Sixty-Six to Six Over Florida State
Cleveland State66
Florida State6
- Game
- 2037 CFP Quarterfinal
- Site
- Neutral site
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 14-1
VIKINGS 66, FLORIDA STATE 6. INTO THE NATIONAL SEMIFINAL.
Sixty points of daylight. In a playoff quarterfinal. Against Florida State. Folks, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a team play a better game of football than the one our guys played on Saturday. Sixty-six to six. Six points allowed, in a quarterfinal, to the team we beat in last year’s semifinal.
Fourteen and one. Into the semifinal for the fourth straight year, and the eighth time in ten years.
Rose called. Rose is six. She said, “Grandpa, are we playing Mommy’s team?” I said, “Maybe, sweetheart. If we both win.” She said, “Then which flag?” I said, “Whichever one is sad, like always.” She said, “Grandpa, I don’t want either one to be sad.” I said, “Me neither.” She said, “Can I wave both?” I said, “Rose, you can wave both.” She said, “Okay. I’ll practice.” Bridget says she’s been practicing in the backyard, one flag in each hand, running in circles, for an hour.
At Big Stan’s, Monday, Stan didn’t dust the nail. He looked at it. He said, “Not yet. One more dusting at a time.” Then he made me a salad, The Mickey, with one pierogi in the paper cup. And Chester slid his across. Like always.
Five pierogi.
A sixty-point quarterfinal win over Florida State. Fourteen and one.
Kentucky waits in the semifinal. On the other side of the bracket, the RedHawks and Ohio, the two programs that have defined the last decade of this column, are both still alive, and only one of them can reach the final.
I’d like to note, in the interest of honesty, that I’m aware of a pattern. In every season since 2034, the Vikings have reached the final and lost it to Miami (OH). This year Ohio might be in the way of that, which means the Vikings might face Ohio in the final instead. I have no idea which is better. I’ve stopped trying to know. That’s either growth or exhaustion. Teresa says it’s growth. I’m choosing growth.
My father, Sunday: “Did we win?” “Sixty-six to six, Dad.” “That’s two.” He’s still counting. He said, “Who’s next?” I said Kentucky. He said, “Kentucky plays basketball.” I said, “They play football too, Dad.” He said, “Not like that.” Notebook: “That’s two. Kentucky plays basketball.”
Back and forth
Rose wants to wave both flags.
She’s practicing. One in each hand. Running in circles. She’s six and she’s figured out what this whole column has been about.
Your dad says that’s two.
Two. He’s counting. Two more.
Sixty-six to six in the quarterfinal, a six-year-old practicing with a flag in each hand in an Athens backyard, Stan saving the dusting for later, and a father in Sarasota counting: that’s two.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.