Back to Boulder, and Sal Takes a Little Off the Sides
Cleveland State36
Colorado17
- Game
- 2034 Week 7
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 7-0
Vikings 36, Colorado 17. IN BOULDER. Seven and oh.
Folks, it’s been eight years since we went to Boulder. In 2024 we lost there by three. In 2025 we lost there by twenty-three. In 2026 we finally won there by seven, and Sal said “the Bermuda Triangle’s closed.” Since then Colorado has come to us. This year, we went back to the mountains, and we won by nineteen.
I didn’t go. The doctor says no altitude this year. I watched at Sal’s, who keeps the little TV on during Saturday hours. And I want to tell you about the pennants. There are five of them now over the mirror: OHIO NATIONAL CHAMPIONS 2029, 2030, 2031, 2032, 2033. Five green-and-white pennants. Sal has put up a sixth nail.
When the game ended, Sal put down the clippers and took a little off the sides. Just a little. Like he did in 2024 after Boulder, and in 2032 after Colorado finally came to Cleveland. I said, “Sal, we won.” He said, “I know, Mick. This one’s for April.” He was talking about my heart. Then he patted my shoulder, very gently, the way you’d pat a fence you’d fixed.
Seven and oh. Five pierogi. One on the plate.
A nineteen-point win at Colorado, in Boulder, at altitude, the first trip back since 2026. Seven and oh. The defense allowed seventeen, its second-highest total of the season, which tells you how good it’s been.
Sal has a sixth nail. Mickey reports this every year with the same mix of dread and admiration. Ohio has won five straight national titles. The Vikings and Ohio don’t play in the regular season this year, for the first time since I’ve been doing this. If they meet, it will be in the playoff. Sal knows that. Everybody in Athens knows that.
I told my father that I run. He was having a better day. He said, “You? Run?” I said, “Nine miles last week, Dad.” He was quiet for a while. Then he said, “Your mother used to run. Before you.” I didn’t know that. My mother, on the extension, said, “Ray, I ran in high school.” He said, “You were fast.” She said, “I was.” I listened to my parents remember my mother running in 1969, together, for about a minute. Then he got tired. I wrote all of it down. It’s a full page.
Back and forth
Sal says this one’s for April.
Sal’s the most sentimental man in Cleveland. He hides it with clippers.
Your mom ran?
In 1969. Fast. My parents remembered it together. It was the best minute of my year.
A first trip back to Boulder in eight years, a sixth empty nail in Sal’s shop, a haircut “for April,” and two people in Sarasota remembering a girl who ran fast in 1969.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.