I guess you can start calling me Torbstradamus.

Doing a little AI-aided research ahead of my annual season prediction column, I was curious what my five-year accuracy average looked like.

Pretty, pretty good! Pretty good:

Amusingly, the chat robot I had help me compile this table—with typical LLM sycophancy—praised my use of arcane analytical algorithms like SP+, FPI, returning production percentages or probability models in building such a solid prediction record. I had to tell it that two-plus decades of observing Ferentzian football, scheme familiarity and institutional memory allow me to be pretty pinpoint accurate based on just the eyeball test and my gut.

I know what an 8–4 Iowa Hawkeye football team looks like before box scores and reality make it obvious.

That said, 2026 feels a bit opaque to me. A lot of young-but-talented new faces, a quarterback battle not fully settled heading into week one, unknown legs at punter and placekicker, and most perplexing—an offense seemingly ahead of the defense—make for more uncertainty than usual.

What we do know is this: the offensive line appears stout and capable; the running back room is athletically gifted; the new transfer wide receivers are skilled enough to have taken starting positions from the returners; and, as always, the tight ends have next-level capability. That bodes well for moving the ball and scoring somewhat adroitly, which will make the college football world take notice.

Strangely, big question marks remain along the newly crafted defensive line, in an unproven secondary and with all new moving parts in the kicking game. Iowa needing to lean on its offense while its defense and special teams get up to speed is not a phrase you hear often around the football complex.

As I do each season, I’ll break the schedule down into three buckets: should win, toss ups and likely losses.

Here’s how Torbstradamus sees 2026 shaking out:

Should Wins

Northern Illinois – The Jerry Kill years are more than a decade in the rearview and the sad sack Huskies limped to 3-9 last season, averaging a paltry 17 points per game. Even a retooled Iowa defense should be able to shut these guys down, while the newly turbocharged (please!?) offense rolls.

Northern Iowa – Why are Big 10 teams still scheduling FCS games in 2026? Beats me, but UNI – another directional school coming off a lousy 3-9 campaign – should not give Iowa much of a challenge.

Iowa State – Matt Campbell has traded in the ketchup and mustard for vanilla ice cream and blueberry. New coach Jimmy Rogers is in full rebuild mode, bringing in 47 transfers, including 16 from a meh Washington State team. Arkansas State transfer quarterback Jaylen Raynor is an intriguing and highly skilled player, but I question if there’s enough quality talent around him for that to matter against a Hawkeye team at home with revenge on its mind.

Wisconsin – Some Wisconsin fans think Luke Fickell’s hot seat will provide enough motivation to squeeze more out of the hapless Badgers. All I know is since the Fickster has been there, the once-mighty badger has been softer than Dairy Queen in a cake cone. They aren’t coming into Kinnick and winning a Halloween Homecoming matchup, even if it’s a “must-win” to save their coach’s job.

Nebraska – Last season was supposed to finally be the breakthrough the Huskers needed to get the Hawkeye monkey off their back. Bless their little hearts, they matched Iowa’s 10-point first-quarter output—giving the Memorial Stadium ‘sellout’ (wink, wink) crowd a short-lived burst of hope—only to see the wheels hilariously fall off as Iowa scored the final 23 points in a 40-16 win, crushing Cornhusker dreams for the 10th time in 11 tries. Their tears will once again be a tasty post-Thanksgiving digestif.

Purdue – It’s been a few years since the Hawks faced the Boilermakers, unfortunately for Iowa as Purdue has been awful during the scheduling lull. On paper, this year’s squad has an On3 Top 25 transfer portal class, but Iowa gets them at home. I think Iowa beats a team with only three wins in the last two seasons and coming off back-to-back 0-9 conference campaigns.

Northwestern – I debated whether this should be in the toss up category for a while – particularly with Chip Kelly now calling the plays and what I expect will be atypical fan enthusiasm thanks to their fancy new stadium. In addition, I have a little PTSD from seeing former MSU signal caller Aidan Chiles, now a Wildcat, carve up an Iowa secondary. But I think this is a game Iowa should dominate in the trenches. Keep it here in “should win” for now.

Toss Ups

Illinois – I hate to admit it, but the Illini with Big Bret in charge scare me. He has brought consistency and toughness to Champaign, and this Illinois-hater hates that. Still, Illinois returns only 50% or so of its production and has a rebuilt offensive line and a less-proven quarterback than last year. If Iowa can make it a grinding affair on Senior Day at Memorial Stadium, they can sneak out with a much-needed win.

Minnesota – OK, Iowa has won 9 of 10 against the ground rodents and hamblasted them convincingly last season in Kinnick. But quarterback Drake Lindsey is back and he’s solid. They also have a strong running game, with potential star Darius Taylor toting the pigskin, and they look like a P.J.-type bowl team again. It’s definitely a CAN win for Iowa – but it won’t be as easy as last season.

Likely Losses

Michigan – I almost slid this into “toss up” because I don’t think this will be a vintage Wolverine outfit. However, it’s early in the season, in Ann Arbor and I suspect Iowa’s defense will have issues handling the skill and speed Michigan possesses. That said, there will be a learning curve implementing Kyle Whittingham’s schemes and the Wolverine defense doesn’t look super fierce. There is faint hope here.

Ohio State – Ho hum, another season, another Death Star-loaded team. Preseason No. 1, but at least this one is in Kinnick rather than Columbus, where Iowa teams have always struggled mightily. This is the most “likely” of all likely losses. Would take a minor miracle to pull one out here – but in the newly expanded playoff world, that’s not a season killer!

Washington – I am going to Seattle for this one – have always wanted to sit in Husky Stadium and watch the sun set into Lake Washington. I really, really wanted to call this a toss up, but just like I said last year, until such time I see Iowa win a regular season game on the West Coast, I ain’t picking them to do so. Prove me wrong.

Last season, I went a perfect five-for-five on the “should win” predictions. Let’s say that streak continues. That gives the Hawkeyes a floor of seven wins – not bad! I feel they will split the toss ups (leaning toward securing the Pig in Minneapolis) and steal one they shouldn’t (let’s do a 2002 Big House game again!) and my official prognostication is 9-3, with a very, very slight shot at a playoff berth.

Another “good-not-great” campaign by one of the most consistently solid programs in the sport. Man, we need to get over the playoff hump before Kirk Ferentz hangs it up though.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

Iowa Writers Collaborative Roundup

Meet our writers

Newcomers: Here is a link to the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative Sunday Roundup, where you can get a compilation of our members’ work published the previous week…

Read more

2 years ago · 12 likes

No sport wallows in nostalgia quite like baseball.

Just last week, the Philadelphia Phillies and Minnesota Twins stepped through a mid-August Iowa cornfield to play a major-league game at the Field of Dreams, an unabashedly commercial paean to the sport’s bucolic past.

Baseball loves its history. Baseball fans, it turns out, mostly love the parts of history they remember seeing themselves.

This week Marquee Network revealed its fan-chosen Chicago Cubs 150th Anniversary team. Here are the eight pitchers they selected for the anniversary club’s starting staff: Mordecai Brown, Fergie Jenkins, Rick Sutcliffe, Greg Maddux, Kerry Wood, Jake Arrieta, Kyle Hendricks and Jon Lester.

A fine stable of flingers, no doubt. But the Cubs were a founding member of the National League in 1876. Six of the eight didn't pitch for the Cubs until 1984 or later. Only one - Brown, he of the famed three-fingers - represents the NINETY YEARS of Cubs’ history prior to Fergie’s arrival in 1966.

Surely, somewhere in the ivy-clad recesses of memory, there must be some figure worthy of representing a stretch of history that saw Krakatoa explode, the invention of the airplane, the opening of the Panama Canal, a Great Depression, two world wars and the advent of television and nighttime baseball.

What if I told you not only is there such a man, but he has stats rivaling Shohei Ohtani, owned a gold mine, ran for Congress and was known as “The Big Groundhog”?

Meet Orval Overall.

First, the meat-and-potatoes numbers: Overall went 108–71 with a 2.26 ERA in his major-league career, completing an astonishing 133 of his 182 starts, with 30 shutouts and 935 strikeouts. As a Cub, he was even better: 86–43 with a 1.94 ERA. And because pitchers were still permitted to participate in the entire game back then, he also collected 20 doubles, six triples and a pair of home runs at the plate.

And about that Shohei comparison? Let’s take a look at how they fared in the World Series. The Big Groundhog pitched in four of them, winning championships with the Cubs in 1907 and 1908. More on his heroics in the latter in a moment.

In World Series competition, Overall hit .250. Shohei Ohtani has hit .239. Overall’s World Series ERA was 1.58. Ohtani’s is 7.56. I rest my case—while casually ignoring Ohtani’s three World Series home runs, staggering .918 OPS and a $700 million contract larger than the annual GDP of several small countries.

Did I mention Orval held the irascible Ty Cobb—the greatest career hitter in baseball history—to a .125 average against him in the 1907 and 1908 World Series?

Or that he struck out four batters in one World Series inning? (That is not a typo. The catcher failed to corral one third strike, allowing the batter to rumble safely to first, so Orval simply struck out another guy.)

Oh, he was also ridiculously good at any sport he picked up - captaining the Cal Bears football squad in 1901 while scoring the only 2 points in the Big Game against Stanford. At 6-foot-2 and 214 pounds, he was a hulking beast of a man for the Dead Ball Era.

The man even umpired National League games in 1905 and 1910.

He got the Big Groundhog nickname from his birthday—Feb. 2, 1881, Groundhog Day. And if Daddy Overall had his way, the supreme athlete apparently would have done something respectable with his life instead of becoming a professional ballplayer. He excelled academically while studying agricultural science at Berkeley and was elected freshman class president. Ironically, he eventually became a banker anyway.

He even tried his hand at gold mining, going into the ore business with Cubs teammate Mordecai Brown during a contract holdout. Then there was the unsuccessful run for Congress in 1918.

Where he really made his bones, though, was in the white-hot glare of the World Series.

Let’s just bullet-point the ridiculousness:

• Four World Series appearances—1906, 1907, 1908 and 1910—with a career postseason pitching line of 3–1, a 1.58 ERA, 51⅓ innings, 35 strikeouts, three complete games and a shutout.

• In the 1907 World Series, he drove in both Cubs runs in a game he also pitched to completion. Overall’s two-run single erased a 1–0 Detroit lead; he then finished off a 6–1 complete-game victory.

• In Game 5 of the 1908 World Series in Detroit, he threw a three-hit, complete-game shutout with 10 strikeouts to clinch the championship. The Cubs would not win another World Series for 108 years.

• His totals for that 1908 Series alone: 2–0, 0.98 ERA, 18⅓ innings, seven hits allowed and 15 strikeouts.

And you really want to tell me Kyle Hendricks, with his 88-mph heater, has anything on this titan? You keep the Professor. I’ll take the Big Groundhog.

Maybe my favorite Orval Overall anecdote, though?

He would have absolutely LOATHED the designated hitter, automated ball-strike system, domed stadiums and ghost runners. Prior to the 1908 season, a rule was invoked prohibiting pitchers from intentionally dirtying a brand-new ball. Orval muttered that would “ruin” his curve, if not the game itself.

He ended that season with a 1.92 ERA.

