On one hand, it’s a symbol of what could have been. A trip to the Final Four cut just short for head coach Ben McCollum and his unlikely team. On the other, it’s a reminder of how many people they’ve proven wrong. How many brackets they’ve broken. And how, after a year of uncertainty, a team of dreamers dragged Iowa basketball back into belief.

The Run of a Lifetime

After losing five of their final seven games before the NCAA tournament, Iowa wasn’t exactly on a roll. But considering they hadn’t made it to the big dance since 2022-23, it still seemed like fans were content with the season and excitement McCollum had brought back to Iowa City.

The team, however, was anything but satisfied.

The #9 Iowa Hawkeyes won a toss-up game with #8 Clemson behind a free-throw frenzy where Iowa made 24 of their 31 attempts at the line. One down. And with it, something started.

Just 48 hours after the win, they shocked the basketball world by beating Florida, the reigning champions, in the final seconds. Down by two points, Iowa senior Bennett Stirtz took the inbound and dribbled it past half court. Finding himself caught between two Gators trying to foul him, Stirtz dished it off to Alvaro Folgueiras, who hit the game-winning shot with 4.5 seconds left to play. The final buzzer sounded, cementing a storybook score on the jumbotron: 73-72, Iowa. From there, a Midwest motto was born.

“March is for the dreamers,” Folgueiras said after the game. “And there’s no better dreamer than us.”

Four days later, the dreamers took on Nebraska in their first Sweet Sixteen appearance since 1999. Both squads shot the lights out, but incredible performances from Iowa role players Tate Sage (19 points) and Folgueiras (16 points), along with Stirtz’s 20 points, lifted Iowa up and over the Cornhuskers. 77-71. Another win, another chapter closed.

Last night, their story came to an end against Illinois in the Elite Eight. The dream was over. And while for a split second it felt like the world was ending, it didn’t take long for fans and school alumni to express endless support for a team that will never be forgotten. Tweets and posts flooded social media, with praises and pictures of how much hope this team gave them. From half-empty arenas last season to jam-packed student sections and a historic tournament run this year, the energy was back for this program.

This team was special for a multitude of reasons. The lowest Big Ten seed to ever reach an Elite Eight. A roster built from places far outside the spotlight. A group that believed, with almost delusional conviction, that they could just keep winning. That they could restore hope to a dwindling fanbase.

And for nine days in March, they did just that. They made everyone believe.

Smile Because it Happened

There is something very uncomfortable about watching grown men cry. Especially when you’re in a room surrounded by them.

It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen it once or you’re a seasoned veteran, numb to the emotions that follow such a gut-wrenching tournament’s end. It’s weird. It’s hard. As close to twenty media members stuck microphones and camera lights in the faces of young athletes, illuminating dried tears and crusty lips, it felt necessary to seek out a smile.

The question: what would your 10-year-old self think about this journey?

Bennett Stirtz: “I always wanted to play college ball, but he wouldn’t believe this. It’s been pretty cool.”

Tate Sage: “He’d be pretty happy. Especially being able to stay up past my bedtime and watch myself on the TV.”

Kael Combs: “I wouldn’t believe it. I’ve worked so hard to get here. I’d tell him not to change a thing. “

Brendan Hausen: “Believe you can. Dream on. There will be lots of highs and lows, but just believe.”

Cooper Koch: “It’s fun. Enjoy practicing with these guys every day and lifting during the season. Trust the process and take it all in. You only get four years of it.”

One by one, reporters started to fade away as they got the answers they needed. When the players were done, they removed their sweat-soaked black and gold jerseys and tossed them into a tattered black Nike suitcase in the middle of the floor. Some laughed, shooting it like a basketball as they hugged their teammates. Others solemnly dropped their tank top time capsule of memories into the bag.

Just a Dream

After the locker rooms cleared completely, Ben McCollum emerged from the hallway to stand in front of a black and blue foldable March Madness backdrop. His usual white dress shirt and gold tie were nowhere to be seen, likely creased and damp, bearing the marks from a game he’ll think about for days.

His voice was steady, but his eyes told a different story. The kind that comes from knowing how close you were. The kind that doesn’t fully settle in until much later.

He talked about Bennett Stirtz, and how the journey they’ve taken together is “a little ridiculous.” How he followed him from school to school. How the University of Iowa feels like home.

For a moment, he paused, reflecting on just how far they’d come.

“We were just in Maryville, Missouri,” he said. “And now we’re playing in the Elite Eight.”

He laughed.

“Man, I almost said Final Four.”

The post A Team of Dreamers appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Tonight, against the reigning March Madness champion Florida Gators, Folgueiras pointed to his father just once all game. But with 4.5 seconds to play, down by two points, he hit the game-winning shot, the shot of his life, and connected with his father once more.

After a great defensive stand from Iowa in the waning seconds, the final buzzer sounded. 73-72. Hawks win. And for the first time since 1999, Iowa punched their ticket to the Sweet Sixteen.

Folgueiras celebrated briefly with his teammates before booking it over to the stands. There, his mother Beatriz awaited. Friday’s round one game was the first time she’d seen him play in an Iowa uniform in person. Tonight was the second. It’d been two years since they said “I love you” face-to-face.

“Having my mom here, she’s everything for me,” Folgueiras said with a smile after the game. “I’m so lucky to have her as a mom.”

The 6-foot-10 junior finished the magical night with 14 points, second in scoring behind Tavion Banks with 20. Bennett Stirtz, Iowa’s consistent scoring leader, was ice cold all night, shooting 0-for-9 from behind the arc. Ultimately, of course, that lack of scoring from the captain didn’t matter.

“It was my teammates tonight,” Stirtz said. “We’re just so unselfish.”

Ironically, it was Stirtz who dished the final assist to Folgueiras to win the game. Practice what you preach.

This year has been up and down for the Hawks. A new head coach. Close games against #1 Michigan. Abysmal losses to Penn State, who ranked last in the big ten. But this month is in a league of its own. And Folgueiras, tonight, felt the madness more than anyone.

“March is for the dreamers,” he said. “And there’s no better dreamer than us.”

The post No Better Dreamer Than Us appeared first on KRUI Radio.

“These are my people,” he yells, arms outstretched. “This is my city!” 

Russell dons a black-and-red winter coat. He neatly tucks his oversized black work polo into his black company pants. The logo of his company, Block by Block, is stitched on the front of his jacket. The organization, hired in June of 2024 to manage Iowa City’s Downtown Ambassador Program, aims to keep the streets clean, welcoming, and safe. Russell is a big part of this program. Whenever he spots trash on the ground, it’s time to do his job. He bends down with a practiced grace, his left leg kicking back in that same slow rhythm it’s had ever since it started giving him trouble. People rush past without a second glance. They see him as little more than a garbage man. A barrier on their way to work, a smiling interference in their normal walk to class. They don’t know his rhythm once belonged somewhere else. Decades ago, the 49-year-old performed ballet on stages in Romania, Canada, and Switzerland. But the chaos of life’s winding path brought him to Iowa City. This cleaning cart. These streets. And a purpose those strangers could never imagine. 

When it was good, it was extraordinary.

