Arizona State. Four and oh. The Vikings have allowed thirty-eight points in four games and scored one hundred ninety-two. I’m not going to say “rude, but legal” again. I’ve said it for six years.
Rose Bridges Marsh has a two-flag system governed by a treaty. Bridget explained the terms to me at a family dinner in August: Rose waves the Vikings flag on Saturdays when the Vikings play anyone but Ohio. She waves the Ohio flag when Ohio plays anyone but the Vikings. When they play each other, she’s allowed to wave “whichever one is sad.” That’s the most sophisticated foreign policy I’ve ever heard, and I’ve covered the Big 12 realignment.
My father, Sunday: one minute, maybe. He didn’t know me at first. My mother said, “It’s Kenny.” He said, “Kenny. Is it football?” I said, “It’s football, Dad.” He said, “Good.” That was the whole call. One line in the notebook: “Is it football.”
It is, Dad. Every Saturday. I’ll keep calling.
Back and forth
Rose has a treaty, Kenny.
She waves “whichever one is sad.” That’s a better policy than most governments have.
Your dad, this week?
“Is it football.” One line. I’ll take it. I’ll take every one.
Eight straight over the Sun Devils, a defense that needs a thesaurus, a three-year-old’s two-flag treaty, and a one-line call to Sarasota that Ken will keep making.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.