As a fellow curmudgeonly old timer who knows in his heart baseball without fielding gloves played only under hot summer sun is the best baseball, I’m with Overall.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

Iowa Writers Collaborative Roundup

Meet our writers

Newcomers: Here is a link to the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative Sunday Roundup, where you can get a compilation of our members’ work published the previous week…

Read more

2 years ago · 12 likes

*******AUTHOR’S NOTE: A change of pace this week: fiction. This story was inspired by Sister Jean Gibson, O.S.B., who earned her Ph.D. in physics at the University of Iowa in 1969 while studying under famed space scientist James Van Allen. Gibson collaborated with Van Allen on research into solar X-rays. The story that follows—and particularly her encounter with John Glenn—is a product of my imagination. **********

As Sister Mary Louise Lavoie trudged across the cloister separating Sacred Heart Chapel from the low slung, slate dormitory housing the 150 nuns of the Order of Saint Benedict, the grim November sky matched her mood.

Today’s work would be sad. Another of the order’s elderly matriarchs succumbed that morning - November 10, 2020 - the seventh sister sent off to her heavenly reward by the pandemic that wouldn’t even spare this cold corner of Minnesota.

She was ninety . . . but still, thought Mary Louise.

The fourth door on the left led to the deceased sister’s modest room. Mary Louise didn’t know Sister Jean Gibson well. As one of the youngest at the convent, she often felt intimidated by the matronly older sisters, whose quiet assuredness she respected and aspired to.

The body, thankfully, had been dressed and taken by two young men from the funeral parlor in St. Joseph. Mary Louise was to gather belongings, clean the room and prepare it in case living space was needed for a new arrival.

Fat chance, she thought, given we’re dying faster than they’re turning out new nuns.

Sister Jean took the vow of poverty seriously. A narrow single bed with quilt comforter, a wooden side table, narrow writing desk and spindly hickory chair, a pair of lamps and a steamer trunk looking misplaced from the 1930s made up the entire bedroom set.

This’ll be a quick job, thought Mary Louise.

Clothes from the shallow closet – most black habits, a few go-to-town outfits – barely filled one laundry basket. The side table held a few pieces of inexpensive jewelry, a Timex watch that looked like it was from the 1970s and stationery emblazoned at the top with the seal of Saint Benedict.

The trunk, however, proved chock full and hard to move. Opening it, Mary Louise was startled to see three stacks of hefty textbooks. She picked up the book on top, bound in green leather, and was startled to read the title: “Origins of Magnetospheric Physics: An Expanded Edition.”

There’s a little light bedtime reading, she chuckled, placing the hefty tome back on the dusty pile.

Grunting, the slight nun put her full weight of maybe 100 pounds into the job of shoving the steamer trunk toward the middle of the room. I’m going to need help getting this out of here, she thought.

Standing up, intending to leave and look for help, her back heel caught on an upturned corner of a flooring plank previously covered up by the trunk. Clearly, the trunk hadn’t moved in decades, considering the wood floor under it was several shades darker than that in the rest of the room.

Kerthunk.

Upon meeting her heel, the plank popped up, perpendicular to the floor, revealing a hidden compartment.

What in the name of Pete, Mary Louise pondered.

She knelt and peered into the revealed space. Reaching in, she emerged with a squat white coffee mug with some type of drawing on the front. Inside the mug was a rolled-up scrap of newsprint, yellow and crispy with age.

The clip was from The Newport News Daily Press, Sunday, Oct. 22, 1961.

It read: “Astronauts Coffee Lovers” – The seven candidates for the first orbital flight, like countless people in less demanding jobs, like a cup of hot java now and then during their scheduled duties.

The coffee vat stands throughout the day on a table in the conference room next to the astronauts’ office at Space Task Group.

The largest cup belonging to Capt. Leroy Cooper Jr. looks like it might hold a good part of the contents of an average coffee pot.

Lt. Col. John Glenn Jr. has a smaller cup with an H. Gardner cartoon showing a man staring rather insecurely from the mouth of a cannon.

“I work well under pressure,” reads the caption.

Mary Louise turned the ceramic mug in her hand. Sure enough, embossed on the front was a cartoon cannonball man. Flipping it over, she saw it had been further inscribed, clearly by hand with a permanent marker in a scrawl.

“Next time, Sister Jean, my pair of aces will prevail!” – J. Glenn.

An hour later, Mary Louise sat rapt in the chair across from Mother Superior Frances Doyle, listening to the tale of a nun from Utah who excelled at math and became renowned space physicist James Van Allen’s first PhD student at the University of Iowa.

“Oh, she was a sharp one, and funny too!” the Mother Superior said of Sister Jean. “She was an X-ray technician and a teacher before going to grad school, but always came back to God.”

Nothing, Mother Superior said, convinced her more of His greatness than the utter vastness of space and the enormity of time.

“But the mug?” Mary Louise inquired. “How?”

“Poker game,” chuckled Frances. “Professor VanAllen invited Col. Glenn to speak on campus after leaving NASA. It was ’68 and protesters wanted to shut down the physics program, saying rockets were tools for waging war. He figured an appearance by an American hero and real astronaut would change hearts and minds.”

“And Sister Jean?” Mary Louise asked.

“Well, she was one of the professor’s prize pupils, wrote four papers with him, and to be honest, he got a kick out of dragging a nun in full veil and habit into Joe’s Place for beer and cards. Good at math, you know? She could count cards like no one. Took the Colonel for all his cash and doubled down on the last hand. All he had to bet was that silly mug. Two pair – 10s and jacks – beat the astronaut’s aces. And that’s all she wrote.”

Mary Louise smiled, nodded and begged permission to be excused.

Heading back toward the residential cloister, her step lightened. She gazed up into the cold Minnesota sky. Never had the stars seemed so bright.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

Iowa Writers Collaborative Roundup

Meet our writers

Newcomers: Here is a link to the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative Sunday Roundup, where you can get a compilation of our members’ work published the previous week…

Read more

2 years ago · 12 likes

When I was a moody, angst-ridden teenager, nothing annoyed me more than the fact all my friends absolutely adored my dad.

The same guy who grounded me, hounded me about my grades and – true story – once threw an entire vacuum cleaner out into the yard where it exploded in 10,000 pieces after I gave him too much back talk. THAT guy?

To them, Gary was the “cool parent” they wished they had. A jokester, an adventurer who took you on canoe and camping trips, the 101^st Airborne vet with exciting war stories. The dad with the killer stereo system, tons of records and a habit of wearing goofy hats and suspenders to try and make his only son cringe in embarrassment.

The truth is, pretty much everyone enjoyed being around Gary. Reading the comments on his obituary, you see common threads from his childhood buddies, college roommates, relatives, coworkers at John Deere and friends he made later in life. He is described as funny, kind, and smart. A guy who loved to teach people new things and celebrate their successes.

I am so grateful for this because, as anyone who has cared for the elderly knows, it can be very difficult to remember the ill or infirm patient as a thriving, engaged WHOLE person. Over the months and years of failing health, faltering memory and yes – agitation, irritation and pain – the caregiver can begin to forget the person they truly were for the majority of their life.

Without realizing it, I - like many others who have taken on the job of caring for parents entering end-of-life – actually began the grieving process months before mom and dad passed away. You mourn for the person – the fun-loving, wickedly smart person they were before time and illness diminished them.

When death comes as a kind of relief—an end to suffering—it tends to make you feel guilty. I should be sadder. I should be angrier. Should I be rending my garments and weeping my eyes out?

I don’t think so.

I should, however, strive to remember that person – that parent – not as an old, ill and sometimes curmudgeonly burden – but as the full, miraculous human being they always were.

And Gary was such a person. Some things I think he’d want to be remembered for: a loving husband who stood by his wife Barbara literally until her last breath. A dad who encouraged his only kid to be smart and work hard but also to question authority and be unique without conforming. A grandfather who thought the sun rose and set on his two grandkids (who could do no wrong in his eyes, despite MUCH evidence to the contrary.) A father-in-law who marveled at the beauty and work ethic of his daughter-in-law. A teacher, a lover of animals, a smart businessman, an excellent angler and enthusiastic outdoorsman.

And before we get too deep into the beatification of St. Gary, he could also be stubborn, short-tempered, poorly organized and quite mean after a second (or more) glass of scotch. Like I said, let’s remember him as a full-formed human, not an archetype.

I want to share a quintessentially Gary story with you. To this day, I’m not even sure what it means. But somehow, it captures his spirit perfectly.

After John Deere Insurance was sold, he spent his last working years with American Hardware out of the Twin Cities and often did the five-plus hour drive between Minneapolis and the Quads weekly. If you’ve driven it, you know most of the route is through pretty enough but monochromatic rolling corn and bean fields.

So, one day I get a very long voicemail left on my cell phone. It’s Gary, and he’s driving somewhere between Mason City and Iowa City – real middle-of-nowhere rural Iowa.

I hit play and hear:

“Hey Bud, it’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m driving along out here and suddenly I see a giant snowflake, one of the biggest snowflakes I’ve ever seen, floating in the sky. This is weird I think to myself. It’s April and it’s 50 degrees. How is it snowing? Then I see another flake, then more. Pretty soon, they’re everywhere. Just white flakes, like a blizzard everywhere around the car. What the hell is going on? Then suddenly I’m right behind a truck going 10 miles below the speed limit. I decide to pass it because it’s hard enough seeing in this sudden blizzard without almost running into a truck. And as I pass it, I realize it’s a truck loaded up with hundreds of chickens in the back and the snowflakes aren’t snowflakes they’re thousands of chicken feathers just blowing in the wind off the back of the truck.”

Then there is a long pause. Like a 20-second long pause in the voicemail. And he says:

“Anyway, it just goes to show you. You just never know.”

And he hangs up. That’s it.

To this day I’m not sure what – if any – allegory or moral to the story there is. But knowing Gary, there was one.

I played that voicemail to every single one of my friends, and every single one of them absolutely died laughing and loved it and said it was pure Gary.

And it really was.

Maybe there was a moral, maybe there wasn’t. Maybe it was just a bored guy sharing a weird observation. But maybe there was depth and gravity just under the surface of the story.

With Gary, you just never knew. You never knew when an ordinary drive through Iowa would become a blizzard of chicken feathers. You never knew when a phone call would become a story you would still be telling years later. And I suppose you never fully know, until someone is gone, how much they have become a part of you.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

Iowa Writers Collaborative Roundup

Meet our writers

Newcomers: Here is a link to the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative Sunday Roundup, where you can get a compilation of our members’ work published the previous week…

Read more

2 years ago · 12 likes

The penis museum garners all the snickering headlines, but for my money, the unrelenting graphic violence on display at the Saga Museum in Reykjavik’s Old Harbour is more shocking.

Anyone who has studied Viking culture knows Icelanders used to be a bloodthirsty lot, but the gruesome tableaux illustrating that history lurk around every dark corner in this small museum modeled after a medieval longhouse.

In one corner, Bishop Jón Arason’s 1550 beheading is portrayed in gory detail. Black Death victims are piled asunder in another installation. A convicted thief’s wretched corpse dangles from a noose in another. And the most savage and ghastly of all is the depiction of Freydís Eiríksdóttir—mid-rampage in Vinland—breasts bared, weapon in hand, standing over a fresh corpse in a scene that somehow merges heroic legend and cold-blooded massacre into one unforgettable bit of Viking nightmare fuel.

