56-39: National Champions, and the Sentence
Cleveland State56
Ohio39
- Game
- 2037 National Championship
- Site
- Neutral site
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 16-1
VIKINGS 56, OHIO 39. THE CLEVELAND STATE VIKINGS ARE NATIONAL CHAMPIONS.
Folks. FOLKS. Seventeen points of daylight against Ohio, for everything. Our second national title. Sixteen and one.
I went to find Bridget after, like always. She came out of the Ohio press room with her lanyard and her eyes full, and Rose was with her, holding two flags, one in each hand, both up. Rose said, “Grandpa, I waved both the whole time.” Bridget hugged me and said, “Congratulations, national champion. I love you. Don’t make it weird.” She said that in 2028. She meant it twice.
That night I opened Teddy’s note. Butcher paper, folded in four, two years in my wallet. It said: “Keep showing up, Mick.” That’s all. What I told Danny on the Lakers in 2024. Teddy read it in my column, and saved it, and gave it back.
On Monday, Big Stan hung the national championship photo on the nail, and Walt cried, and Chester said, out loud, “Told you, Mick. 2025.” Sal hung a green-and-white pennant on his new nail, under his five Ohio ones: CLEVELAND STATE NATIONAL CHAMPIONS 2037.
Sixteen and one, 9-0 in the Big 12 regular season. Elijah Pashos threw for 6,883 yards and 93 touchdowns, both school records. Davonte Sizer ran for 1,958. Paul Flannigan caught for 2,231, won the Mackey and made All-American. Lyle Sawyer made All-American. Marquez Rossouw had 18.5 sacks and won the Bednarik and the Lombardi. Coach Dolan has two national titles.
Jersey forty-four. One more.
Five pierogi. The doctor says two on the plate. Tonight, the doctor isn’t here.
A seventeen-point win over Ohio in the national championship game. The Vikings are national champions for the second time in ten years.
I called my father after the game. It was a good day. He knew me before I said my name. He said, “Kenny, that’s four.” I said, “Four, Dad.” He said, “We did it.” He said that in 2028. Then he said something new: “Now go tell Mickey.” I said, “He’s right here, Dad.” He said, “Then tell him.”
At the Lantern Room on Tuesday, Nadia tied the green ribbon around my wrist. “From everybody,” she said.
I’ve avoided writing one sentence in this column for fourteen years. In 2028, Marlene cut my title column to “Fine. Wow.” This year she gave me the whole page and said, “Write the one you’ve been saving.” Here it is.
Mickey was right.
Back and forth
Kenny. Kenny, you wrote it.
I wrote it.
Say it out loud.
Respectfully, no. It’s in the paper. That’s louder.
The Vikings beat Ohio for their second national title, a granddaughter waves both flags, Teddy’s note says keep showing up, Big Stan’s nail finally holds something, and after fourteen years the doubter writes the sentence.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.