TCU, Ten and Oh, and Mickey Opens His Wallet but Not the Note
Cleveland State56
TCU28
- Game
- 2037 Week 10
- Site
- Home
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 10-0
Vikings 56, TCU 28, at home. TEN AND OH.
Twenty-eight points of daylight, our third win in three tries against the Horned Frogs. Ten and oh for the seventh time in eight years.
I want to tell you about Teddy’s note. You’ll remember: in 2035, on his last Saturday at the West Side Market, Teddy handed me a folded piece of butcher paper and said, “Open it after the season. Not before.” I haven’t. Not after 2035, which ended with The Thing. Not after 2036, which ended with the RedHawks again. Donna said, “Teddy didn’t say which season.” I’ve been waiting for the right one.
On Saturday night after the TCU game, I took it out of my wallet. I held it. I didn’t open it. Donna watched me from the kitchen doorway. She said, “Is it this season, Michael?” I said, “I think it might be.” She said, “Then wait until it is.” I put it back.
Folks, I’ve been doing this since 1994. I’ve never once been sure. I’m not sure now. But my wallet feels heavier this year. The note feels like it knows something.
I went to see Teddy on Sunday. He’s retired; he sits on his porch in Tremont now. I didn’t ask him what’s in the note. He didn’t offer. He just said, “Not yet, Mick?” I said, “Not yet.” He said, “Close, though.” I said, “Close.”
Four pierogi. One on the plate.
A twenty-eight-point home win over TCU. Ten and oh.
Mickey hasn’t opened Teddy’s note. I’d like the record to show that I’ve never asked to read it. That’s the hardest thing I’ve done in fourteen years of this column, including the 10K, the half marathon and the beach.
Two regular-season games left, both at home: Oklahoma State and Kansas State. Then the Big 12 title game, almost certainly against the RedHawks. The RedHawks are scoring eighty-two points a game. I’ve checked that number four times. The Doom Model has a cell for it that just says “Why.”
Thanksgiving will be at our apartment. Teresa’s hosting. My mother and father are flying up from Sarasota. It’s the first time my father has traveled since the wedding in 2032. My mother says the doctors said it’s okay if he rests. He asked her, she says, “Will Mickey be there? The loud one?” She said yes. He said, “Good. And the girl with the clipboard?” She said she’d ask. I’ve asked. Sofia’s coming. She’s bringing the clipboard.
Back and forth
Your dad’s coming for Thanksgiving?
First trip since the wedding. He asked if you’d be there. And Sofia. And the clipboard.
I’ll be there. Loud.
He’s counting on it. So am I.
Ten and oh again, a folded note held but not opened, a retired oracle on a Tremont porch saying “close, though,” and a father flying up from Sarasota for Thanksgiving to see the loud one.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.