Akron, Where It Started for Teresa, and a New Beagle Named Five
Cleveland State55
Akron21
- Game
- 2035 Week 1
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 1-0
Vikings 55, Akron 21, in Akron. One and oh.
Thirty-four points of daylight down the road in Akron, our second meeting with the Zips and our second win. A short drive, which my doctor approves of, and a nice crowd, and our juniors, Kaleb DuBose and Titus Reece, picking up exactly where they left off.
And folks, I have news from the porch. We have a new beagle.
Donna said in June, “Michael, the porch is too quiet.” I said, “Donna, I’m sixty-seven, I’m not training a puppy.” She said, “Then I will.” Two days later there was a beagle puppy in our kitchen, eleven weeks old, with ears bigger than his opinions. Donna let Rose name him, over a video call. Rose is four. Rose thought about it very seriously, and then said, “He’s the fifth one.” I said, “Sweetheart, he’s the fourth Viking.” Rose said, “No, Grandpa. He’s the fifth one. There were three Vikings before him. And you’re one too.” I don’t know what that means. Donna does. Donna cried a little.
So his name is Five. Five the beagle. He chews everything, including my jersey thirty-seven, which is fine, because I have forty-two now and I’m told I can afford to lose one.
Four pierogi. One on the plate. One for Five, who stole it.
A thirty-four-point road win at Akron. One and oh.
Akron is where Teresa saw her first football game, in 2027. She brought a book. She didn’t open it. On Saturday she came to Akron again, eight years later, and brought a book again, and opened it, at halftime, and read two pages, and then closed it and said, “I can’t, Kenny, it’s too good.” It was a mystery novel. She meant the game.
Five the beagle. I’ve met him. He ate one of my shoelaces on Sunday, while I was wearing the shoe. I’d like to think this is how I’ll be loved by this dog eventually, as I was loved by the last one: slowly, after a long period of chewing.
I ran the half marathon in April, by the way. Thirteen point one miles in Lakewood. Teresa ran with me the whole way, though she could have finished twenty minutes faster. At mile twelve Mickey was standing on the corner in a lawn chair with a sign Sofia made: “THE DOUBTER IS STILL GOING.” Five, the puppy, was asleep in a basket on Mickey’s lap.
“Lil,” because Rose asked me on a video call: I told her it’s because I’m little. She looked at me through the phone and said, “No, you’re not.” She’s right. I’m not telling her either.
Back and forth
Rose named him Five.
And said you’re one too. I’ve been thinking about it all week. I think I understand.
Don’t explain it.
I won’t. Some things you leave on the porch.
Thirty-four points in Akron, a book opened and closed because the game was too good, a half marathon finished past a lawn chair, and a puppy named Five by a four-year-old who knows things.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.