Tucson Again, and Rose Learns Two Fight Songs
Cleveland State59
Arizona17
- Game
- 2035 Week 4
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 4-0
Vikings 59, Arizona 17, in Tucson. Four and oh.
Forty-two points of daylight in the desert, our sixth straight win over the Wildcats since that bad day in 2025. Our defense, led by a senior defensive end named Zach Cantrell who plays like he’s angry at the concept of quarterbacks, kept Arizona from getting comfortable all afternoon.
Now, folks, the most important football news of the year. Rose has learned the Vikings fight song. All of it. Every verse. Including Sofia’s Spanish verse, which Rose sings with a very serious face and a Cleveland accent. I taught it to her on our Sunday calls, one line a week, since the spring.
And she has also learned the Ohio fight song. From her mother. All of it.
On Sunday, Bridget and Rose did a concert for us over the video call. Rose stood on a kitchen chair in Athens. She sang the Vikings song first, for me. Then she sang the Ohio song, for her mother. Then she bowed. Then she said, “Now I’m going to sing them at the same time.” And she tried. Folks, she sang both fight songs at the same time, alternating lines, and it came out as one song. A new one. Half green, half green. Donna recorded it. I’ve listened to it forty times.
Four pierogi. One on the plate.
A forty-two-point road win at Arizona. Four and oh. The defense has a real pass rusher in Zach Cantrell, and quarterbacks have noticed.
I’ve heard the recording of Rose singing both fight songs at once. Mickey played it for me at Big Stan’s. The counter council listened in silence. When it ended, Big Stan said, “That’s the best fight song I’ve ever heard.” Gerald said, “Can we play it again?” They played it again. Chester didn’t abstain. He hummed.
Here’s what I noticed, as a man trained to notice things. The two songs, alternated line by line, have the same rhythm. Cleveland State’s and Ohio’s. I’d never heard them that way. For eleven years these two programs have been the opposite of each other in this column, and it took a four-year-old on a kitchen chair to show me they’re sung to the same beat.
My father, Sunday. I played him the recording over the phone. My mother said he listened to the whole thing, and when it ended he said, “Who was that?” She said, “That’s Mickey’s granddaughter.” He said, “She’s good.” Then he hummed. My mother says he hummed the rest of the afternoon. She doesn’t know which song.
Back and forth
Both songs at once, Kenny.
Same rhythm. Eleven years and I never noticed.
Your dad hummed.
All afternoon. My mother doesn’t know which song. I think that’s the point.
Forty-two points in Tucson, a defensive end angry at quarterbacks, and a four-year-old on a kitchen chair in Athens who sang two rival fight songs into one.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.