Russell won major international recognition, including first place at the Erik Bruhn Competition in 1999 and a cover appearance in The Dance Current that same year. He trained at elite institutions like the Boston Ballet School and the National Ballet School of Canada, later dancing lead roles with world‑renowned companies. At five years old, Russell entered ballet because he wanted to fly like Superman. His childhood hero. And for years, he did just that, reaching the peak many dancers only imagine. But ballet demands perfection. And perfection demands endurance.

“You always want more,” said Eloy Barragan, professor of ballet at Iowa. “Sometimes, it’s a nightmare. And when you get injured? It’s Hell.”

Russell’s body began to break. A torn ACL. A cadaver knee. Double-digit sprained ankles that never healed. Two left shoulder surgeries—the nail in the coffin, as he puts it. Those are just the ones he remembers. Still, he couldn’t take a break.

“When you’re a dancer, you better shut up and take your Advil,” Russell said. “You’ve got a matinee tomorrow. You better get that review.”

So the performances continued. And the pace didn’t slow. At 22 years old, while dancing in Canada, he found a way to keep up. Russell was snorting two eight-balls of cocaine a day—roughly seven grams—while still dancing, still being cast, still winning. At first, he said, it was euphoric. The snowy seduction felt endless. But in using it over and over, he lost his passion for the art altogether. 

Russell remembers one day where he woke up to birds chirping outside his dormitory window in Canada. He had a beautiful woman lying beside him in bed. He used to dream of this moment. And yet he couldn’t help but hate the life he was living. 

“Fuck it,” he thought to himself. “I’m just going to overdose one day. Who cares?”

There’s a lot that goes into a name. Some carry history, others are simply chosen from baby-books. Jhe’s name was supposed to carry his father’s. John Henry Evans. Only Jhe didn’t really know his father. 

“I met him one time and he was a robot,” Russell said. “He was basically just child support.”

And after his father disowned him later in life, Jhe reclaimed it. Now, he says it stands for something else entirely: “Just hug everyone.”

Jhe strives to live out that statement. As he keeps on pushing his cart, he sees an old friend. 

“Whaddup J.D.!”

The two of them hug. 

“Whaddup Jhe,” he mumbles back.

J.D. is a large black homeless man, carrying a half-smoked cigarette in his right hand and a black trash bag full of belongings in his left. He’s wearing a gray Hawkeye wrestling hoodie, heavily stained tan pants, and neon orange and black shoes. Most people will avoid J.D. His schizophrenia and spells of erratic yelling normally force others to take a detour. Jhe doesn’t pass him. 

“I’ve been where he’s been,” Russell said. “It sucks to feel invisible.”

Right now, they’re both the opposite. They’re both present. And even as J.D. imaginatively rambles about his past lives as an NFL player and husband of a supermodel, Jhe listens. And smiles. This is what the job gives him.

“We’ve got to get on now,” Russell says. “Stay grateful brother!”

“Peace, Jhe.”

It was 2014, and Russell was about to perform for a legend. But he wasn’t dancing, he was speaking. He sat on a couch with his hero, 79-year-old Raven Wilkinson, widely recognized as the first African-American woman to dance with a major classical ballet company. Russell had tracked her down through Alonzo King, director of LINES Ballet. He had written a song for her, mailed it on a CD, and after hours on the phone, they finally arranged to meet.

Wilkinson had endured relentless racism in the Deep South. Crosses were burned in front of her, the KKK threatened her, and she was even urged to paint her face white before shows. She always refused. Russell had long admired her strength. But now, that strength looked different. Frail and shriveled by lung disease, she wheezed with every word. Yet she listened as Russell recited his poem. His voice shook with reverence as he spoke the lines he had written just for her.

“Hush little baby, don’t you cry, this little black bird is still gonna fly.”

Though written for Wilkinson, the line seemed two-sided, a reminder to Russell himself that he could still soar after years of struggle and trauma. And Wilkinson was a reminder that he could. She was no longer a dancer. Her own body was shutting down. That struggle felt painfully familiar. But Russell realized through their conversation that her worth wasn’t defined by applause or titles or perfection. Maybe his life didn’t have to be measured that way either.

Two years after their meeting, now retired from dance, Russell choreographed a tribute child ballet titled Birds of Light. Another ode to his hero. To Raven. The woman who made him appreciate life beyond the stage lights. 

“Because of her, I woke up,” Russell said. “When I saw Raven, I got a different kind of inspiration.”

Outside of work, Russell’s world is small. He doesn’t keep many people close. Mostly, it’s just him and one friend: Jenni Rose.

They met years ago at the New Pioneer Co-op, when Russell worked as a cashier. Rose, who also walks with a limp, noticed that Russell was allowed to sit on the job, something she wasn’t used to seeing in her own workplaces. When they finally started talking, the surprise turned into recognition. Both had lived in bodies that didn’t always cooperate. Both had spent years feeling out of place.

“We live in a world where we’re starving for connection,” Rose said. “Jhe helped me embrace what I had.”

Now, they walk together around College Green Park, matching limps and shared ease. A couple of years ago, they even taught dance lessons together, drawing crowds of nearly fifteen people. Proof that movement is still theirs, even if it looks different than it used to.

“I’m still dancing,” Russell said. “I’m just dancing a little differently now.”

He often passes along lessons like those, the ones he learned from Raven Wilkinson. Reminders that the body is just one part of who they are, and that the world’s narrow definitions shouldn’t shrink their creativity. 

“It’s rare to see people as free as he expresses himself in public,” Rose said. “You can tell when someone has lost their childlike wonder as an adult. But he still has it.”

And he displays that wonder everywhere he goes.

After the lunch break, which features a meat-free burrito from Estella’s and nonstop conversation with those behind the counter, Russell makes his way to the Downtown District office, the largest sponsor of Block by Block in Iowa City. A year and a half ago, the two companies joined forces, ensuring a clean and welcoming downtown atmosphere year-round. Russell wants to go in and thank them. 

He parks his cart outside, and walks through the double glass doors. He limps up the three speckled-gray steps, and into a small elevator. His pointer finger, which protrudes through a hole in his black wool glove, presses the button to floor two. 

There, Joe Reilly awaits. Reilly is the District’s director of operations, and runs into Russell frequently. 

“He is the most standout ambassador we have in this city,” Reilly said. “Everybody should get to know him.”

If you’re not quick enough, though, Russell gets to know you first. His smile, featuring a partially overlapping front tooth, is always plastered on his face. And while he works five days of eight long hours each, changing trash and scrubbing phallic graffiti art, Russell consistently makes time to welcome everybody with open arms. 

“If he could leave the cleaning part behind and just help the people, he would,” said Iowa City Block by Block Operations Manager Keyon Shelby. “We call him Mr. Hospitality.” 

None of this is glamorous work. Not the aching body, the puke pickup, or the $19 an hour that helps him get by. But he hardly discusses money at all. He laughs when it’s brought up. For Russell, there’s a purpose beyond the paycheck. 

“People often leave their high-paying jobs because they’re not being fed,” Reilly said. “Jhe is being fed here.”

The back sole of Russell’s left shoe is starting to wither. Black Nike Vapor Max sneakers, size 12, and well worn. Whenever he walks, that left foot swivels outward at a 45 degree angle, dragging through a small half-circle with each step. Sometimes his heel even skims the concrete, leaving a trail of scrapes on his sneakers. The motion repeats all day long, and not by choice. After torn ligaments and fused bones, his hip no longer rotates the way it should. Russell has learned to move around those limits, the same way he’s learned to move around so much of his past.

