BYU Makes Us Work, and Teddy Retires His Apron
Cleveland State45
BYU31
- Game
- 2035 Week 5
- Site
- Home
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 5-0
Vikings 45, BYU 31, at home. Five and oh.
Fourteen points. BYU came to Cleveland and made it a real game, our closest one of the year so far. Our sixth straight win over the Cougars, but they made our guys earn every yard of it. I sat down for the fourth quarter. I was very calm about it. Donna says my knee was bouncing so hard the bleacher moved.
Saturday morning I went to the West Side Market for my kielbasa, like I’ve done every game day for thirty years, and Teddy was there, but he wasn’t behind the counter. He was in front of it. In a sweater. No apron. His nephew was behind the counter wrapping links.
Teddy said, “Mick, I’m retiring. Today’s my last Saturday.” I said, “Teddy, who’s going to give me the number?” He said, “Nobody, Mick. You’re going to have to just watch.” Then he handed me a piece of butcher paper, folded, and said, “Open it after the season. Not before.”
Folks, I have it in my wallet. It’s next to Donna’s picture. I haven’t opened it. I’m not going to. Teddy said after the season. I’m a man of my word.
Four pierogi. One on the plate.
A fourteen-point home win over BYU. Five and oh. The first game this season that the Vikings had to sweat.
Teddy has retired. I want to mark this properly. Teddy sold kielbasa at the West Side Market for forty-three years. For most of the last decade, he predicted Vikings scores using a model based on how fast the pierogi lady sold out, and he was right, exactly, more often than any statistical model I’ve ever built. Then, in 2032, he stopped giving scores and started giving sentences. “Bad day, Mick. Go anyway.” “Good day, Mick.” He told me in 2032, when we met, “Somebody has to be the doubter.” He was the believer who understood doubters.
Mickey has a folded note in his wallet that he’s not allowed to open until after the season. He’s shown me the outside of it four times. He’s touched his wallet at least eleven times during this conversation alone. I’d like to know what’s in it. I’d also like Teddy’s wish respected. Those two desires are at war in me.
Phil, Teddy. That’s two retirements this year. Mickey says he isn’t next. Mickey says it every week now, unprompted. I’ve started to wonder why.
Back and forth
I’m not opening it, Kenny.
I know. I respect it. I hate it.
And I’m not retiring.
You’ve said that four times this month without anyone asking. That’s how I know you’re thinking about it.
A fourteen-point lesson from BYU, the last Saturday of Teddy’s forty-three years at the West Side Market, a folded note waiting in a wallet, and a believer insisting, unasked, that he isn’t next.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.