Sixty-One to Seven Over Okie State, Ten Years Later
Cleveland State61
Oklahoma State7
- Game
- 2037 Week 11
- Site
- Home
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 11-0
VIKINGS 61, OKLAHOMA STATE 7. ELEVEN AND OH.
Fifty-four points of daylight. Folks, in 2027 we went to Stillwater undefeated and lost by three, and Teresa left a note on Kenny’s door that said, “Soup’s in the fridge. They’ll win the next one.” And the next one was 2028, in Stillwater again, and we won by thirty-two. And this one, ten years after that loss, at home: sixty-one to seven.
Bridget texted me: “sorry about okie state, dad,” which is what she texted in 2027, with a regular heart. This time she added: “just kidding. that’s for 2027. love you.” And a Vikings-green heart she’s figured out how to make.
Sal, Monday, cutting my hair, under the five Ohio pennants: “Mick, Stillwater’s gonna get you again.” He said that in 2028. I said, “Sal, that was ten years ago.” He said, “I know. I just like saying it.” Then he took a little off the sides and said, “That one’s for 2027.” Everybody in this city is settling 2027 this week.
Eleven and oh. Two games left before the playoff. Ohio is also undefeated. The RedHawks are also undefeated. Three undefeated teams in Ohio. Somebody has to lose.
Five pierogi.
A fifty-four-point home win over Oklahoma State. Eleven and oh.
Ten years ago, Teresa left a note on my door after the Stillwater loss: “Soup’s in the fridge. They’ll win the next one. – T.” I kept that note. It’s in the notebook now, at the front, before my father’s lines, because it was the first time someone told me the next one would be better and I believed them.
I read the note to Teresa on Saturday night, after the game. She said, “I wrote that?” I said yes. She said, “I was right.” I said, “You’re always right about the next one.” She said, “That’s because I’m a nurse, Kenny. Every shift is the next one.”
Three undefeated teams in Ohio: the Vikings, Ohio and Miami (OH). Statistically, that’s unusual. Emotionally, it’s terrifying. Kansas State is next, at home. Then the RedHawks, probably, for the Big 12. Then the playoff, where Ohio waits.
My parents arrive Wednesday. My father has asked my mother, twice, “Do they have soup?” She told him Teresa makes soup. He said, “Good. A soup girl.” Notebook: “A soup girl.” Teresa has asked me to frame it.
Back and forth
Everybody’s settling 2027.
Bridget, Sal, Teresa’s note. Ten years of people being right about the next one.
Your dad called Teresa “a soup girl.”
She’s framing it. Next to “Make him go outside.” She’s building a gallery of my father’s opinions of her.
Sixty-one to seven over the team that beat us in Stillwater in 2027, a whole city settling a ten-year-old debt in one week, and a father arriving Wednesday who wants to know if there’s soup.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.