As he makes his way down a sloping sidewalk, he stops to pull over. Physically, that means guiding himself and his cart to the edge for a breather. Mentally, it’s a chance to pull his mind away from the pain, away from the rush of memories that flare with each twinge.

“When you’re broken nobody wants you,” Russell says, pulling from past trauma.

For the first time today, he isn’t smiling.

“I’m not just a body.”

A singular teardrop escapes Russell’s left eye, rolling down his cheek and tracing its way through the maze of his scruffy beard and skin tags. It glistens against his black skin. After keeping his eyes closed for so long, he normally sheds a tear or two when he lets the light back in. Not to worry, he says it’s normal. And it’s also spiritual. Before work starts each morning, outside his company’s office, he talks to the moon. Today, he’s rapping. 

“This is Block by Block, trash talk that talk,” Russell rhymes. “We make it clean everywhere that you walk.”

That’s just one line of an entire song lasting two minutes and 24 seconds. Russell wrote the whole thing by himself. Rap has always been a big part of his life, and seven months ago his company shared this specific one on their main social media pages, tagging it as their “song of the summer.” Russell is forever proud of it.

The black metal bench he’s sitting on is cold, the handles littered with peeling rust. Russell grips them as he rhymes. Amber-scented cologne, which he rolls on his neck and wrist, wafts through the morning air. His posture is pristine. This is Russell’s routine. And though it’s the same concept, the blueprint often changes. Sometimes he’ll be sitting outside a minute earlier. Sometimes he freestyles, sewing words together rhythmically from the depths of his brain. There’s no real structure. That’s why he enjoys it. 

In this moment, perfection doesn’t exist.

The cleaning cart feels heavier now, mounds of trash pile high in his “brute,” as the staff calls it. Russell wheels it around the corner, under a dimly-lit parking garage, and toward a cinderblock shed where other carts and cleaning supplies wait. Fresh blue towels, peroxide bottles, and cans of anti-graffiti spray line the shelves. Russell leans into the brute, organizing it for tomorrow.

“This is my least favorite part of the job,” he says.

It’s not because he has to clean again. He’s done that all day with ease. For eight hours, he’s been present, moving through the city that welcomes him. He’s fist-bumped the homeless, tipped his cap to young families, and smiled despite the shadows of his past. Even when others look down on his work, he doesn’t. This job gives him purpose.

No, what he struggles with is going home. Taking off the uniform and losing the feeling of a city superhero. Returning to who he was before the day began. Before he walked the streets that embraced him, a home he’s never quite had until now.

The post Dancing Differently appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Across the country, phones are lighting up the same way. Each notification signals a new era: the NCAA’s revenue-sharing model, which allows 319 Division I schools to pay athletes up to $20.5 million directly. That’s a theoretical $6.5 billion in year one. The cash flow is real. And visible. Florida’s football parking lots gleam with Dodge Chargers and Challengers. Michigan’s star quarterback, Bryce Underwood, can be seen flashing his diamond pendants on Saturdays. Money is moving fast, and mostly into the hands of 18-to-22 year-olds. Few will say where their checks go. But it’s not hard to guess. Let your imagination run wild. 

This Galleria mall in Houston, Texas is huge. Three million square feet. Three floors. More than 400 stores, two Westin hotels, a skating rink, and a private health club. It’s tied for second largest mall in the United States. The pure white porcelain floors feel fancy to even look at. On level one, outside the Louis Vuitton store, Brian Allen is window shopping. The Iowa football defensive end is repping black crocs, a black and red Chicago Bulls shirt and gray Iowa sweatshorts. Janelle and Ephraim Lee, his siblings, stand beside him. Ephraim played football at Penn. Janelle, basketball at Holy Cross. Both competed before the era of revenue sharing. Brian is the lucky one. And he’s treating them to a shopping spree.

“Since we’re all grown now we’re not in the same house that often,” Allen said. “I wanted to do something nice for them.”

They meander beneath the towering glass balconies, scents of high-end fragrances seeping from luxury perfume stores. At LIDS, a baseball cap store, Brian purchases a tan Los Angeles hat with a black brim for his sister. $50. He snags a Kill Bill t-shirt for his brother from Prestige. $70. When it’s time to shop for himself, his eyes lock onto a denim jacket from Dior. He flips the tag over, revealing the price. $8,000. 

“I had never been inside these boujee stores before,” Allen said, chuckling. “But I quickly put that back on the shelf.”

On the same level of the mall, Allen strolls into Balenciaga, the sunset orange floor contrasting the black shirt he spots. Printed on the center is a “B” logo, crowned by orange and gold flames. The same flames are stamped on each sleeve. 

“Only a couple hundred,” he said.

Every year, the game of college athletics shifts closer to a business. Christian Lorenzo, a defensive lineman at Illinois State, knows this better than most. He’s transferred twice, first from Illinois, then Georgia State. He’s been chasing the best fit. And the best offer. Now, he uses his revenue sharing checks to help his little sister, Natallia, pay for her cancer treatments. 

That kind of movement doesn’t surprise Kyle Strongin, a certified NFL and collegiate sports agent.

“Somebody’s always gonna pay more for you somewhere else,” Strongin said. “It’s like unrestricted free agency.”

Strongin, an agent for Brian Allen’s teammate and Iowa safety Xavier Nwankpa, is also managing more than $80 million in NFL contracts for 15 players this year. Many of these athletes he’s been with since college. Before NIL and revenue sharing, Strongin’s job with these athletes was much different. Getting paid to play was a distant dream. Now, in a changing world, naivety takes precedent. 

“Their first experience with taxes is always a shock,” Strongin said. “Whatever you think you’re going to get, you get 50% of that.”

“Uncle Sam takes a lot of your money.”

It’s not just agents and players who have to adapt to this new system. Brennan White, the assistant athletic director and general manager of NIL at Illinois State, is constantly attempting to stay afloat. A mid-major like ISU, White says, was set up to fail from the start. And while he tries to work as seamlessly as possible with players like Lorenzo, it’s tough to keep them around.

“It’s all one big game of blind poker,” White said. “We have to guess what they’re being offered to leave, which is way more than we can ever afford.”

And he’s right. Larger schools can hit the $20.5 million threshold set by the settlement, while the Redbirds can’t come close, according to athletic director Jeri Beggs. The financial gap shapes recruiting, retention, and even daily operations. White feels the pressure.

“I can’t get athletes to respond unless I have checks,” White said. “We were destined to fail from the start.”

Others were destined to succeed. Or, at least, neglect the food chain beneath them.

Brandon Hansen doesn’t fish. He doesn’t even really play video games that much. But he has no problem shelling out cash to partake. With the help of his new funds, Hansen has dropped a whopping $900 on fishing rods and lures. He’s drained another $1,200 on PC equipment. A teammate of Tuerk’s at Illinois, Hansen has fallen into the temptation trap of revenue sharing freedom. 

“He’s kind of a habitual spender,” Tuerk said. “He’ll just go out and get anything.” 

This summer, with the rise of pickleball, Hansen decided to have some fun on the paddle market. You know, as one does.

“He got the most expensive paddle out there,” Tuerk added. “He just buys shit like that.”