If weird and wacky museums are your thing, Reykjavik is your jam. This cosmopolitan city of just over 200,000 is home to more than 50 museums—depending on how you define one—ranging from tiny (the punk rock museum is literally built into a former public restroom) to massive (the Perlan natural history museum is over 62,000 square feet and looms over the city on a large hill).

On a recent trip, my wife and I visited around a half-dozen of them, and each one featured at least one display that made me wonder what the hell is with these northern weirdos. And I say that with love—not disdain.

The aforementioned penis gallery, officially known as the Icelandic Phallogical Museum, is in a modern strip mall-type edifice across the street from the hotel we stayed at, making it a must-see. The entrance is marked by a—well, see for yourself:

It purports to contain more than 290 phalluses from mammalian species of every type. Human junk is also well represented. There is a cast of Jimi Hendrix’s member. A whole set of artistic casts of the Icelandic national handball team. And, accompanied by a handwritten letter of authenticity, a photo of the enormous appendage of Jonah Falcon, who claims his 18.5 inches is the largest ever pictured.

I don’t even want to tell you what the tap handles in the museum bar are.

It’s not exactly a museum, but after an hour inundated by male genitalia, for some reason we had a hankering for hot dogs. And outside of Chicago, Iceland may have the most famous hot dog stand on the globe. Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur opened downtown in 1937 and has been serving up dogs “Iceland-style” by the same family ever since. The style is a frank made of lamb, pork, and beef in a toasted bun, served with both crunchy fried and raw onions, remoulade, and sweet brown mustard.

Needing a break from the lowbrow, we next headed to the museum inside the former national library. Now called the Culture House (Safnahúsið), it features an ecclectic mix of art installations, manuscripts and cultural objects. Weirdly, there were still a lot of penises. We have determined Iceland is a very penis-forward culture.

There were some very cool environmental exhibits at the Culture House too. Many accentuated the country’s austere and somewhat apocalyptic land-and seascapes. Too many, sadly, documented the devastating impact rapid climate change is having on the fragile ecology there.

The Perlan Museum of Natural History is literally the crown jewel of Reykjavik’s museum scene, Perlan meaning “pearl” in Icelandic. Formerly a series of utilitarian water tanks perched on the heights to allow gravity to bring geothermally heated water into the city, Perlan was transformed from a working water storage facility into a public landmark in 1991, before evolving into the full-fledged museum experience in 2017.

The highlight was a multimedia film that takes you literally 5,000 meters down into the boiling cauldron of a volcano, then spits you back out in a jetting eruption. You are led into a small room with about 10 other people, where the floor and ceiling are glass screens. The sound system is booming, and the immersive film thunders and blasts. Words really can’t do it justice. The hyped-up “ice cave” was pretty cool, but the novelty of feeling what 10 degrees Fahrenheit feels like doesn’t do much for an Iowan just coming out of winter. The views from the rotating restaurant and bar on the top floor, with its commanding views of the city, however, are first-rate.

The biggest bummer of the week was the punk rock museum inside the former underground public toilet being closed. I guess there’s not much more punk rock than “piss off, we ain’t here,” but still. I did manage to get a couple pictures of the exterior, anyway.

I’m not sure what it says about Iceland—or about me—that after a week of museums filled with violence, art, and an alarming number of penises, the whole thing somehow made perfect sense.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/p/iowa-writers-collaborative

The taxi driver raised one eyebrow at me in the rearview mirror.

“You are sure?” he queried in his Norse-lilted accent. “It is very old. There are much nicer.”

“Yes, yes. It’s the closest to the hotel. I just need to get a swim in,” I said impatiently, my balky back already protesting at the hard, upright backseat of the cab, some plasticky euro model.

Visiting one of Reykjavík’s public pool facilities was on my trip bucket list, but this was required therapy. The only thing that eases my notoriously spasm-prone lower back is buoyancy-plus-exercise. This wasn’t a tourist trip, rather aquatic therapy.

My first look at Sundhöll Reykjavíkur confirmed the driver’s skepticism. The graying and pockmarked stucco exterior of the public bath facility positively screamed Soviet bloc architecture circa 1967. I tried going in the revolving door, only to find out it was exit only, much to the amusement of the teenager exiting. This would be the first of several minor humiliations courtesy of my impatient and generally clueless Americanism.

The Stalin-era theme continued at the front desk, where a portly and stern-looking late middle-aged woman eyed me skeptically. I can’t blame her. I was hunched and sweating in my Patagonia jacket, Carhartt stocking cap and scarf; 45 degrees with stinging rain and 20 mph-plus winds requires bundling up. But indoors, sweat comes quick.

Her English was monumentally limited, compared to literally every other human being I’d encountered in this amazingly cosmopolitan small city. I managed to mime and talk loudly enough (like most Americans, I know all that prevents non-English speaking Europeans from understanding me is lack of volume) to purchase a pair of Speedo goggles and a receipt with QR code to access the locker room.

“You, shower—no clothes, soap,” she said, glaring, as if aware that I usually just do a trunks-on quick spray off at the Davenport YMCA.

The steep concrete stairs leading to the men’s changing area were a challenge for my protesting sciatic nerve, but clutching the banister, I made it.

Of course the locker room was confusing. First, a cubby hole wall filled with shoes - they don’t want footwear further in. Now barefoot, but fully clothed, I entered the deeper part of the changing area, where a half-dozen rows of densely packed lockers with wooden benches filled most of the space. Suddenly, a bunch of little kids streamed in—no “family changing area” like an American Y. Nope, everyone young and old alike gets naked together here.

Following Comrade Helga’s order, I stripped totally naked and showered under one of the lined up non-private showerheads. I slipped on my suit and asked a buck-naked modern Viking how to get to the pools. He kindly gestured toward a very prominent sign reading LAUG/POOL with an arrow pointing toward a dark hallway.

The hall took you right outside. Again, it is 45 degrees, 30 mph wind and almost sleeting. No one else seemed to notice.

At this point, likely the result of the sudden temperature change, my back went from aching to full spasm. It sent me to my knees, my hand braced against an empty plastic crate of pool chemicals. The rain stung my wet, half-naked body.

A young man leading a toddler offered to help, but I bade him continue. I’ve had enough of these spasms to know they hurt like hell but release relatively quickly.

“This fucking swim better fix me,” I thought grimly.

Once again, I missed a sign for the lap pool, climbing stairs to a third story. Through a door, I was greeted by the “extra hot” hot pot. This little tub of soup-hot water had a sign warning one to stay in no longer than 15 minutes, stressing it was 43 degrees Celsius. Thankfully, I remembered an old Bob and Doug McKenzie bit on “metric beers” and recalled you “double it and add 30” to convert from Celsius to Fahrenheit.

116 degrees (more or less, eh?) feels quite good when you’ve nearly frozen to death on a concrete floor after suffering a back spasm.

About five minutes into the soak, my back at long last starting to unlock, a 70ish-year-old man plopped on the step across from me and gazed piercingly into my eyes.

He peppered me with a string of Icelandic that sounded like the opening to some saga, but was probably just polite banter.

“Sorry, American,” I said. “I just need to help my back, then I’m going to swim.”

At this, his eyes widened.

“So you really swim outside here?” I said. “I’ve always been curious to see what it feels like to swim outside in the rain.”

I think at this point our language barrier intruded. He seemed to think I meant “tomorrow I plan to hurl myself into the North Atlantic for personal growth” when I just meant doing laps in the heated outdoor lap lanes.

Clearly concerned, with a raised voice, he intoned gravely:

“Iceland outdoors can be very dangerous.”

“Oh, I’ll be careful,” I smiled, leaving the hot pot to finally check out the lap pool.

This is where the trip went from mostly humiliating and frightening to sublime.

I've never swum laps in an outdoor pool under an apocalyptically gray and stormy sky, freezing rain pockmarking the clear blue water, which is a pleasant 80 degrees. If you ever get the chance, do it.

My fellow swimmers ranged in age from about 25 to 75, with the septuagenarian lady in the black swim cap outpacing all of us. The unspoken politics of who passes who and when, based on varying speeds, was easy to pick up. The Icelanders smiled in what I assume was only slightly patronizing admiration at this weird American taking part in their most democratic civic activity.

I was the only one with bright blue and yellow flowered swim trunks. Gray and black seem to be the only two color choices in most Icelandic swimwear. I like to think I was a breath of fresh, North American air!

I did 30 minutes of laps and now, feeling like part of the gang, headed for the largest hot tub spa I’ve seen in my life. This narrow pool was at least 25 feet long and featured the most forceful spa jets I’ve experienced in my life. This brought the experience from sublime to spiritual. The gushing jet literally pulsated the pain clean out of my back.

I will be in Reykjavik the remainder of the week. Public swimming will now be how I start each remaining day. Bring on the cold. Bring on the sleet. I can handle it like a local now.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/p/iowa-writers-collaborative

Later this summer I reach the middle part of my 50s, but that’s not what has me contemplating my stalking senescence.

Rather, it’s my newfound bird obsession that struck this spring. We’ve always had bird feeders, but for some reason, this year I am absolutely enthralled with the avian politics, wildly varying personalities and behaviors of differing species of birds, and how my little corner of the world is part of the migratory superhighway running through the heart of the continent.

Yesterday, AI helped me build an updatable, illustrated field guide to help me track and make notes on my backyard feeder visitors. Some energy-sucking data center in the middle of Iowa probably churned through enough power to light up Ottumwa for a week thanks to my effort, but I think it turned out kind of cool:

All these little fellas visited yesterday—often squabbling, (unfortunately shitting), and jostling for prime feeding location around the seed source. Being of a literary bent, I can’t help but anthropomorphize them - but they really are like a winged and feathered cast of characters with varying motivations, whimsy, honor, villainy, and nobility.

The cast is varied in personality — and unusually large — thanks to Davenport’s lucky perch along the Mississippi Flyway. My house sits less than three-quarters of a mile from the river, close to the Duck Creek tributary and its forested corridor, so we’re lucky to host both year-round denizens and migratory guests stopping over to rest from thousand-mile journeys. Here on top of the bluff, there are an embarrassment of ornithological opportunities.

As one of North America’s four major flyways, the Mississippi migratory corridor sees more than 320 species annually. Here in landlocked Iowa, you have a legitimate shot at seeing roughly 40 percent of North America’s waterfowl and shorebird species. The Upper Mississippi River National Wildlife and Fish Refuge, which includes sections of Davenport, itself hosts more than 290 bird species. With all the nearby wetlands, breeding areas, ample food sources and tree canopy, Davenport is like the World’s Largest Truckstop of the avian superhighway.

Here’s who our feeder welcomed on a single April day:

House Sparrow - The common but lively feeder regular

This guy is a year-round Iowa resident, though not a North American native. Sparrows were introduced from England in the 1850s and quickly spread to every corner of the continent. Traveling in flocks and very vocal, they love to nest in cavities. I think this fellow might be using the birdhouse hanging from our maple tree as a conveniently located Airbnb.

White-breasted Nuthatch - Hangs upside down like an avian acrobat.

A bit of a goofball with a fun personality, the nuthatch is often spotted dangling upside down, grabbing seeds he will fly off with and hide elsewhere for later eating. Has a “honk” to his call which is comical in such a small bird. Fearless for his size, the nuthatch will eat almost anything including seeds, grains, fruits, insects, spiders and suet.

