Oregon Falls, and It's Ohio in the Semifinal
Cleveland State35
Oregon17
- Game
- 2034 CFP Quarterfinal
- Site
- Neutral site
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 14-1
VIKINGS 35, OREGON 17. INTO THE NATIONAL SEMIFINAL.
Eighteen points of daylight against the Ducks in the quarterfinal. A tough, physical game. Our defense, the one I’ve been calling “cheap” all year, held Oregon to seventeen. Fourteen and one, folks. Into the semifinal for the fifth time in seven years.
And now it’s Ohio. In the semifinal. The five-time defending national champions. We haven’t played them all year. The last time we did, a year ago, they beat us by thirty-five in Cleveland.
Sal called me Monday. Called. On the phone. Sal never calls. He said, “Mick, you want a haircut before the game?” I said, “I just had one.” He said, “Come in anyway.” So I went in, and he didn’t cut anything. He just sat me in the chair, and put a hot towel on my face, and stood there for a while. Then he took the towel off and said, “Whatever happens, Mick, you’re okay. That’s what matters. You’re okay.” Then he looked up at the five pennants and the sixth nail and said, “And if you beat us, I’ll take one down. For a week.”
Bridget texted: “rose has both flags ready. she says she’ll wave whichever one is sad.”
Five pierogi.
An eighteen-point quarterfinal win over Oregon. Fourteen and one. Ohio in the national semifinal.
The Vikings and Ohio haven’t met all season, which is a first since I’ve covered them. The last meeting was the worst home loss of the Dolan era, last year, fifty-five to twenty. Before that, a forty-two-point loss in Athens and a ten-point win in the Big 12 title game, three weeks apart. Ohio has won five straight national championships. The Vikings have been in the way of three of them.
Ohio isn’t the team it was last year. It lost a game this season and missed the Big 12 title game. But I learned a long time ago never to count Ohio out.
My father, Sunday. A good day. A really good one. My mother said he’d been sharp all weekend. I said, “Dad, we play Ohio next.” He said, without a pause: “Ohio’s always tough, Kenny.” Then he said, “Tougher in December, you told me.” I told him that? No. He told me that, in 2032. He’s given it back to me as if it were mine. I’ll take it.
Back and forth
Sal says he’ll take a pennant down. For a week.
That’s the most generous offer anyone in Athens has ever made to anyone in Cleveland.
Your dad gave you your own line back.
His line. He gave it to me in 2032. Now he thinks it’s mine. Maybe it is.
Oregon handled by eighteen, a hot towel and a promise from Sal, a three-year-old with both flags ready, and a father handing his own words back to his son.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.