But not every program takes such a laissez-faire approach. At Iowa, head football coach Kirk Ferentz is wary of certain spending habits. And there’s one he despises most: food delivery. 

The concern isn’t the meals themselves but how the money flows. Hawkeyes use Black Card, an app-based platform that allows student-athletes to purchase meals and groceries at local restaurants. Delivery services like Doordash aren’t included.

“He always tells us not to use it,” Iowa receiver Dayton Howard said. “He’ll say, ‘it’s three bucks to a dollar.’”

If you’ve ever Doordashed before, you’d know he’s right. Ferentz doesn’t oppose all the benefits of the new system, though. At Iowa’s media day on August 26, the coach often criticized for his stubbornness to change seemed just fine with the new rules. 

“I think that’s really so deserved,” he said. “The world has changed, I think it’s great that money is going back to athletes.”

When the money is used right, of course. Many who do follow his frugal advice reap the benefits. Last year, former Hawkeye linebacker Nick Jackson put all of his NIL money into VOO, an S&P 500 mutual fund. Where the average high-yield savings account earns 4–5% annually, VOO has returned 14% since 2010. 

His lake house has to have jetskis. A big deck. Maybe a boat. Definitely a slide. And a diving board. When he’s ready. When he’s skinnier. That’s what Iowa football’s starting center Logan Jones would buy if he had “throwaway” money. For now, he’s putting his hard-earned revenue shares toward something more meaningful: supporting local missionaries at the Newman Catholic Student Center in Iowa City.

“We’ve really been able to help people,” Jones said. “It’s been super gratifying to see them get closer to God.” 

He’s done more than lend a hand. Every dollar Jones contributes helps missionaries spend time with students, attend conferences, and build relationships that go beyond the football field. Father Jeff Belger, who works closely with the team, sees a greater purpose in Jones’ giving. 

“Sooner or later, these players will need an identity that sticks with them,” Belger said. “I think this brings balance and a bigger picture to something that can be consuming.”

For Jones, that “something” is money. It has swallowed young minds. He’s trying to avoid that. And for a player who wasn’t even baptized last year, his mission and commitment with Newman keeps him grounded. Faith funding now. Lineman cannonballs later.

The finger of Eddie Tuerk presses into his car’s push-to-start button. His infotainment system flickers to life. The odometer reads 94,000 miles. Outside the football complex, leaves tumble across asphalt, stirred by the Autumn breeze. He leans back against the leather seats, hands on the wheel once again. This season, he’s carved out a role on special teams, inching closer to something that finally feels earned.

“There’s a lot of guys who deserve money but don’t have the recognition,” Tuerk said. “Revenue sharing evens it out. We’re all putting in a shit ton of work.”

Every dollar in their pockets carries the sweat of unseen hours. And whether that spending goes to faith, fun, fashion, or foolishness; each choice tells a story. They’re no longer just playing the game. Now, they own a piece of it.

The post Cash in Hand  appeared first on KRUI Radio.

“Do you think they’ll kick away from him?”

He was referring to Kaden Wetjen, who Rutgers should have kicked away from. They didn’t. After blasting 104 yards through the heart of Piscataway, Wetjen’s kickoff return touchdown to open the Blackout game at SHI Stadium was the first of MANY dominoes to fall.

FIRST HALF

Hardly any Hawkeye fan can process what was put on offensive display tonight. It looked like your friend, who’s only ever used Madden’s “coach suggestions,” secretly obtained a new brain and playbook all at the same time. It was fun to watch.

What wasn’t so fun was watching Rutgers quarterback Athan Kaliakmanis find gaps in Iowa’s defense on seemingly every single drive. In the first half alone, Kaliakmanis was 14 of 19 with 184 air yards. He added another 37 on the ground, tacking on two rushing touchdowns. Iowa’s defense couldn’t keep up, finding no pressure and drawing more yellow laundry than the man in the yellow hat on a lazy weekend.

Iowa’s offense, however, responded. Kind of. After an abysmal attempt at catching the football on the first drive, Mark Gronowski and Tim Lester finally clicked. There were numerous plays that showed flashes of an NFL mind, specifically on a 2nd and 1 in the 2nd quarter. Lester drew up a beautiful tunnel screen pass to tight end DJ Vonnahme, resulting in 21 yard gain that gashed Rutgers.

Jaz Patterson was solid once again for the Hawks, totaling 37 yards on 6 carries. Kamari Moulton, who has been out since week 1, also helped, adding a touchdown from six yards out.

A missed field goal from the trusty Rutgers leg of Jai Patel kept the game knotted at 21 apiece, and gave Iowa one final sliver of hope.

Just seconds before halftime, for some reason, Rutgers decided to punt the ball to Wetjen in the field of play. Iowa’s magic man slipped a couple tacklers and got pulled down at the 14 yard line.

The over/under was set before the game at 46.5. By halftime? 42.

SECOND HALF

Contrary to the fireworks of the first half, the third quarter felt like both teams forgot to plug in their controllers. A blocked Rutgers field goal and a suddenly mobile Mark Gronowski were the only signs of life. Fans had time to Google “nearest pizza by the slice” before the real action returned.

The fourth quarter in Piscataway delivered plenty of drama. After a 26 yard field goal from Drew Stevens, Rutgers quickly mounted a drive. Kaliakmanis connected with NFL prospect Ian Strong on multiple passes, including a 26-yard strike that pushed the Scarlet Knights deep into Iowa territory. From there, running back Antwan Raymond carried the load, punching in a 1-yard touchdown run with 9:44 to play.

Cue Gronowski. After a short kickoff return and an early sack, the Hawkeyes were gifted new life when a Rutgers holding penalty extended the drive. Gronowski then found Dayton Howard streaking down the sideline for a 42-yard completion, setting Iowa up inside the 15. On second and goal, the quarterback kept it himself, barreling in from two yards out to swing the game back in Iowa’s favor, 31-28, with 5:39 remaining.

For the first time since 2014, Iowa came into this game with no interceptions through the last four games.

Tonight, they’d had enough of that narrative.

On a crucial 3rd and 8 for Rutgers, Max Llewellyn punched through the Rutgers offensive line. He got just enough of Kaliakmanis’ wrist on an attempted pass, forcing a lollipop into the air. Jaxon Rexroth found the ball, snagged it, and celebrated with his teammates after the interception.

And, like he did all game, Gronowski commanded his Hawks back down the field, and added a third rushing touchdown to his stat sheet. 38-28. The dagger.

Rutgers attempted, but failed, to save their undefeated season. Phil Parker won’t be too happy come their next film session, but his coveted defense gave him a sigh of relief in the end.

With a gray headband and smudged eye black, Gronowski took a victorious kneel to end the game. His final statsheet: 12-18, 186 passing yards. 13 carries for 55 yards, and three touchdowns.

Way back in 1968, Iowa quarterback Larry Lawrence had four straight games with a rushing touchdown. Since then? Nobody. But tonight, Mark did it. If you didn’t believe, you should. The time is nowski.

Iowa will be back at Kinnick Stadium next weekend to take on Curt Cignetti and his 19th-ranked Hoosiers from Indiana. If tonight was a sign of things to come on offense, fans can expect more excitement than just a fun commercial.

This wasn’t Heaven. Nor was it Iowa. This was Piscataway, where the Iowa Hawkeyes scored 38 points. Yes, 38 points. In a Big 10 conference game.