Northern Cardinal - Spring plumage in full regalia, likes to show off.

Also a year-round resident, both the male and female cardinals love singing. They carry a noble air about them, seeming proud of their bright red plumage. These guys really love black oil sunflower seeds.

House Finch - Subtle beauty with soft streaking.

At first blush they look like just another brown bird, but look closer. These gentle souls are deceptively bright, particularly around nesting season. Non-aggressive and social, they do get bullied.

European Starling - The bully mob boss of the backyard.

Speaking of bullies, despite their iridescent feathers, bright yellow beaks and interesting markings, these guys are hard to like. Bottom line, they are rude, rough and love ganging up on other birds while hoovering up seed like flying anteaters. They are killer mimics and quite smart, which I appreciate, but leave the little guys alone!

Red-Winged Blackbird - Fierce and fearless, especially in breeding season.

Can play either the hero or villain role. Yesterday I saw one take on three starlings who were pecking at other birds trying to access the feeder and he wouldn’t back down. However, in breeding season they will also dive-bomb any animal - including human - who have the audacity to come within 50 feet of their nests. They have a distinctive piercing call and their deep black feathers are almost oil-sheen-like, making the splash of red on the shoulder even bolder.

Red-Bellied Woodpecker - Red, white and black showstopper.

Often heard knocking on trees (and the occasional unfortunate wood-sided home), digging out bugs with their long bills, they still won’t pass up a free feeder meal. Has a distinctive “churr” call and is extremely omnivorous.

The Squirrel — The thieving jerk mammalian interloper.

The bane of bird-feeder fillers everywhere, these furry rodents are relentless, amazingly flexible, cunning, and voraciously hungry. Here in Davenport we have three color morphs — gray, red, and black — and all three devour seeds like Takeru Kobayashi inhaling hot dogs. There was one I liked—some type of genetic marvel with a black body and bright red tail that I named Red Blackie. He hung around the neighborhood a few years and always made me smile, even when he raided the feeder.

So that’s the cast of characters so far this spring. The good, the bad and the ugly. My grandma used to spend her afternoons watching her “stories” - her name for the soft-lit, histrionically dramatic soap operas she used to pass the time. I guess my soaps are bird drama.

Maybe this is what getting old looks like. But hey, seeing the drama of nature right outside my living room window is pretty great.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/p/iowa-writers-collaborative

Other than a couple Hawkeye basketball columns during Iowa’s historic run to the Elite Eight, you fine readers of Brecht’s Beat have likely noticed I’ve been mostly radio silent since early January.

It was a rough winter. Both of my elderly parents fell seriously ill, requiring multiple hospitalizations and nursing rehab stays, and ultimately the passing of my mother, Barbara, on February 27. My dad, Gary, is still in poor health and now living in assisted living with hospice care.

Selling their condo and car, managing their finances—and navigating my own stress and grief—has left little time for column writing. It’s been all I can do to keep up with my day job.

This isn’t to ask for a pity party - just an explanation of why you haven’t seen much content here lately.

Today I’m turning the column over to my wonderful Aunt Carol Grant, who has been absolutely invaluable in helping my wife and I navigate this chapter. Carol doesn’t like people bragging about her, but she is the former director of the Iowa Red Cross, one of the most compassionate people I’ve ever met, and as you’ll see, also a hell of a writer.

Here is her eulogy for my mom:

The Early Days

Barb was born in Davenport where her maternal grandparents were living at that time. Both her father, Phil, and her mother Jeanne had recently been discharged from the Army. So, it’s not surprising they sought to be near family when baby Barbara was due.

Uncle Jim Schneider (Jeanne’s youngest brother) was about eight-years-old at the time. He remembers baby Barbara and her parents living with his parents and him for a time at 706 Grand Avenue.

While Barb was still very young, her family moved to Nebraska….back to the farm near Meadow Grove where her dad had been raised. Uncle Jim tells the story of his mother (Grandma Schneider) taking him by bus from Davenport to Meadow Grove to visit that first summer. For the next six or seven years, Jim returned to the farm every summer (traveling alone on the bus), from the age of nine of 10 until he was about 16. He loved spending summers there. Barb’s mom taught Uncle Jim how to drive on those country roads when he was 12 or 13, then she turned him loose.

Family life on the farm and around the small town of Meadow Grove revolved around community activities. There were free movies shown on the outside wall of City Hall on Wednesday evenings when it started getting dark. Lots of westerns. Someone had a popcorn machine. Parents would just drop their kids off, while they did ‘town’ errands (grocery, hardware store, tractor repair shop). Everyone watched out for all the kids.

Barb and her cousins, Georgia and Gail, attended a one room schoolhouse about a mile from the farm. No indoor plumbing, but there was a water spigot. There were only five to eight kids in the school of varying ages at any given time. At that time, it was mostly girls and mostly related. The teacher would alternately work with the various age groups in different areas of the rooms. The younger kids could hear the teacher reading books with the older students. Georgia tells the story of how, as little girls, they couldn’t wait to be able to read THOSE books when they got older, particularly the ones about horses. The school had a basement that the kids played in. Sawhorses were set up, and the girls pretended they were horses.

Barb’s brother, Jerry, started school there three years after Barbara. While he now has problems with memory, a couple of weeks ago…Jerry and I were talking and out of the blue with complete clarity of thought, he said….”My sister took me to school the first time. She showed me where I should sit in the classroom. She was the BEST sister in the world!” Barb’s mom told me many stories over the years of Barb’s solicitous concern for Jerry’s welfare. Always watching out for him, with what I felt was an exceptional sense of responsibility.

Barbara’s Grandma Sadie Grant moved from the farmstead into town after Grandpa died. She quickly became the librarian for the Meadow Grove library and remained in that role for many, many years. Being a librarian is in Barb’s DNA!

Back to Davenport

Barb’s family moved to Newman Grove, Nebraska for a short time after leaving the farm, then on to Davenport when Barb was about 10, where they settled into a duplex on 16^th Street. She and Jerry attended Jefferson grade school.

Barbara met Pam in seventh grade at Smart Jr. High in Mr. Bristol’s geography class. It was the beginning of a lifelong friendship. Pam tells how she and Barbara spent most weekends at one or the other of their homes. By then, Barb’s family lived on Homestead Ave. Listening to 45rpm records. Barb liked going to Pam’s house because there they were each able to have their own 12oz bottle of Pepsi with their potato chips. Roller skating was standard for Friday nights.

Nebraska cousin, Donna Rae, remembers her family visiting Barb’s family for a few days on their way back home from a trip to Pennsylvania. The girls would have been 12 or 13. While taking a walk, Barb informed Donna Rae that the boys in the neighborhood were having a contest that summer to see how many girls they could kiss. Barb warned her to be ‘on the lookout’ for them!

Uncle Jimmy taught Barbara how to drive when she turned 16. He felt he was paying back Barb’s mom, since she had taught him to drive back on the farm. Barb caught on quickly and easily passed the test.

Pam recalls how smart Barbara was in school and how she ‘devoured’ books. While in high school (Davenport West) Barb and Pam competed in a State Speech and Drama contest held in Grinnell. While they had a great time, The Hotel Park, where they stayed overnight, was awful! The fire escape was a rope that had to be tossed out the window to climb down in case of fire.

Barb and Pam’s friendship continued throughout adulthood, particularly after Barb and Gary returned to the Quad Cities from Madison. Barbara LOVED road trips, whether short excursions to Bluff Lake near Maquoketa for catfish dinners, or the fishing trips to Hayward, Wisconsin.

Barb was known far and wide for her great cooking. My daughter, Geni, lived with Aunt Barb and Uncle Gary in the early 1990s while attending Blackhawk Junior College. The first time Barb made her ‘saucy pot roast’, Geni RAVED. Barb said, “it’s easy….just add a little ketchup and Worcestershire”. Geni brought the recipe today. We’ll make that available for anyone wants to snap a photo of it.

Barb often liked to tell the story of Geni and the swimming pool. With every telling of the story, I think that Geni’s behavior gets a bit worse. When Tory and Geni were about six years old, Barb and Gary invited Geni to go with them on a road trip, as a playmate for Tory. Of course, the kids loved being in the swimming pool. When it was time to get out of the pool, Geni refused. She kicked and screamed until Gary went in and pulled her out. Fast forward 30 years, Geni’s son, Ethan, pulled the exact same shenanigan. Barb was delighted with that payback.

Molly, Tory’s cousin on the Brecht side, tells the story of 4^th of July weekends at their family cabin on Cross Lake in Minnesota. Cruising the chain of lakes in the pontoon boat. Stopping so the kids could get in the water and swim. From the boat, the adults would toss cheese balls (those puffy, cheese flavored snacks) for the kids to catch in their mouths. Kind of like feeding ducks!

Molly also recalls an Easter Dinner at Barb and Gary’s and being relegated to the kid’s table. After dinner, the games would come out. Mille Bornes, Triominos, Aggravation and others.

Rock Island Library

The current Rock Island Library Director, Angela C. told me Barbara took great pride in answering reference questions for patrons.

Former co-worker, Kim, shared that before any desk shift, Barbara would pull out her compact… powder her nose… apply fresh lipstick, and then say “I’m getting ready for my public.” Kim looked forward to any dish that Barb would bring to staff potlucks, but especially her spanakopita.

Barbara helped organize Rock Island library employees when they joined the UAW. She served as Union Steward from the early 1990s until her retirement in 2016. She got a lot of satisfaction from serving in that role.

Epilogue

The final story I am going to share is actually an epilogue. Two days after Barbara died, Geni’s Christmas cactus bloomed. If you are familiar with Christmas cacti, you know they often will bloom several times in a year and sometimes not at Christmas.

This Christmas cactus had belonged to Grandma Jeanne (Barb’s mother). Gram gave that plant to Geni more than 20 years ago (before she died in 2007), and for 20 years, that cactus NEVER bloomed…. until two days after Barb died.

Gen says she believes…and I do, too… that the cactus blooming is Gram’s way of letting us know that Barb is with HER now, and all is well.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/p/iowa-writers-collaborative

The Iowa Hawkeyes lost to their most bitter basketball rival, Illinois, in the Elite 8 and I’m not sure I’ve ever felt better after a loss.

Don’t get me wrong, seeing Iowa run out of gas and out-toughed in the second half of the NCAA regional final was a bummer. Having a Cinderella Final Four run derailed by the school that hates you the most stinks.

But let’s be honest, they weren’t even supposed to be there.

Ben McCollum didn’t just outperform expectations in year one of his tenure with a cast of mid-major transfers and former Drake players: he absolutely shattered them.

The Hawkeyes were on the right side of the pre-tournament bubble most of the Big Ten season, but not by a lot, as evidenced by drawing a dreaded No. 9 seed and a second-round date with No. 1 seed Florida. No one gave them a shot against the Gators, and the amazing upset they pulled highlighted by Alvaro Folguieras’ sublime corner three will live on in fan imaginations forever. For me, anything that happened after that was gravy, playing with house money or pick your cliché for having nothing to lose.

The opportunity to see Nebraska freak out and repeatedly commit self-induced errors en route to a season ended by their greatest nemesis, this time in basketball instead of football, was also a highlight.

