Nine Straight Over Toledo, and Rosalind Turns Ninety-Six
Cleveland State70
Toledo20
- Game
- 2037 Week 2
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 2-0
Vikings 70, Toledo 20, in Toledo. Two and oh.
Fifty points of daylight. Nine straight wins over the Rockets, every time we’ve played them since 2027. Folks, I owe Toledo an apology I’ll never be able to make, because it would require us to lose, and I’m not willing to do that.
Rosalind, Sam’s grandmother, turned ninety-six in August. Kate and Sam threw her a party in Toledo, and Donna and I drove over with a box of kolaczki, as is the tradition. Rosalind sat in a big chair in the middle of the living room in her Toledo sweatshirt and her Vikings scarf, being diplomatic, and when I walked in, she pointed at me and said, “There he is. The rude one.” Everybody laughed. Then she said, “Come here, Michael.” I bent down. She whispered, “I’ve been reading your column since 2030. You’re never rude. You’re just happy. It’s the same thing from the other side.”
Then she said, out loud, “Now go sit down, and don’t beat us by more than forty this year.”
Fifty, Rosalind. I’m sorry. I tried. I didn’t control it.
Four pierogi. One on the plate.
A fifty-point win at Toledo. Two and oh.
Rosalind’s line deserves a second look: “You’re never rude. You’re just happy. It’s the same thing from the other side.” I’ve been on the other side of Mickey’s happiness for fourteen years. From where I sit, I agree with her. It feels rude. It isn’t. It’s just loud joy aimed in your direction.
Five, the beagle, is two now. He’s stopped chewing my shoelaces and started sleeping on my feet when I visit Mickey’s porch, like Viking used to. I told Mickey. He said, “That’s how beagles say they’ve decided.” I asked, “Decided what?” He said, “That you’re staying.”
Teresa has started a garden. In pots. On our fire escape. She’s growing tomatoes, basil and, at the far end, one small plant with a handwritten tag that says “RAY.” It’s a cardinal flower. Red. I didn’t know she’d done it until I saw the tag. When I asked, she said, “Your dad likes cardinals. Now there’s one that stays put.” I watered it Tuesday. I’ll water it every Tuesday. It’s a test I know how to pass.
Back and forth
Rosalind says I’m just happy.
From the other side, it looks rude. From the right side, it looks like you.
A cardinal flower for your dad.
On the fire escape. Teresa planted it. I water it Tuesdays. Some tests you pass by showing up.
Nine straight over Toledo and a ninety-six-year-old’s whispered verdict that happy and rude are the same thing from different sides, and a cardinal flower on a fire escape in Ohio City watered every Tuesday.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.