The post The Time is ‘Nowski: Hawks Fight Their Way Out Of Piscataway, 38-28 appeared first on KRUI Radio.

“I liked it better when they had us in the weight room,” he laughs. “This closet is tough.”

The silence that follows is loud, broken only by popping gum and buzzing phones. Time drags by. They’re all waiting. Finally, Iowa’s head football coach, Kirk Ferentz, steps into this cage. He sways his right foot, glancing between his notes and the impatient faces as he attempts to explain the loss. His fingers twist and tighten the green cap of a half-drained Dasani.

He feels stuck, just like everyone in this room. Nobody likes being in a box. Yet that’s exactly how his team played.

Never-ending tents of cardinal red and gold line the perimeter of Jack Trice Stadium. Towering stages and rows of booming speakers cemented themselves on the grass for Big Noon Kickoff. On the outskirts, massive white bed sheets, smattered with smudged marker drawings, wave from rows of deteriorating college houses in the gentle morning breeze. It isn’t normally this crazy. But on a day like today, in the city of Ames, Iowa, it is. For the CyHawk matchup, there are a few certains: Beer is water, heckling is encouraged, and hate week is to be taken seriously. This is a battle for the state of Iowa.

Since 2011, the Hawkeyes had been unbeaten in this stadium against the Cyclones of Iowa State. Six straight victories away from home. But today, they lost. 16-13. The run was over. In a realm where Cyclone head coach Matt Campbell has made constant changes, Iowa has not. History doesn’t matter, because rivalries don’t always play out on paper. They play out inside the box Iowa insists on living in.

In week one against UAlbany, Iowa quarterback Mark Gronowski completed just 8 passes for 44 yards. That is 5.5 yards a catch. This week in Ames, he went 13-for-83, only 6.4 yards a completion. Through two games, Iowa averages just over six yards every time the ball is caught. Take away Saturday’s two longest plays, 22 and 15 yards, and you’re left with 11 completions for 46 yards. Four yards a pop. That’s not just inefficiency. That’s confinement. The first down chains act like orange kryptonite for this team. Gronowski’s 127 passing yards through two games are the fewest by a Big Ten quarterback to open a season in history, breaking a record no one wanted.

Defenses have known it for years. They sit back in zone shells, safeties high and corners off, daring Iowa to throw over the top. Iowa fans are quick to blame the quarterback, but it’s not always under his control. There are no double moves and no layered routes to stretch coverage. Rather, a parade of curls and checkdowns. Linebackers squeeze the windows, corners close on the ball, and the whole thing looks almost easy to defend. Often, it is.

Once in a while, the box cracks. With 13:17 left in the third quarter of today’s game, Iowa ran one of its cleanest designs in years. Out of trips left, Jacob Gill pressed vertically from the slot before breaking wide on a deep out. Sam Phillips and Seth Anderson cleared the safeties with hard vertical stems, leaving Gill free in space. Gronowski hit him for 22 yards. Iowa’s longest play of the day. And the season. It’s a glimpse of what could be, if only the Hawkeyes dared to live outside the lines.

Most of the time, though, the offense retreats back into its four walls of comfort. And so do the questions.

The faded eggshell-colored foam soles from his Nike shoes are forming creases. The weight of an entire fanbase is pressing into him. Ferentz doesn’t flinch at questions. But he feels the walls closing. The same walls his offense refuses to leave. The ones that won’t help them win.

“Coach, you’ve lost the last 10 games to ranked opponents,” one reporter starts to ask. “Do you feel like you’re-“

“I wasn’t aware of that so thanks for reminding me,” Ferentz interjects. “We’re about three points short today. That’s all I can say.”

Three points short, and constantly yards shy. When the presser concludes, he pushes back from the table and lifts his eyebrows, a flash of frustration crossing his face. For a moment, he escapes the room, the reporters, the loss. Outside, the tents have folded, the streets are quiet, and Ames exhales. Fans leave, drunk on tradition. But the memory of the game lingers. And by next week, it will be here, waiting again, patient and unyielding.

The post Trapped in the Box appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Grayson Chapeau steps towards the turf mat, 60 feet away.

His stride is quick and uneven as he picks up a white and gold Louisville Slugger, its grip frayed and curling near the knob. He tightens his hold and looks up. His mouth opens, revealing rubber bands and retainers between a crooked smile. A scar peeks out from underneath a red Rawlings helmet.

“Gray, are you zoned in?” calls his mother, Chelsey, lifting a ball from the bucket.

Grayson doesn’t answer. He just nods.

She raises the ball above her head, then lets it drop into the blue chute. The machine spits it forward with a hiss. 

Grayson swings, and connects.

Still Grayson

The MRI tube was no wider than a cafeteria tray, its ceiling is less than six inches from his nose. Somewhere from the next room, a technician watched Grayson’s brain light up on a black-and-white monitor as a disembodied voice crackled through the speaker above his head. 

“Hold still.” 

There’s no need to repeat it. He’s been here more than sixty times. His family turned it into a game when he was just four years old. 

“Freeze!” 

And he did. Without any sedation, Grayson would lay perfectly still for 45, sometimes 90 minutes at a time through MRIs, CT scans, and 40 rounds of radiation for brain cancer. Diffuse Astrocytoma. But unlike Grayson in the tube, the tumor wouldn’t stay in place. 

Woven deep into parts of the brain that handle vision, movement, and memory, the tumor is slow growing, but inoperable. The word “diffuse” means it spreads out instead of forming one clean clump. Removing it was never an option. Not then, and not now. Grayson turned 15 this year, nearly 11 years into a fight that has never paused. 

“He has never been in remission,” Chelsey said. “He is fighting for his life alongside his dreams.” 

He has every right to be bitter. But that was never in his character. 

Keeping Tabs

The sun dips behind the Black Hills of Spearfish, South Dakota, painting the outfield in a golden glow. Down below, a ballpark buzzes with summer life as college kids chase innings and memories. Roughly 600 loyal fans are rolling through the gates every game, persevering through the mountain storms and dry July heat. They are wearing the colors: blue, white, black, and gray. 

The colors, and heart, of the Spearfish Sasquatch. 

In the bleachers, fingers pop aluminum tabs from drink cans. They drop the tabs into clear containers throughout the stadium, each with a black and gold sticker picturing Grayson’s face and message. One is taped to a recycling bin, the other rests on the counter of the concession stand. 

It’s not a game. It’s something quieter. Each tab is for a boy who can’t take the field but never left the team. Grayson walks around, hyping up the crowd. 

“When I say Spearfish you say Sasquatch!”

Sometimes fans and friends yell back. Other times his voice rings loud amongst the silence. He always ends with one big scream. 

Often, he carries a glove. Other times a miniature wooden bat. When batters step to the plate, Grayson swings too. He dons a white Sasquatch jersey, signed by generations of players who have come through this town. The number on the back isn’t printed, instead it’s scribbled on with black Sharpie.

24. 

That was Ryan Bachman’s number, the one he wore through four Sasquatch seasons. It’s retired now. Preserved in a circular placard mounted to the front of the press box, a badge of loyalty drilled into the stadium’s bones. 

“There’s nobody I’d rather see still wearing that number,” Bachman said. 