The reaction of Iowa fans to their loss to Illinois compared to Nebraska fans in their loss to Iowa also says a lot about where the two programs are historically. The Cornhusker contingent whined and cried about officiating, Iowa’s physicality, and generally sulked like sullen teenagers. Iowa fans, for the most part, tipped their caps to the bigger, stronger Illini and told them to look out, as we expect to be a force to be reckoned with in the Big Ten going forward.

Nebraska was an irritant, a “new money” basketball program with scant history and only recent success. Illinois is a worthy nemesis, with a long history as a relative basketball power and lots of recent star power in guys like Ayo Dosunmu, Kendrick Nunn, Meyers Leonard, and Dee Brown. It was a little annoying to get beat by the Balkan Junior Professional team, but the new landscape of college basketball means a lot of 20-something former pros will be on rosters.

Most thought Iowa’s lack of interior size would doom them against Florida. It definitely caught up to them against Illinois, just as it did in Iowa City in January in a six-point loss. The fact is, Iowa does not match up well with the Illini length and strength down low. This point was made painfully clear by Alvaro Folguieras– arguably the star of Iowa’s run to the Elite 8 – being a virtual no-show with 0 points, 0 rebounds in a mere nine minutes. Seeing Illinois pull down more offensive rebounds than Iowa had total rebounds also drove the size mismatch home.

What is clear, however, is that McCollum’s system can and will play at the highest levels of the sport. His run at Drake, which included a first-round win in the NCAA tournament over the SEC’s Mizzou was proof-of-concept. His Elite 8 run at Iowa with a roster cobbled together last minute and lacking star power outside of Bennett Stirtz is straight up proof.

With an entire offseason to collect players out of the portal, freshmen like Tate Sage and Trevin Jirak flashing at times, Trey Thompson coming off a redshirt and 4-star Ethan Harris coming in, I am giddy thinking of the team McCollum could put together for 2026-27. Nab a legitimate starting center and find a proven point guard who wants to be the shining focal point à la Stirtz, and the Hawks should be cooking with gas.

Fans should also take a moment to appreciate the stellar work relatively new athletic director Beth Goetz has done. Iowa appears poised to hold its own in the new framework of NIL and mass player movement, in part thanks to her organizational efforts, but also her eye for coaching hires. As one of the smaller public schools in a low population state inside the Big Ten footprint, she has small-but-mighty Iowa positioned to compete on a level playing field with some of the biggest, richest departments in America.

Losing always hurts. But dreaming about the future is a good salve, particularly when those dreams are attainable, not just fantasy.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/p/iowa-writers-collaborative

On the evening of March 13, 1999, with my 6-month-old daughter asleep on the couch beside me, I failed—rather loudly—to contain my excitement as Tom Davis’ last Iowa team stunned SEC power Arkansas to reach the Sweet 16.

My wife was miffed but understanding. It would not be the last time Hawkeye basketball interrupted family life.

Sunday night, 27 years later, I was back on that same couch—this time with my 23-year-old son and his girlfriend—as the three of us leapt to our feet, yelled, laughed and high-fived while Alvaro Folgueiras—who earlier had been at the center of a first-half scrum that had Florida convinced he’d thrown a punch—drained a dagger three to send No. 1 seed Florida, another SEC power, home and Iowa back to the Sweet 16.

Despite the lengthy delay between Iowa’s two shining March moments, the strains of familiarity between the events are impossible to ignore. The deeper you look at this current tourney run, the more it starts to feel less like a breakthrough and more like some kind of weird rerun.

Let’s start with the Koch factor. In ’99, J.R. Koch scored five quiet points in Iowa’s opener over UAB—then delivered 13 against the Razorbacks, including six perfect free throws and the game-clinching rebound, in the Hawkeyes’ narrow win. That night, Koch walked off the floor having helped Iowa survive Nolan Richardson’s “40 Minutes of Hell,” delivering the Hawks to the Sweet 16.

This past Sunday night, he was waiting in the stands, watching as Cooper connected on four big-time trifectas— a couple in critical crunch time as Florida mounted a furious second-half comeback. This came on the heels of his own slow start in round one against Clemson, when he scored eight and missed a couple of wide-open threes.

Same stage. Same moment. Same role, really—except for Cooper being a shooting assassin and Dad being a big.

And then you look up at who they were playing.

1999 Arkansas was a powerful, athletic, fast team four years removed from a title-game appearance.
2026 Florida was a powerful, athletic, fast team one season removed from a national title.

Arkansas made its reputation by pestering, harassing and running teams into the ground with non-stop effort. But Davis’ Hawkeyes pressed, harassed and beat the bigger Razorbacks at their own game.

Florida hangs its hat on big, bruising forwards and centers and a punishing style of basketball, including dominating on the boards. Ben McCollum’s Iowa, though, out bullied the bullies, crashed the glass harder and generally shocked the Gators by beating them at their own game.

It starts to make you wonder: is it just the matchups… or something bigger? The last Iowa coach to take a team to the Sweet 16 was Tom Davis. The one who just did it grew up going to his camps.

Hell, even the regular season was a near Davis doppelgänger: beating up on patsies in the non-conference, a heartbreaker against Iowa State, a tough start to conference play, then a nice little winning streak to get on the tournament bubble. Hovering in or around the Top 25. Bad road losses to mediocre programs. The more things change…

At some point, it stops feeling like coincidence and more like either destiny or history repeating itself.

I do think McCollum’s eventual ceiling is higher than that of his former camp coach, who famously never lost a first-round tournament game but only managed one Elite Eight appearance in nine tries. Accomplishing a Sweet 16 run in year one with a cobbled-together cast of Drake transfers and portal players bodes astonishingly well for the future.

What matters most to fans is that Iowa is back, relevant and doing damage in the only month that truly matters in college basketball.

Somewhere between those two games, 27 years apart, a generation passed—from players on the floor to parents in the stands, from kids on the couch to adults jumping out of it.

And maybe that’s the part that isn’t coincidence at all.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/p/iowa-writers-collaborative

New Year’s resolutions have been a mixed bag for me at best over the years.

I’ve suffered the cliché failure to eat better and get more exercise multiple times. I managed to “be nicer to people on social media” for nearly three weeks once, which was a minor miracle. I actually did get a new bike and commuted on it for the entirety of 2023, only to start working from home (I do count this as one of the rare wins).

That said, the exercise itself is helpful, if for no other reason than to identify stretch goals one can pursue.

With that in mind, I’d like to propose some 2026 resolutions for Hawkeye fans, teams, coaches, and individuals.

The Iowa football team wrapped up a successful—very close to great—2025 campaign with an exciting bowl win over Vanderbilt, so let’s start with them.

FOOTBALL

Kirk Ferentz: Cede even more control over the slowly improving offense to coordinator Tim Lester, who has demonstrated a tremendous ability to “scratch where it itches,” as your old boss Hayden liked to say. Encourage him to unleash a more aggressive passing attack as the team moves on from the excellent dual-threat Mark Gronowski and put more distance between the Hawkeyes and the service academies in terms of run-to-pass ratio.

Mark Hecklinski and/or Hank Brown: Don’t just win the future battle to be QB1—dominate it. Both guys are intriguing, but we will all feel much better about the upcoming season if one emerges as the clear alpha with the confidence of his teammates and coaches.

Tyler Barnes: Find a killer defensive lineman, hopefully a rush edge, in the portal. Diamonds in the rough from the FCS are fine, as long as they can boost what was at times a fairly anemic (for a Phil Parker defense) pass rush.

Whole team: Beat. Iowa. State. Seriously, little brother needs a spanking in the worst way, and with the program’s best-ever coach having bolted for Penn State, now is the time to put belt to butt.

MEN’S BASKETBALL

Fans: Forget the frustrating past. Don’t dwell on the failings of Lickliter and Alford. Forget the “not quite good enough” averageness of Fran McCaffery. The time for jumping on the Ben McCollum bandwagon and filling Carver with passion and intensity is now. You can help accelerate the pace of the rebuild by making Carver a true home-court advantage. Do it.

Connor McCaffery: Move on, son. You have a bright basketball future ahead of you. Taking social media potshots at the school that gave your dad millions—and you a scholarship—is a bad look.

Bennett Stirtz: Just keep doing you. No notes for improvement. Unless there is some miraculous way of finding another year of eligibility.

Jess Settles: Retire the word “phenomenal.” I enjoy your basketball commentary a great deal, love the farming talk and jabs at Mike Hall, but mix in a few other adjectives. Some options: outstanding, superb, stellar, sensational. Mix it up, my man!

Gary Dolphin: Try to remember to give the score at least once every 15 minutes.

WOMEN’S BASKETBALL

Hannah Stuelke: Breathe. When you catch the ball on the block around the rim, take a half-beat and gather yourself. You are far, far too good at this game to blow so many layups. Be confident!

Addie Deal: Forget recruiting hype and let the game come to you. Block out the noise of “fans” who are upset you aren’t already dominating. Just concentrate on getting better each day.

PA announcer: Maybe take it down half a notch? Love the enthusiasm, but the intensity is a bit homerific.

Big Ten officiating: Just be better. Full stop.

Overall, Iowa athletics is in a strong position as we embark on a new year. Both basketball teams are ranked and trending in the right direction. Football got the monkey of no ranked wins off its back and is putting together a strong recruiting class. The volleyball team has notched a few more wins and pulled itself out of the Big Ten basement. Baseball has strong leadership and some lively arms. And wrestling hasn’t completely imploded.

As Larry David would say, “Pretty, pretty, pretty good. Pretty good.”

Nail some of these resolutions, and the Hawkeyes can go from good to great!

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/p/iowa-writers-collaborative

I was going to start this column out writing about how we should evaluate Nebraska as a program right now, but quickly realized that is a super short column.

Nebraska is where they have been, intermittently, since firing Frank Solich for the absolutely horrendous failure of finishing a season 9-3 lo these 22 years ago, almost to the day.

That is: devoid of any clear identity, flailing with a “hot name” coach who appears out of his depth, pretty soft on both lines, awash with some nice athletes who don’t appear able to coalesce into a team, and preparing to “win” the offseason national championship for the 15th year running. Oh, and coming off a backbreaking loss to a tougher, tighter Iowa team that knows exactly what it is and is looking forward rather than to the past.

Rinse and repeat.

While mocking Nebraska’s hubris is one of my all-time favorite hobbies, I will instead stick to evaluating where Iowa is as a program, following a simultaneously inspiring and heartbreaking 8-4 regular season.

On paper, one would think the 2025 results were a downgrade from 2023 when Iowa finished the regular season 10-2 and appeared in the Big Ten championship game. But when you break down the schedule differences and how Iowa looked in each game, I think it’s pretty clear this year’s team is superior and the program is in a better place.

In 2023, Iowa won five one-possession games, including squeakers like 10-7 over

Northwestern, 15-13 over Illinois, and 13-10 to best Nebraska. Even its “impressive” wins weren’t really: 24-14 over Utah State, 20-13 over Iowa State, and 26-16 to defeat Michigan State. In its three games against ranked opponents (#7 Penn State, #2 Michigan, and #21 Tennessee), the Hawkeyes were hamblasted by a combined score of 92-0. Ouch. That is BAD.

Fast forward to this season, and Iowa was the team handing out the butt-kickings to overmatched rivals: 41-3 over the Gophers, 37-0 against Wisconsin, and 40-16 over Nebraska.

