Forty-Nine to Three in Dallas, and Big Stan's Corn Board Arrives
Cleveland State49
SMU3
- Game
- 2034 Week 6
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 6-0
Vikings 49, SMU 3, in Dallas. Six and oh.
Forty-six points of daylight against the Mustangs, our fifth straight win over them. Ten years ago, in 2024, we beat SMU by six in Dallas, and I called it “character with a little margin for error.” This year the margin for error was the entire state of Texas.
The defense gave up three. Six games, fifty points allowed. Cheap, folks. Close-fisted. Parsimonious.
And Big Stan’s board for Titus Reece is finally up. He promised “something with corn.” He delivered. It’s called The Iowa: a sweet corn fritter, a pork tenderloin the size of a hubcap, pickles, mustard and a fried pierogi on top, on a bun that cannot contain it. Stan says the pork tenderloin “is how they do it in Iowa.” I don’t know if that’s true. Neither does Stan. Reece came into the deli on Monday, the first player Stan’s ever gotten to come in, and ate the whole thing, and said, “That’s exactly how my grandma makes it.” Stan cried. Gerald cried. Chester abstained from crying, but barely.
I’m allowed one bite of The Iowa a week. My cardiologist and Stan negotiated it by phone.
Five pierogi. One bite of Iowa.
A forty-six-point road win at SMU. Six and oh, with the defense allowing three points.
Titus Reece came to Big Stan’s. I want to note this as a historical event. In ten years of naming sandwiches after Vikings, Stan has never had one of the players actually come in and eat one. Reece came on a Monday, sat at the counter between Chester and Walt, ate the entire Iowa and told Stan it tasted like his grandmother’s. Then he signed the board. Then he shook hands with every member of the counter council. Chester shook his hand for a very long time. Reece is nineteen. He’s the reigning Heisman Trophy winner. He took the time.
The Doom Model has a new tab, “Perfect? (again).” It’s the third time it’s made that tab. 2030. 2031. Now. It doesn’t blink anymore. It just waits.
Teresa ran with me Saturday morning. Nine miles. On the way back she said, “Kenny, your dad would be proud.” I said, “He doesn’t know I run.” She said, “Tell him.” I’m going to tell him Sunday. I don’t know if he’ll remember. I’m going to tell him anyway.
Back and forth
Reece came to the deli, Kenny!
And shook Chester’s hand. Chester didn’t let go for a while. I timed it.
You’re going to tell your dad you run?
Sunday. He might not remember. I’ll tell him again the Sunday after.
Forty-nine to three in Dallas, a Heisman winner eating a sandwich the size of a hubcap at Big Stan’s counter, and a son with a new thing to tell his father every Sunday.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.