After Ryan’s fourth and final season concluded last summer, Grayson was a wreck. Thankfully, Ryan is back as a coach. And Grayson? He is back in his usual spot, roaming the stands, uniting the crowd. Some days, Grayson joins the guys down in the outfield for their daily prayer.

“Grayson is part of the team,” Bachman said. “He may be a bit younger and smaller, but we all look up to him.”

This summer, a new addition has been wrapped around the wrists of Bachman and many others. A navy band with gold lettering. On one side, a supportive message, bracketed by a childhood cancer ribbon:

No One Fights Alone! Go GOLD 4 kids!

On the other, a tribute. A symbol of what everybody at this park is part of. 

Grayson’s Support Squad.

Almost every player received one, and none have taken it off. There’s reasons for all of this, the bracelets, saving pop tabs, and uplifting the fans. Bringing the town, the team and the crowd together. 

The first time Grayson donated pop tabs, he hauled 88 pounds, his entire wagon was stuffed to the brim. It all went to the Ronald McDonald House in Minneapolis to help house kids like him. He was just four years old then. Ever since, his family has collected yearly donations. Today, his goal is a bit bigger. 

Four thousand pounds. Six million individual tabs. 

“We just keep breaking our own records,” Gray said, laughing. “How great is that?”

The Longest Season

Four years ago, white walls and fluorescent lights surrounded his bed for 26 days.

A breathing tube was pressed into his mouth. His body swelled from steroids. He couldn’t walk. Outside the room, time stretched and cracked. Inside, Grayson Chapeau fought to stay.

He had first been placed on the ventilator in the emergency room at Spearfish Hospital. When storms grounded the life flight bound for their usual children’s hospital in Denver, Colorado, the plane was redirected to an unfamiliar facility in Omaha. It was 2021, the pandemic still ravaging medical centers nationwide. None of the doctors were well-known at first. The wing of the hospital that housed Grayson was unfamiliar and surreal. Ceiling tiles leaked from rainwater and hung low in the hallways.

“It was brutal,” his father Jeremiah said. “It looked abandoned. We felt lost.”

While Grayson’s regular team in Denver fought to transfer him back, he remained on the ventilator for several days. Jeremiah, a respiratory therapist, knew his son didn’t need sedation to complete his impending MRIs. He fought to get the tube out. 

At his age, Grayson should’ve been producing 75 milliliters of cerebrospinal fluid, enough to cushion the brain and spinal cord. Grayson wasn’t producing just 75 milliliteres. He was pumping 300. When the body produces more fluid than it can absorb, pressure builds until the balance breaks: hydrocephalus.

Back in South Dakota, Chelsey tried to hold their home together. She was taking care of four other kids, and sending kisses over FaceTime. Grayson would catch them and pretend to eat them, even with the ventilator strapped to his face.

She couldn’t take it. When doctors got the green light to move Grayson to Denver, Chelsey drove to Colorado. There, her son was waiting. He was heavier, and hollowed out. A shell of the boy he’d been. 

His siblings were also struggling. Caleb, Hannah, Josh and Saray needed rides to school and places to sleep. Uncertainty engulfed the family. 

“Some nights I would stay up and just cry with them,” Hannah, now 12, recalled. 

Surgeries became routine. At one point, every Tuesday for three weeks Grayson needed surgery to install shunts, braided tubing to redirect excess fluid from his brain to his stomach. Soon, Grayson’s words shrank to a simple thumbs up. The family felt him slipping away. 

“I don’t remember much,” Grayson said, his eyes wandering. Jeremiah chimed in, “Maybe that’s for the best.”

“I remember walking the halls praying to God,” Chelsey said, tearing up. “I didn’t know how to help my son.”

One morning changed everything. 

As Grayson lay there, eyes barely open, the whir of a hand sanitizer machine startled him awake. A burst of foam sprayed down, landing right on his dad’s head. It was accidental. Jeremiah flinched. Chelsey turned. Grayson giggled. It was a slow chuckle, but it was the first time in weeks they heard his laughter. 

His shell had cracked open. The boy was still in there. 

In the months that followed, Grayson relearned how to walk. He picked up Nerf guns again. During one Nerf target battle with his doctors, a hospital cabinet was lined with a row of pop cans. Fitting. He grinned and insisted he hit, “14 out of 20,” shots. It was really 7 out of 10. But with his double vision, who could argue? 

There would be more challenges to follow, including three years of physical therapy and hyperbaric oxygen therapy to stimulate healing. He still drives to Colorado every three months for more MRI treatments and doctor’s appointments. 

“We had no idea how he would react to it all,” Jeremiah said. “Of course it was no problem. He’s our superhero.”

Normal, Mostly

Taped to the wooden slats of his bunk bed at home are pictures. Some of them are new, others are dangling by worn Scotch tape. The photos feature the doctors and teachers of his past, he doesn’t forget what they did for him. 

Grayson lies down and pulls a tattered stuffed animal close, “this is Softy.” It’s a threadbare dog with an orange bandana, gifted to him during his first treatments. It’s been through hell; they both have. 

He shares this room with his nine-year-old brother Caleb, who sleeps above him. Together they pull out a collection of Hot Wheels and a book of baseball cards. Mixed in among the MLB All-Stars are faces from the Spearfish Sasquatch. He keeps them in the same protective sheets. To Grayson, they all count.

Down the hallway, Hannah and Josh help prepare dinner. Saray is leaving for work at the ballpark. The dining room smells of French dip sandwiches and dish soap from a long day of cooking and making bubbles. Raspberry rhubarb crumble cools on the counter, with berries picked fresh from the family’s backyard garden. This is the world Grayson returns to after his long weeks at the hospital. 

“It takes time,” Grayson said, pausing. “But I’m sitting here, right now.”

After dinner, he walks outside to examine his ever-growing collection of pop tabs, and pauses on the steps. His right hand tightens around the wooden railing of the stairs. 

Onward. 

Out in the garage, he beams as he shows off his latest invention: a homemade sifter designed to catch anything that isn’t a true aluminum pop tab. A screw clinks against the magnets. He plucks it out, “these don’t help,” he says, tossing it aside.

He grins the entire time, energized by the mission. What he’s been through is unforgettable. But that’s not what drives him. It’s where he chooses to place his focus. “We think of it like a magnifying glass,” Chelsey says. “Whatever you look at, it grows. You can choose the good or the bad. Grayson chooses joy.”

Ninety Feet of Freedom

It wasn’t a sold-out crowd. There were no news cameras, no formal rosters. Just a midsummer exhibition between the Spearfish Sasquatch and Post 164, the local high school team. But in the bottom of the fifth inning, all eyes turned toward one kid in an oversized jersey. A kid every single fan knows. Grayson Chapeau was getting his chance.

As he stepped into the batter’s box, his shorts brushed his knees. His helmet wobbled as he adjusted it. His shoes weren’t cleats, just his gym pair from school. The gloves were borrowed.

On the mound stood the coach Ryan Bachman, the former player Grayson idolized. He waved his fielders back. Everyone knew what was coming.

Grayson swung at the first pitch. He connected, cracking it down the third-base line. Four years ago, he could barely muster five feet without a walker. Here, in front of his hometown crowd as pop tabs rattled beneath the bleachers, Grayson ran.

All ninety feet. 