Against ranked teams, unfortunately each game ended in a loss, but nowhere near as bad as the 2023 destructions: 20-15 to #2 Indiana, 18-16 on a last-second field goal to #6 Oregon, and 26-21 to #16 USC, which Iowa led by double digits into the fourth quarter.

Frustrating, heartbreaking, head-shaking, and maddening, yes. But progress nonetheless.

Heading into this season, one of the biggest question marks was whether Iowa could close the talent and production gap between itself and top-20 (and better) teams in the Big Ten and beyond. I think the results on the field, even in losses, definitively make that answer yes.

Most heartening, the national narrative of Iowa being the place offense goes to die is beginning to dissipate. The Hawkeyes finished 5th in scoring in the 18-team Big Ten at a robust 28.9 points per game. Given the reliably stout Iowa defense infrequently allows more than 20 (season average for 2025 was 15.2 ppg, good for 9th in the country), that is a recipe that will win plenty of games going forward.

In his second season with the Hawks, offensive coordinator Tim Lester demonstrated an excellent ability to tailor game plans around his players’ strengths and the opponents’ weak spots. He also showed the upside of having a mobile quarterback in his system, with Mark Gronowski doing as much or more damage with his legs than his strong arm. And as always, the run game was a strength of the team, helping control time of possession and grinding down opponents.

The good news is Iowa moved tangibly closer to College Football Playoff contention. The bad news is, as my dad always says, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. So what needs to be done to get over the hump?

I’m far from a football expert, but my fan eyes tell me Iowa needs a couple more game-breakers at the skill positions. A portal wide receiver or two with escapability would go a long way toward taking some pressure off the run game, particularly when Iowa doesn’t have a breakaway threat like a Kaleb Johnson. The tight end position also needs to return to at least a semblance of its former dominance. I love what I saw late in the year from DJ Vonnahme—he gives off faint

Noah Fant vibes. Hopefully Alex Ostrenga comes back healthy and provides a potent pair of targets.

On the defensive side of the ball, the Hawkeyes also need to find at least one road-grader interior lineman. In the Oregon and USC losses in particular, Iowa got worn down by the running game late, which contributed to the blown leads and losses.

Finally, although there were signs of it this season, I also think Kirk Ferentz needs to commit to a “pedal-to-the-metal” approach on offense. In the USC game in particular, I felt Iowa went into

protection mode too early in the second half with a lead, giving the Trojans momentum and hope. Stay aggressive and have faith that if something goes awry, your stellar defense will bail you out.

It’s going to be a fascinating offseason, particularly on the quarterback front for Iowa. If the new guy has the goods and the portal and recruiting additions are high quality, Iowa has a good chance to be right in the thick of the Big Ten race—as it was this season—in 2026.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/p/iowa-writers-collaborative

Share

Thanks for reading Brecht’s Beat ! This post is public so feel free to share it.

Share

The worst hangover I ever had was on a guy’s fishing trip to Lake of the Woods in Canada at least 20 years ago, maybe longer.

The night started out innocently enough — a couple Labatt Blues after dinner with some friendly Canucks at the lodge bar. A couple beers turned into some shots of north woods whiskey, which led to a pool-playing challenge, which led to more beers, which turned into more shots . . . you get the drift.

Sometime after midnight, I remember standing on the end of a pier with the Milky Way spinning way too fast around my head and then stumbling my way — wary of bear attack — back to our cabin.

Somehow the next morning — nauseous, head pounding, mouth dry — I managed to get into the guide boat for a bumpy, damp, and miserable hour-long ride to a bay full of walleye. Yet I was too green around the gills and my cranium too throbbing to put a line in the water.

I did rally after shore lunch. Even managed to catch a big lake trout.

All this is to say what I saw the first three quarters inside Kinnick Stadium this past Saturday looked all too familiar. I know a nasty hangover when I see one.

Whiffed blocks. Tentative tackling. Overthrown balls. Underthrown balls. Against a Michigan State team that was winless in the Big 10 but surprisingly scrappy, it often felt like Iowa was sleepwalking through the first three quarters of the game — other than the apparently teetotaling Kaden Wetjen.

It’s hard to blame them. Four heartbreaking losses by the narrowest of margins, rendering preseason goals like a Big 10 championship or College Football Playoff run dead and buried, certainly took some wind out of Hawkeye sails. Even the usually spirited Kinnick crowd was lackluster, with pockets of empty seats scattered around the facility.

Still, for Big 10 diehards, the game had some appeal. The Hawkeyes and Spartans have grudging respect and some fun history in their rivalry: the Chuck Long bootleg, “Seven got six,” the fourth-down stop that wasn’t in the Big 10 championship game.

The game played out like an old-school Big 10 November grinder. Iowa led 7–3 at halftime despite throwing for less than 50 yards. In fact, Iowa passed a mere 10 times and ran it 12 in a disjointed first half that saw several long review delays, quarterback quick-kicks, many hard hits, and a lot of very bad offense. Again, only Wetjen’s two magical returns — one for a touchdown and the slim lead — sparked any life in the crowd.

When Iowa’s hangover got worse in the second half — highlighted by a terrible interception and later a blown coverage setting up a touchdown and 10-point lead for the Spartans — the grumbles, boos, and bailouts started in earnest. Fans, too, it seemed, were feeling Sunday morning coming down.

Thankfully, much like me rising from the gravel beach on some deserted island after some fried walleye, bacon and beans, and a fresh beer two decades ago, the Hawkeyes rallied.

It was like a reversal of the recent loss to USC, with Iowa finally coming alive in the fourth quarter, putting up a field goal and long-awaited offensive touchdown while throttling back the Michigan State offense.

I don’t always cast shade on those who bail out of games early, but I do think the ones who fled last Saturday should have known better. While frustrating and inconsistent at times, one thing the 2025 Hawkeyes are not is quitters. I wish the same could be said for a portion of the fanbase.

If you are someone who believes moral victories don’t exist — like me — you are also contractually obligated to believe there is no such thing as an ugly win. And there was absolutely nothing ugly about Drew Stevens’s 44-yard game-winning field goal splitting the uprights and saving the day.

Next up is Nebraska, and I expect we’ll get a fully functioning, bright-eyed, and ready Iowa team, not the emotionally vulnerable crew that barely survived Senior Day. The big prizes are off the table, but a third trophy-game victory and a nice warm bowl destination are more than a mere consolation prize.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/p/iowa-writers-collaborative

Thanks for reading Brecht's Beat ! This post is public so feel free to share it.

Share

Sequins sparkle under soft lights, feather fans splay wide as peacock tails, and—look over there—it’s a banana dress worn by Josephine Baker herself. Against another wall sits a humble porcelain sink, green marble marred by rust, salvaged from the so-called Chitlin Circuit, where traveling Black musicians and dancers like Ike and Tina Turner once washed up before heading out on stage.

The curios and curiosities on display inside the Ecdysiast Museum, Davenport’s newest, are just a fraction of the massive collection curated by owner Danielle Colby. They’re reminders that art, sex, and survival have always mixed in unpredictable, uncomfortable, but always undeniably fascinating ways. And Colby—familiar to many as the tattooed sidekick on the long-running TV show American Pickers—has stitched these stories together into a fascinating timeline of how sex is commoditized and sold.

Colby is quick to point out that her museum exists not simply to serve prurient interests, though she sees nothing wrong with that if done with women’s agency held intact.

“You can’t separate this work from politics,” she says.

You can’t talk burlesque without talking about the line between titillation and empowerment, as far as she’s concerned. For as long as women have taken the stage, men have tried to turn it to their advantage. Colby doesn’t dodge that. She’s blunt: safe spaces only exist when women and queer folks run the show.

That doesn’t mean the male gaze vanishes. A low-cut dress twirling under a spotlight is meant to catch an eye. But in Colby’s framing, the story isn’t about leering—it’s about agency. Who controlled the gig? Who got paid? Who owned the costume? Her museum isn’t a peep show; it’s a classroom where the lesson is that sexuality and feminism can share a stage if the power dynamics shift.

Growing up in a strict, patriarchal system as she did in the Jehovah’s Witness faith, she says, sparked her interest in burlesque and what some see as the seedy side of life.

“Burlesque lets you reclaim your body and voice,” said Colby. “I grew up a Jehovah’s Witness — I’m not one now — but that upbringing made me unafraid of bullies and backlash. Not everyone can safely speak; this museum says what many can’t.”

But why Davenport, of all places? In her time with Pickers, she’s traveled the length and breadth of America, only to end up back home.

Locals know the answer. Davenport has always worn its vices on its sleeve.

Bucktown—the neighborhood east of downtown—was notorious at the turn of the 20th century for its saloons, brothels, and dance halls. The New York Times called Davenport the “wickedest city in America.”

The goal is to shine a spotlight on what used to be kept behind locked doors, in the dark. That includes taking an unflinching look at the scandals behind the silky clothes and sexy dancing.

One exhibit tells the story of Lorraine Gale Smith, a Boston dancer murdered by her mob-affiliated boyfriend in 1975—a chilling reminder that glamour often coexisted with danger.

Another display celebrates resilience: the sink from Paducah’s Hotel Metropolitan, a Green Book stop where Black entertainers got ready before shows. One can picture Count Basie or the Harlem Globetrotters leaning over that very porcelain, fixing hair and swapping jokes before stepping out into segregated America

.One mission of the Ecdysiast Museum is to reframe burlesque, striptease and sex work itself not through the lens of smut or shame, but heritage. Like jazz, burlesque rode the riverboats, stopped in the same towns, and left the same cultural imprint. The Mississippi carried not just lumber and grain, but sequins, songs, and swaying bodies.

The museum will not just be a curiosity cabinet for what came before, Colby promises. She and her collaborators plan to host monthly live burlesque shows in the museum’s intimate performance space. Some nights will spotlight historic routines or honor forgotten dancers; others will showcase the next generation of performers who are putting their own stamp on the art form.

Tours, too, are part of the plan — not generic walk-throughs, but focused experiences that highlight the story of a single performer, a single costume, or a single era. That way, the lessons of Bucktown’s heyday, the grit of the Chitlin’ Circuit, and the sparkle of Vaudeville can be relived in real time, not just read about on placards.

“Burlesque is always political, but it’s also always alive,” Colby said. “We don’t just want people to see the past. We want them to feel it — and to know it continues.”

Sidebar: The sordid history of Bucktown

Bucktown refers to the eastern edge of downtown Davenport, a few scant blocks from the river’s edge.

It was once a two-block stretch of saloons, dance halls, brothels, speakeasies, and beer gardens. In the early 1900s, Bucktown was the Upper Mississippi’s red-light district par excellence — a place travelers, riverboat crews, and locals called scandalous, thrilling, disreputable... and unforgettable. It wasn’t notorious just regionally, either. Word of Davenport’s dens of sin was national news around the turn-of-the-20 th -century. In a 1903 editorial, the Chicago Record- Herald claimed Davenport had “snatched New York City’s title as the ‘Worst Town in America’.”

Quad Cities historian Jonathan Turner recounts a quote from a Davenport minister, William Lloyd Clark, who said, “If I owned Hell and Davenport, I would sell Davenport and keep Hell. Davenport is that saturated with rum, catacombed with houses of ill- fame… from her vile levee districts to the top of her polluted hills.”

Another contemporary (1903) visitor, a woman from Chicago, compared Davenport to Hell, declaring it “the toughest place in America.”

