Twelve and Oh, a Third Perfect Regular Season, and the RedHawks Wait
Cleveland State70
Iowa State27
- Game
- 2034 Week 12
- Site
- Home
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 12-0
VIKINGS 70, IOWA STATE 27. TWELVE AND OH.
Forty-three points of daylight. Our fifth win over the Cyclones in five tries. And our third perfect regular season in five years: 2030, 2031, and now 2034. Folks, I’ve been doing this since 1994. I didn’t know a team could do this three times. I’m told it’s allowed.
Nine and oh in the Big 12. And the RedHawks are nine and oh too. Undefeated. Scoring more points than any team I’ve ever seen. We play them in the Big 12 championship game. We haven’t played them since they beat us in the playoff quarterfinal two years ago.
Thanksgiving was at our house. It was the first Thanksgiving without Viking in fifteen years. Rose, three and a half, walked into the house and asked, “Where’s Viking?” Bridget knelt down and explained. Rose thought about it for a long time. Then she went to the backyard, by herself, in her coat, and stood by the little walnut marker under the maple, and waved the Vikings flag at it. Just once. Then she came inside and asked for pie.
Folks, I don’t have anything else to say about that. I’m just going to let it sit there.
Five pierogi. One on the plate. One for Rose, who’s allowed.
A forty-three-point home win over Iowa State completes a third twelve-and-oh regular season in five years. The Vikings went nine and oh in the Big 12 and will play the undefeated RedHawks for the conference title.
The RedHawks. Nadia’s been preparing since the summer. She has a countdown again. She’s taken the black scarf off the bobblehead. She’s polished the “WE’LL SEE” trophy. She texted me: “Finally. A real game. Bring the ribbon.” I’ve had the ribbon in my wallet since 2030. I’ll bring it. The bet’s back on: loser pours.
Thanksgiving: Teresa and I brought the green bean casserole, with extra onions, by request of a three-year-old. Rose ate the onions and nothing else, as is her right. I sat in the T chair. Mickey sat in his chair. Nobody sat on the floor by the radiator, where Viking always lay. Donna had put his blanket there anyway, folded. Nobody moved it.
Back and forth
Rose waved the flag at the marker.
Once. Then she asked for pie. Three-year-olds understand grief better than we do. One wave. Then pie.
The bet’s back on.
Loser pours. I’ve got the ribbon. Nadia’s got the trophy. Donna, I’m told, has picked a side and won’t say which.
A third perfect regular season in five years, the RedHawks waiting undefeated, a blanket left folded by the radiator, and a three-year-old’s one wave at a marker under the maple.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.