He reached first base standing up with outstretched arms and a glowing smile. The dugout erupted, players sprinting over to wrap their teammate Grayson in bearhugs.

Ninety feet, a symbol: where he’s been, and where he has been leading others his whole life.

Grayson didn’t just take the field, he carried this town with him. The people of Spearfish might never know what it is like to be him. But in his presence, they’ve learned what it means to stand with courage. To witness joy, chosen again and again. And to feel, somehow, familiar. 

“You’re not supposed to just have a great day,” Grayson said. “You’re supposed to make it great.” 

The post The Grayt Team: Grayson Chapeau’s Story appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Fighting Against the Odds

Luke Rowen has spent his whole life learning how to move. When he was three, the doctor’s office wasn’t for lollipops and Spider-Man stickers. It was for a diagnosis: quadriplegic dystonic cerebral palsy. A permanent brain disorder that can make everyday motions unpredictable. For Luke, this means involuntary muscle movements, locked joints, and tremors. All four limbs are affected, although not always equally. On a daily basis, even twisting the milk cap, squeezing toothpaste, and putting on his cross country shoes can be challenging. The number of times it takes for a normal developing child to learn a skill? Multiply that by 100 for someone with cerebral palsy and hope it sticks. Repetition and adaptation are key. 

Doctors once said Luke might never walk or talk. His parents, Lisa and Jeff, prepared for that reality. His sister, Maddie, understood early on that life would look a little different. But Luke had other plans. His speech has steadily improved, and while the road hasn’t been easy, he continues to push forward. 

“We help Luke by not helping him,” Lisa said. “If he needs it, he’ll advocate for himself.”

Stepping Forward

It’s Wednesday at the Center for Independence in Countryside, Illinois. Luke bursts through the doors of a place he’s visited since he was four. His energy arrives before he does. His discontinued no-tie Nike Pegasus shoes skip across the gray vinyl floor. Around him, stability ladders line the walls, alongside bright green “I Can” posters. Waiting inside is Jim Zwiefelhofer, a man who’s watched Luke defy expectations for over a decade.

“How’s it going, Luke?”

“Good!”

Luke is always good, even when he isn’t.

In Luke’s 7th-grade year, the Rowens approached Jim with the idea. He hesitated. 

“Luke wants to run cross country?”

It didn’t matter. He was doing it.

“I always had more fear for him than he did,” Zwiefelhofer said. “He never complains. He’s gung-ho.”

The pair starts with an hour of ambulatory work, exercises focused on improving Luke’s walking ability. He grips a PVC pipe for stability, body swaying as he lunges forward. A black velcro and metal brace is strapped tight around his right calf. That same right ankle wobbles. He resets and lunges again. It isn’t effortless. It never is. He grins through the strain. 

The second hour brings competition. Today, it’s balloon volleyball. What began as a cautious balance drill years ago is now a frenzy. Luke swings and twists. Instinct fires before muscle can. It’s chaos. It’s progress. It’s fun.

The session ends, but Luke lingers. He fist-bumps a staffer, and waves at the receptionist. He says goodbye to everyone. Someone jokes he’d make a great politician. Maybe he will. 

“Most kids have trouble sticking with us,” Zwiefelhofer said, chuckling. “Luke’s problem is leaving. He wants to get better.”

Along for the Ride

The engine of Steven Driscoll’s 2015 Honda sputters to life. September sunlight flickers across the dashboard. The stereo still plays CDs. On this particular day, Driscoll pops in a Billy Strings album. Windows down, wind threading through the cabin, he watches a pack of long-legged boys jog ahead in Gurrie Middle School cross country gear.

Luke Rowen runs among them.

When the heat gets to him, Luke drops back and climbs into the passenger seat. They crank the volume knob. Luke flashes a rock-and-roll hand sign like he owns the moment. Driscoll teaches and coaches at Gurrie in La Grange, Illinois. He coached Luke for two years. Now 15, Luke is a freshman runner at Lyons Township. They’re still close. 

Moments like these weren’t really about the music, they were about being seen. And Driscoll is the kind of man who notices. His voice, steady and slow, carries comfort. “It’s gon’ be alright,” he always says, with a crinkled smile that’s seen things and stayed kind. His head is shaved, stubble always a day late. And while his wife quietly fought breast cancer at home, Driscoll still showed up – coaching, teaching, and giving everything he had.

“That was arguably the single most difficult stretch of my life, by a lot,” he admitted. “I’m so grateful Luke is in my life.”

Purpose Over Pain

The heat alone could break any runner. It was 90 degrees in early October 2022 for one of Gurrie’s biggest middle school races: the Bengal Invite in Skokie, Illinois. That course offered no shelter. The air was swollen and suffocating. Two miles of past footprints lay ahead of the runners, five inches of stubborn sod demanding even more from each stride. Luke smiled anyway. 

Life didn’t let up. 

His aide missed the meet. Luke never ran without one. Leading up to this day’s race, his parents knew he’d be without an aide. They gave Luke the option to skip. He was nervous, but chose to push through.

The second crack cut deeper. 

Jennifer Kristin, Luke’s physical therapist, had just passed away unexpectedly, six days before the race. From kindergarten through seventh grade, she’d been there. Through every small victory and every hard moment. She believed in Luke’s future. And now, she was gone. Luke didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. On race day, he picked up a black Sharpie and scrawled her initials on his arm. 

“JK” 

A tribute in ink. A permanence for someone who had been so faithfully present.

“She was excited about me doing cross country,” Luke said. “I had to do it for her.”

Minutes before the first step, his body shook more than usual. No aide. No hand on his shoulder. Just him, and the weight of a week. That’s when Steven Driscoll stepped forward to run with Luke. 

Both of them were fighting through something. And for the next two miles, it wouldn’t get any easier. 

The gun fired. 

Driscoll isn’t a runner. A quarter mile in, his legs barked and lungs begged for air. He thought about stepping off. He wanted to. He could have. Then he looked to his left. Not at the brace. Not at the tremble. At Luke.

Just Luke.

The black ink on his arm caught the sun. His smile didn’t break. Driscoll felt it hit him like a wave.

“If he’s not stopping,” he muttered, “you’re not f*****g stopping.”

One mile became two. One cramp became ten. They weaved through tallgrass and weeds, sunburn inevitable. There has been no A to B in Luke’s life. He has pinballed through the entire alphabet. But in this moment, there was only forward. One last kick. One frustrated sprint. With less than 100 yards to go, the final chute came into view. Luke leaned into it. Legs quivering. Face set. He found another gear.

People often ask why he runs. Why he fights through braces, procedures, and pain.

“I can be free,” Luke said, legs twitching in the aftermath. “It gives my mind a break from things that happened that day.”

That day. That week. Everything he carried poured out over those final strides. Luke needed someone to stand beside him in a season of loss. Driscoll needed a reason to believe he still had purpose. Twenty yards remained. Driscoll peeled off, his chest heaving. He watched his student. He cheered on his friend as years of invisible battles finally won ground. The crowd swelled as Luke crossed the line. Some cried. Teammates swarmed him. Driscoll collapsed onto the grass, empty and full all at once.

“You have to look at why you’re doing what you’re doing,” Driscoll said, his voice breaking. “The world was crumbling around me. My wife was sick. My kids were babies. I was just scraping by. But Luke finished that race . . . and I knew. I still had purpose. I still had substance.”