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/p/iowa-writers-collaborative

There exists a proud kingdom perched on the banks of the Iowa River. Its people hardy, its corn tall, and its football team renowned for brawn, bravery, and the ability to strike fear into the hearts of even the greatest of other gridiron warriors.

In this kingdom lived a figure of legend. Not a single man, but a collective entity identified by a striking gold image of a bird upon a night-black helmet. This legend we call Hawkeye.

Hawkeye was a noble spirit, but one vexed for eternity to atone for its transgressions. Hawkeye was not cursed by the gods for actual sins such as hubris or cheating. Rather, something far more offensive to the football gods: the audacity of hope.

In antiquity—a time known as the Era of the Big 10 West—Hawkeye was among the strongest and most favored. For nigh on two decades, its foes trembled and rent their garments in fear of the wrath of the mighty Hawkeye, particularly its fierce and ferocious defense. Many enemies—be they man-rodents such as gopher or badger, or men of labor such as huskers of corn or makers of boilers—fell before the mighty black and gold onslaught.

This gave rise to hope in the chests of the followers of Hawkeye. A yearning that Hawkeye might reach the pinnacle of heaven, the abode of blue bloods, known as the CFP.

As the campaign season approached in the Year 2025, this hope buoyed the kingdom of Iowa football, giving rise in its people great ardor and fervor.

But alas, the football gods are capricious and without mercy. And lo, Hawkeye—like his cousin Sisyphus—hath been condemned to fall back down the mount of hope under the weight of expectation time and time and time and time again. Yea, on four separate occasions the ring was within grasp, only for cruel fate to snatch it away, leaving the supporters of Hawkeye to gnash teeth and ask for succor.

Tribulation 1 – the Grimness of Ames

On the dismal and loveless plain north of the metropolis of Des Moines squats a fetid and squalid hamlet whose denizens are rumored to lie with beasts of the field. This disfavored place is called Ames and its long-suffering warrior known as Cyclone. For nearly eternity, Cyclone was a weak and punchless adversary, having tasted of championship nary a time since early in the prior century. On a warm afternoon this past September, Hawkeye stood poised over Cyclone, readying a death blow sure to send Hawkeye supporters into throes of celebration.

Alas, the rock wobbled, tackling angles lost, and Cyclone snatched victory from the jaws of defeat on the unlikely right foot of a mere lad. Despair washed over the masses who had been ready to declare, finally again, that this indeed was the “Hawkeye state.”

Tribulation 2 – the Perfidy of Indiana

Still stinging from the defeat at Ames, Hawkeye returned home to the fields of Kinnick, where an opportunity to slay a rising giant called Hoosier, awaited.

The people of Iowa muttered among themselves, invoking ancient omens, beseeching the gods to allow a smoother ascent.

And for a time, it seemed the gods relented. Inside the sacred temple of the black and gold—Hawkeye surged. The line held firm. The defense struck foes as if forged from the same iron that chained Prometheus. The kingdom roared, for the mighty Hoosier, ranked second in all the land, appeared shaken, down on one knee and ready to fall.

But as the summit appeared within reach, once again the cruel grinning gods of the gridiron laughed, saying “not yet.” In mere seconds, a busted coverage as loathsome as Odysseus’s trickery led to a kick that split the uprights with the precision of Apollo’s arrow. The Kinnick crowd fell silent, knowing the shape of the tale too well.

Again, the rock slipped and shuddered. Again, Hawkeye sank to the base of the mountain.

Hawkeye sighed — stubborn, doomed — and trudged downward to try again.

Tribulation 3 – The Sorcery of Oregon

Hail the hearty Iowans. Despite two crushing defeats and a stinging freezing rain soaking the field of Kinnick, they once again donned their ponchos and girded their flasks for battle.

Here came the fleet-footed Duck of Oregon and his minions, resplendent in bright and gawdy garments bestowed upon them by the Knight of Nike. The Duck swept in confidently, sure his mercenaries would make quick and easy work of the twice-defeated Hawkeye.

Yet Hawkeye flinched not. Blow for blow, rush for rush, Iowa’s defense smothered the Duck’s spells. Hope surged again, the taste of victory mere inches from hungry mouths.

For a heartbeat the kingdom glimpsed the summit. The boulder steadied. The gods stirred uneasily.

But the gods are vain. They do not allow mortals to command the narrative.

Once more, in the waning minutes, the Duck conjured a magic most foul. A late drive, cruelerthan any Hydra’s bite. A kick that tore the breath from the faithful. And before the people could even curse the heavens, the boulder again threw Hawkeye down the mountain, yet again into the valley of Almost.

Tribulation 4 – The Mirage of USC

By the fourth ascent, even the most faith-filled follower of Hawkeye trembled in dread. For ahead lay a date with the mighty Trojan, on the typically sun-kissed battlefields of Los Angeles, where Hawkeye dreams go to die.

Yet Hawkeye - bruised, bloodied but undeterred - sallied forth to battle inside the coliseum where a rare stormed raged. For three quarters, Hawkeye dominated the field with the relentlessness of a scythe clearing an autumn field. The run game churned. The defense feasted. The people of Iowa - ever hopeful, ever doomed - began whispering of breakthrough. Of destiny. Of finally reaching the summit.

Hawkeye heaved the rock unto his shoulder. It quivered. It neared the crest.

Then – as if scripted by sadistic fate – the Trojan rose from the dust and swung his sword at the death. With a single late touchdown, the gods poked the boulder with one amused finger.

Down it tumbled. Down it crashed.

The followers of Hawkeye again writhe in the pit of despair.

Eternal Condemnation

Is it fate for Hawkeye to climb forever, straining against the unyielding wall of expectation, never to reach the summit?

If there be glory in pursuit without culmination, Iowa fans stand among the most glorious in the land.

The punishment is eternal, yes. But so too is the will to climb.

The followers of Hawkeye understand this. Our faith is not born of easy victories but of the sacred, ridiculous, beautiful struggle.

One day, either soon or in some distant season, the football gods will be distracted. The rock will once again wobble, but Hawkeye will plant his staff on the mountain. And the nectar of victory so long delayed, will be sweet.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/p/iowa-writers-collaborative

If English were German, there would be some super long word for feeling great pride and profound sadness simultaneously.

Bitterstolzfreudeschmerz, perhaps. Or Hochstolztraurigkeitsgefühl, maybe.

At any rate, as I slowly dried and thawed out after last Saturday’s grinder of a Big Ten ground war against Oregon, those were the two competing emotions fighting it out in my head.

Just like against the current No. 2 Indiana Hoosiers, the Hawkeyes had Oregon on the ropes and needed one single stop to send the Kinnick crowd into an absolute frenzy.

And just like in that close-but-no-cigar loss, the Iowa defense failed to make key stops, allowing the Ducks to drive down and hit a game-winning field goal that kept their College Football Playoff dreams alive.

A good friend of mine once told me the most frustrating aspect of being an Iowa fan is seeing your team always being the “worthy adversary” in another team’s dream season. Think of the 2015 Big Ten Championship Game, for example. Michigan State fans will forever remember that as overcoming a defensive juggernaut to achieve their long-awaited championship.

Now Oregon joins the list of teams that survived scrappy Iowa on the way to bigger and better things.

The Hawkeyes are the penultimate boss in the video game that is college football — never the final villain, always the one you have to beat to even reach him.

Oh Lord, when will our time finally come!?

Despite the frustration of being tantalizingly close to fighting their way into the thick of the championship race, there was still much to be proud of in the wake of Saturday’s disappointment.

The team fought like rabid dogs, trading blows with one of the best teams money can buy. Mark Gronowski again proved himself a gamer — the 93-yard lead-taking drive showcased his skills as he punched in the go-ahead touchdown on a three-yard run. And the fans were absolutely bonkers, not letting the relentless stinging rain and cold wind dampen spirits or quiet voices for 60 full minutes.

The most maddening aspect of both this loss and the Indiana loss, however, is both teams “out-Iowa’d” Iowa.

Typically, it’s the Hawkeye defense that makes the late-game key stop. Saturday they could not, allowing a preposterous 24-yard completion up the sideline that helped set up the game-winning field goal.

Typically, it’s the Hawkeyes’ special teams that shine in tightly contested ballgames, with a long return for a touchdown or a key field goal block or a booming coffin-corner punt. Saturday, it muffed two basic punt snaps (albeit in tough conditions), the second of which led to a safety and the ultimate two-point differential.

And typically, it’s Iowa that rides its ground game to a close victory. Yes, Kamari Moulton had an impressive 87-yard day on the ground supplemented by Gronowski’s 25 and a touchdown, eating up seven more minutes of clock than the Ducks. But it was Oregon’s 261 yards on the ground that impresses more — against a usually stout run defense.

To me, the craziest thing about the loss is that Iowa choked it away after taking the lead. After scrapping and clawing all day long, it never felt like Iowa would relinquish a lead once it earned it. Credit to Oregon for persevering when the weather, the crowd, and all the odds seemed stacked against them.

It’s easy to be down now that Big Ten title and CFP dreams are effectively ruined. But lost in the despair is the fact Iowa has achieved a very important goal this season: it is no longer getting pushed around and humiliated by Top 10 type teams. It has not figured out how to actually get over the hump and win one of these, but it has massively closed the gap between it and the elites. And that counts for something.

I will be curious to see if Iowa bounces back and plays a good game on the road in Los Angeles against USC after this heartbreaker. A better bowl position and pride are all Iowa really has to play for in its last three games.

Something tells me that pride is a pretty big motivator for this flawed-but-oh-so-close team.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/p/iowa-writers-collaborative

Holiday songs playing on the radio. That one eager neighbor stringing Christmas lights. Kirk Ferentz’s football team kicking tail on gridirons across the Midwest.
It can only mean one thing: November has arrived.

Nothing highlights the developmental aspect of Iowa football more than its stellar record when Halloween is in the rearview and the games that define a season arrive. And few coaches deliver early holiday gifts to fans better than Kirk Ferentz.

Since his first season in 1999, Ferentz has compiled a 62–31 record in the month of November, good for a sterling .667 winning percentage. That overall number includes a few rough seasons, including a pair of 0-fer Novembers in 2006 and 2010. Look at just the past five seasons, however, and upcoming November opponents should be very, very nervous. Since the 2019 season, the Hawks have gone 21–2 in the month before Christmas, good for a jaw-dropping .913 winning percentage.

That this month is paramount to the Iowa coach is hardly new news. Here’s what Ivan Maisel wrote for ESPN.com way back on Nov. 21, 2004: “This is what Kirk Ferentz does. Iowa becomes a late-season problem. Every November they get tougher, and every November they start ruining somebody’s plan.”

The Oregon Ducks’ plan is to win the Big Ten and make it into the College Football Playoff. Here’s hoping November 8 is opening day of duck season in Iowa City and the Hawkeyes have their birdshot primed and ready.

If Iowa pulls off the upset this coming Saturday, it will be one of the biggest, most exciting late-season wins in the Ferentz era. But it will hardly be alone. Here are my personal five favorite big November wins:

#5 — Nov. 29, 2019 – Iowa 27, Nebraska 24 in Lincoln. Keith Duncan tears out Husker hearts with a 48-yard game-winning field goal. Rubbing salt in the wounds, he turns toward the yappy Nebraska sidelines and gives a double “bye-bye” wave. Bonus points for knocking Nebraska out of bowl eligibility.

