Kentucky Falls, and It's Ohio for Everything
Cleveland State63
Kentucky21
- Game
- 2037 CFP Semifinal
- Site
- Neutral site
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 15-1
VIKINGS 63, KENTUCKY 21. INTO THE NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP GAME.
Forty-two points of daylight in the semifinal. Our second meeting with Kentucky; in 2028, in Lexington, we beat them by nineteen on the way to our first national title. This year we beat them by forty-two on the way to the title game again.
Fifteen and one. Our seventh national championship game since 2028.
And it’s Ohio.
Ohio beat the RedHawks in the other semifinal. For the first time since 2031, the Vikings and Ohio will play for the national championship. Tim Slocombe’s team, fifteen and one, against ours, fifteen and one. My program against my daughter’s. Again.
Bridget called. Not a text. She said, “Dad.” I said, “Kiddo.” She said, “It’s us.” I said, “It’s always us.” She said, “Rose has both flags ready.” Then she said, “Dad, I’ll be in the press box. Like 2029. Like 2031.” I said, “I know.” She said, “Whatever happens, come find me after.” I said, “I always do.” She said, “I know you do. That’s why I’m telling you to.”
Sal called too. He said, “Mick, I’ve got a nail for you.” I said, “Sal, you already gave me the nail.” He said, “No. I’ve got a new nail. Bring the box.”
Five pierogi.
A forty-two-point semifinal win over Kentucky. Fifteen and one. The Vikings will play Ohio for the national championship.
The RedHawks are out. Ohio beat them. For the first time in four years, the national championship game won’t be against Miami (OH). Nadia texted me Saturday night: “Your turn. Win it. Bring the ribbon home.” I wrote: “It’s not even mine yet.” She wrote: “It’s been yours since 2030. I was just holding it.”
The rivalry with Ohio since 2024 stands at eleven wins to the Vikings and nine to Ohio. Twenty meetings. Ohio beat the Vikings in national championship games in 2029 and 2031, by sixteen and by one. The Vikings won the last two playoff semifinals between them. I don’t know what any of that means. My father says “you get one.”
My father, Sunday, a clear day. My mother says he’s been clear since Friday. He said, “That’s three.” I said, “Three, Dad.” He said, “Who’s next?” I said, “Ohio.” There was a long pause. Then he laughed. A real laugh. He said, “Of course it’s Ohio. It’s always Ohio.” Then he said, “Ohio’s always tough, Kenny.” Then: “But not forever.” Then: “Tougher in December.” Then: “One more.”
Back and forth
Sal’s got a new nail.
“Bring the box.” I don’t know what he means. I think I do.
Your dad said “one more.”
All four lines. In one breath. Then he laughed. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He always has.
Kentucky falls by forty-two, Ohio beats the RedHawks to set up the oldest fight in the column for everything, Sal asks for the box back, and a father in Sarasota says, after all his lines, one more.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.