BYU Held to Three, and Big Stan Dusts the Nail Twice
Cleveland State45
BYU3
- Game
- 2037 Week 8
- Site
- Home
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 8-0
Vikings 45, BYU 3, at home. Eight and oh.
Forty-two points of daylight, our eighth straight win over the Cougars. And three points allowed. Folks, our defense has held two opponents to a field goal this year, and one of them was Alabama. Our sophomore defensive end, Marquez Rossouw, is playing like the quarterback personally insulted his family. I’m told his numbers are extraordinary. I’ll tell you at the end.
On Monday I walked into Big Stan’s and Stan was on his ladder, dusting the nail. You’ll remember the nail. Stan put it up in 2031, on the back wall, next to the two scoreboard frames and the brass plate that says TWICE, for “something bigger.” He’s dusted it every Monday since. Six years.
This Monday, he dusted it twice. Then he climbed down, and Gerald, behind the counter in his apron, asked, “Why twice, Stan?” Stan said, “Because I’ve got a feeling, Gerald.” Gerald said, “What kind of feeling?” Stan said, “The kind you dust twice for.”
The counter council voted on whether Stan should be allowed to dust it three times next week. It was six to nothing in favor. Chester voted yes. Chester also, for the first time I’ve ever seen, pointed at the nail, then at me, then at the TV. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
Four pierogi. One on the plate.
A forty-two-point home win over BYU. Eight and oh. The defense has allowed one hundred thirty-three points in eight games, and the Vikings have outscored their opponents by more than thirty-seven a game.
I want to talk about the nail, because Mickey won’t do it analytically. Big Stan put an empty nail on his wall in 2031. That year the Vikings went fifteen and oh and lost the title game by one point. In 2032 they lost in the quarterfinal. In 2033 in the first round. In 2034, 2035 and 2036 they lost three straight national championship games to the same team. Stan dusted the nail every Monday through all of it. Six years. Over three hundred Mondays.
That’s not superstition. That’s faith with a cleaning schedule. I’ve spent fourteen years doubting things. I’ve never once doubted that Stan would dust that nail on Monday. Some kinds of certainty don’t need a model.
My father: a good morning, my mother said, then tired. He asked, “Is it fall?” She said yes. He said, “Then it’s getting close.” She asked, “Close to what, Ray?” He said, “Kenny knows.” I don’t know. I think I do.
Back and forth
Stan dusted it twice, Kenny.
“The kind of feeling you dust twice for.” I’d like that on a plaque. Sam’s busy.
Your dad said it’s getting close.
He said I’d know close to what. I’m not saying it. I’ve learned what saying things does.
BYU held to a field goal, a nail dusted twice for a feeling, Chester pointing from the nail to Mickey to the TV, and a father in Sarasota who says it’s getting close.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.