Purpose outran pain that day.

Luke averaged less than 11 minutes per mile, and beat three able-bodied runners. Sweat poured from his forehead into the corners of his smile. After his races, Luke pauses before speaking. His silences aren’t delays. They’re space. He sifts through a language only he knows. Others like to fill in the blanks for him. Luke insists on filling his own.

He knows life would be different without cerebral palsy. But it doesn’t define him.

“I do think about it,” Rowen said. “But without it, I’m not me.”

Chasing More

Back in his bedroom, afternoon light spills over the canvas bag tucked in the corner. The braces inside don’t feel like burdens anymore. They’re a reminder of what he has already overcome. Beside them sits an unopened cardboard box, the label reading:

“Medal Awards Rack: Inspired By Excellence.”

It’s waiting. Just like everything else. Waiting for more races, for Luke to prove there’s more ahead. Waiting for the day when the words meant to define him feel a little smaller. 

Because Luke isn’t done running. Not yet. 

“I know I might not get first place,” he said. “I’m okay with that. I’m proud of how I keep going.” 

The post When Purpose Outruns Pain: Luke Rowen’s Story appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Bringin’ In Brazil:

It’s not uncommon for a WNBA team to host a national team in the preseason. In fact it happens quite a bit. Today’s game pit the Indiana Fever against the Brazilian Women’s National Team. Highly anticipated, but not a close match. In the 108-44 beatdown, the Fever slaughtered Brazil. But this game wasn’t played in Indianapolis, where the Fever normally reside. It was played in Iowa, the same state where Caitlin grew up, and in the same arena she knows so well. When Fever president Kelly Krauskopf called her with the idea months ago, she couldn’t wait to come back. 

“I did not expect it to happen this year,” Clark said during the pre-game press conference, “I was so excited, and I knew Iowa and Fever fans would be thrilled.”

Both fanbases certainly were. The WNBA rookie of the year in 2024 had 16 points, adding six rebounds and five assists to her scoresheet for the day. In typical Clark fashion, she wasn’t satisfied.

“I did alright,” Clark said in an interview with ESPN following the game. “We’ll clean up some stuff.”

If the shoes fit:

Caitlin packed three pairs of shoes for this trip. She made sure all of them had a little yellow. But the ones she slipped on this morning felt familiar. 

“They’re kind of like my magic shoes,” she said, smiling. “I’ve worn these for literally every big game of my career. There was no other option.”

In November of 2020, Nike released a Bruce Lee collaboration with the Kobe 5 Protros. Not only are they black and yellow, but the shoes also feature a small hint of Fever red. When they first dropped, sneakerheads snagged them for just under 200 dollars. Now? They resell for an average price of 582 big ones, not far off from the cost of admission for today’s game. 

“They were pretty hard to come by,” she said, laughing. 
Both the shoes, and the tickets. 

Woodn’t have it any other way:

A small piece of Carver’s wooden court will always belong to Caitlin. Just beside the infamous Mediacom logo, a black “22” marks the spot on the court, about 35 feet from the hoop. Beneath it, one name: Clark. It commemorates her record-breaking shot on Feb. 15, 2024, the night she became college basketball’s all-time leading scorer. That historic three-pointer against Michigan was one of many, but unforgettable.

Coming into this game, fans couldn’t help but think about it. And with 25 seconds left in the third quarter, it happened again–kind of. Catching an inbound from Bree Hall, Clark pushed up across the floor. In a near carbon copy of her iconic moment, she pulled up. Only this time, it was a single step farther out.

“36 feet…that’s far,” Clark said, smiling as laughter filled the media room. “I knew I was coming out, so I figured, why not?”

It wasn’t scripted. It rarely is. Knowing she’d be subbed out, Clark did what she always does. She let it fly.

As her coach Stephanie White put it, “Nobody tells Steph Curry not to take good shots.”

For one more look back:

Hats, jerseys, and shoes flail over the railing of Carver’s tunnel. Miniature hands dangle Sharpies, posters, and dreams—hoping to meet the sweaty fingers of Caitlin Clark. Fans press against the barrier, shrieking her name.

One parent holds a sign that reads, “Adults can have role models too.”

Even Brazil’s National Team, after a 64-point loss, waited their turn. When Clark asked if this was the biggest crowd they’d ever played in front of, a resounding “yes” echoed at center court. They posed for photos with her one by one, as if she were a golden monument. Above them, high in the rafters, hung the banner bearing the number she made iconic. No. 22. Still stitched in black and gold, still watching over the court she once ruled—and the one she returned to, if only for a day.

“I don’t know if it’ll be next year,” she said. “But I would love to come back.”

She’s not Iowa’s anymore. But she always will be.

The post Back Home: Caitlin Clark Returns to Carver appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Iowa started off strong with three time national champion and #1 ranked 125 pound wrestler Spencer Lee. Lee beat Michigan’s #14 Jack Medley by a score of 11-2, earning a bonus point to kick the night off.

After Lee, the Hawkeyes rolled. #13 Brody Teske tech falled Wilfried Tanefeu 19-3 and 133 pounds, with three very impressive four point tilts throughout the match. Teske only needed 4:09 to finish Tanefeu off. #2 Real Woods also came out hot, beating Pat Nolan 15-1, just one point away from a second straight Hawkeye tech fall. #10 Max Murin kept his streak of wins going, beating Chance Lamer 10-4.

The most exciting match came at 157, with the #13 ranked junior Cobe Siebrecht upsetting Michigan’s #10 Will Lewan 3-1 in a sudden victory in the fourth period. Lewan had Siebrecht tied up less than a minute in, but Siebrecht remained calm. He rolled over Lewan and spun around the back for a two point takedown, accompanied by the loudest crowd cheers of the night in Carver. 

In the second half of the meet, Patrick Kennedy started off with a bang, pinning Alex Wesselman in the first period. While Kennedy expected #6 ranked Wolverine Cameron Amine to wrestle, he took care of business when he got red shirt freshman Wesselman instead. #16 Nelson Brands at 174 also got his fair share of Carver chants, winning 5-1 over Joseph Walker.

The Hawks took their first of two losses at 184, with Drake Rhodes being tech falled by #9 Matt Finesilver in the second period. It’s been a tough task for Rhodes all year to wrestle above his weight, especially in the absence of Abe Assad. Rhodes just used his last red shirt freshman match today, so it’ll be interesting to see if Brands burns it next week, or if another fresh face appears at 184 against Oklahoma State.

#11 Jacob Warner bounced back better than ever, pummeling Brendin Yatooma 16-1 for Iowa’s second tech fall of the night. And finally, #3 Tony Cassioppi took on Goliath, wrestling #1 Mason Parris who was 22-0 before the match. Cassioppi had never beaten Parris, and narrowly took home the underdog story. However Parris got a late takedown in the third to extend his career record against Cassioppi to 4-0, winning 9-7. 

Next week the Hawkeyes will have their final home meet against Oklahoma State on Sunday, Feb. 19 at 3:30pm. It’ll be more than just a regular match, as Sunday will be senior day and alumni day. A big showing is expected in Carver-Hawkeye Arena, with hopes of a 15th win and a shot at the national championships.

The post Big Ten Beatdown: Iowa wrestling dominates Michigan 33-8 appeared first on KRUI Radio.