#4 — Nov. 4, 2000 – Iowa 26, Penn State 23 in State College. This one probably doesn’t stand out for all Hawkeye fans, considering the teams were a combined 5–14 at the time, but it was a sneakily important win in the Ferentz era. I didn’t even watch this game on television, figuring it would be another frustrating loss by the second-year coach who had only won two games and who, I figured, was probably going to be fired soon. I was fishing at the Coralville Spillway when the Hawkeyes made a huge defensive stop and nailed a clutch game-winning field goal, sending a message that Iowa was no longer the conference pushover.

#3 — Nov. 8, 2008 – Iowa 24, Penn State 23 in Iowa City. The Nittany Lions came into this one undefeated and with national championship dreams swimming in their minds. Iowa was a frustrating 5–4, coming off a disheartening three-point loss to Illinois. But stellar defense, relentless running by Shonn Greene, and an absolutely wild crowd willed Iowa to the last-second victory on a field goal from Daniel Murray that sent Kinnick into throes of ecstasy. That win was the first in a four-game win streak culminating in a 31–10 Outback Bowl beatdown of South Carolina, salvaging a “good” season.

#2 — Nov. 16, 2002 – Iowa 45, Minnesota 21 in Minneapolis. Kirk Ferentz’s first Big Ten championship. Clutching a rose (in retrospect, guess it should have been an orange). Iowa fans tearing down the goalposts in the Hubert H. Humphrey Dome and trying to get them out of the building via revolving doors while Minnesota security blared loud noises. Perfection.

#1 — Nov. 20, 2004 – Iowa 30, Wisconsin 7 in Iowa City. I still have a clot of sod from the south endzone I gathered up after the field storming on this one. The game itself wasn’t very dramatic, mostly a thorough beatdown of a pretty solid Badger team. But during the game, the crowd learned Ohio State had pulled the upset over No. 7 Michigan, meaning Iowa would share its second Big Ten title in two years with a victory. This was a season that started with a woeful showing in the desert, Iowa getting boat-raced by a pretty average Arizona State squad 44–7, looking left for dead. All it did was pick itself up off the mat, win seven straight conference games after a narrow loss in Ann Arbor, and knock off the defending national champions LSU in the Capital One Bowl. This is the moment the “November Iowa” identity actually calcified.

It’s time to make this month another November to remember.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/p/iowa-writers-collaborative

Once again it’s “Philosophy Friday” here at The Inquiring Mind — a new co-authoring project from me and Sharon Kaye—in which I, a recovering newspaper journalist, and she, a brilliant philosophy professor, try to apply the wisdom of great thinkers to modern political, social and moral problems.

This week’s Big Question is “Can embracing absurdism help us step back from America’s political cold civil war?”

This conversation is lightly edited:

TORY: Watching all the coverage of the No Kings rallies - the Portland Frog, the guy in L.A. in a giraffe costume getting pepper-sprayed - all this is so absurd and seems to be actually somewhat effective against nascent fascism. What do philosophers have to say about the power of absurdism and irony to push back against authoritarianism?

SHARON: The 20th-century French philosopher Albert Camus brilliantly used a Greek myth to call attention to the absurdity of human life. It’s about a king named Sisyphus who disobeyed the gods by cheating death. His punishment was to push a giant boulder up a hill. The task was difficult and took a long time. When Sisyphus almost reached the top, the boulder rolled back down to the bottom, so that he had to start again. The same thing happened the next time, and Sisyphus soon realized that his fate was to push the same boulder up the same hill over and over for all eternity.

Camus felt this myth is analogous to human life. We get ourselves all cleaned up and dressed each day only to have to do it again the next day. We get that job or that date or that win, but it doesn’t last and we have to repeat the process. Worst of all--and this is the important part--none of it matters in the end. Our lives are a meaningless punishment.

For Camus, realizing this is what gives rise to the experience of absurdity. We want our lives to be logical and purposeful. But the universe gives us chaos and indifference.

Although the experience of absurdity is a bit of a downer, it is actually the first step toward salvation. Once you accept that life has no inherent meaning, you are free to create your own meaning. This involves deciding what you think is valuable and worth your time. A repetitive struggle becomes admirable and even enjoyable if you have chosen it for your own reasons.

Authoritarian regimes appeal to people because they promise to provide the purpose that is missing from our lives. For example, Hitler motivated his Nazi followers with the goal of creating a superior Aryan race. Camus’s great insight is that any such promise is a lie. No one else can supply purpose for your life. You have to do it yourself.

So, in short: If watching people attack each other in animal suits helps to remind us that life is absurd and that we therefore must rise to the challenge of making our own lives meaningful, then it may well provide a pushback against authoritarianism.

But you speak of embracing absurdism. What do you mean by that?

TORY: By “embrace” I mean leaning into it, rather than scolding or lecturing. I go back to the point made last week about the danger of letting justifiable anger turn into contempt. I feel like leaning into absurdism is just a powerful tool to use against authoritarianism, particularly in a situation such as we are in now where the authoritarian is making wild claims about “Antifa terror cells” and “Hamas-loving America-haters” being the majority of those protesting at the No Kings rallies held around the country two weeks ago.

It’s hard to take that seriously when people see prancing unicorns, twerking frogs and line-dancing grandmas in much of the media coverage. I also think the bleak humor of absurdists is a balm for anxiety in times of strife, too.

I often think of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five as one of the best examples of black humor helping humans face the truly awful. It’s a book about the fire bombing of Dresden, Nazism, the alienation of modern life and facing mortality. And it’s absolutely, side-splittingly hilarious in many sections. That’s a tough needle to thread, but Vonnegut does it expertly.

That brings me to a question for you. You’re obviously an expert on certified, what I call “Big P” philosophers: Camus, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, etc. Where do you stand on the topic of whether novelists and other fiction writers can be considered philosophers or not? Modern examples of authors who embrace absurdism and irony, and whose works I feel have a strong philosophical bent include the aforementioned Vonnegut, the science fiction writer Douglas Adams and the iconoclastic Hunter S. Thompson. Is it fair to lump them in as philosophers or are they something else entirely?

SHARON: Yes--I absolutely think it’s fair to consider those novelists and others like them “philosophers.” I include thinkers in other fields as well, such as Einstein. Likewise, Steven Pinker, whom we discussed last week, is actually a cognitive psychologist. A philosopher, in my view, is anyone who is willing to speculate about topics in one of the four branches of philosophy:

1. Metaphysics— What is truly real?

2. Epistemology— What can we really know?

3. Ethics— How should we live?

4. Logic— What makes a good argument?

That’s why I start my classes every day with the salutation, “Greetings, philosophers!”

Actually, anyone who lives in a democracy needs to be a philosopher—in order to do a good job voting. That’s why the history of democracy is deeply intertwined with the history of philosophy.

TORY: Expand on the democracy piece a bit. Also, do you think absurdism is intertwined with the history of philosophy as well?

SHARON: Now that you mention it, yes, and violence too, going way back to the beginning.

The founder of philosophy was an ancient Greek stonemason named Socrates. Socrates was extremely proud to be an Athenian because Athens was the first democracy in the world. But he also worried that democracy is fragile. Its continued existence relied on citizens being able to make good judgments. He himself wanted to learn how to make good judgments.

So, Socrates started going around town, looking for experts who could teach him. He’d ask a lawyer: What is justice? He’d ask a priest: What is holiness? He’d ask an artist: What is beauty? And nobody knew how to answer him. This led him to the conclusion that he must be the wisest person in the world, since he at least knew that he did not know. He called himself a “philosopher” from the Greek words, “lover of wisdom.”

Needless to say, Socrates’s interviews attracted a lot of attention, especially amongs young people, who started following him around. The “experts” got mad because Socrates was basically making them look like fools. So, they had Socrates arrested for “irreligion” and “corrupting the youth.” He was sentenced to death by poison hemlock.

Fortunately for us, the execution backfired. Socrates’s most devoted follower, Plato, set up a school for philosophers, where Socratic investigations could be continued. They called it “The Academy,” and it was the first university in the world, meaning a place where adults could go to ask any questions, debate any topic, and share diverse perspectives on the world.

Meanwhile, entertainers of the day made fun of Socrates, portraying him as a buffoon who wandered around in the clouds. So, I guess that’s the problem with absurdism--it cuts both ways, and it’s hard to distinguish it from ridicule, which is generally counterproductive.

TORY: I imagine Socrates didn’t really feel fortunate! That said, it’s interesting that since antiquity, authoritarians, religious leaders, and others operating the levers of power have tried to dissuade people from asking questions or thinking philosophically. It seems there’s a natural dichotomy between those who seek to acquire, hold, and wield power and those who are naturally curious and reflective. What do some of your favorite thinkers have to say about that idea?

SHARON: The three philosophers who come to mind when talking about power are Augustine, Nietzsche, and Foucault. All three would tell you that everyone is actually seeking power; it’s just that some are better at it than others.

Augustine (354 — 430 AD) was working within the Christian worldview. He saw the “lust for domination” as an impulse inherited from our common biblical ancestor, Adam, when he first disobeyed God. Although Augustine roots his analysis in religious mythology, it has some psychological validity: humans remain hopelessly addicted to self aggrandizement even as it destroys them. For Augustine, the only solution is divine intervention: you have to give yourself over to God.

Michel Foucault (1926-1984) provides a secular alternative. In his view, power isn’t rooted in individuals, but in the institutions we create. The hospital, the prison, the school, the family, and social media are all prime instances of power structures. We all take part in maintaining them and simultaneously being oppressed by them. They oppress us by watching us, judging us, and telling us what is true, thereby constructing our reality. Every apparently creative impulse is ultimately institutionalized within civilized society.

While Augustine and Foucault each present a bleak picture, Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900) can be interpreted in a positive light. Nietzsche discusses “the will to power” as the central drive of all living things. It starts out as a matter of survival but goes much further, in an urge to become more than we are--to grow, to expand into the world. Nietzsche thinks this urge can manifest itself constructively and creativitly, or destructively, as domination over others. He greatly admired the former, as a superior way of life.

So, what about the “curious and reflective” individuals you envision? All three of our authors would characterize their search for knowledge as a kind of power play. For Augustine and Foucault, they are ultimately no better than the authoritarians on the other side. But Nietzsche would celebrate them as “warriors” who challenge unhealthy ideas and fight for truth.

TORY: Wow, imagine that—Nietzsche as the most positive one!” This line jumped out at me: humans remain hopelessly addicted to self aggrandizement even as it destroys them.

That brings to mind a certain tangerine-hued aspiring authoritarian. Let’s hope the destruction wrought doesn’t take us (or our republic) down with him.

In next week’s Inquiring Mind, Sharon and I will try to get away from politics a bit. Stay tuned, and please share your thoughts in the comments - it’s open to ALL subscribers.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues:

Iowa Writers Collaborative

It turns out, Iowa might be pretty good.

In the hubbub of blame-assigning, finger-pointing, and general frustration after the Hawkeyes lost winnable games against rival Iowa State and everyone’s new favorite Cinderella, Indiana, the common consensus seemed to be that Iowa was destined for a low-level bowl game and another generally “meh” football season.

Now, with the skies of November turned gloomy (hat tip, Gordon Lightfoot), this team left for dead is now a legitimate dark-horse College Football Playoff contender.

In its last three games against bitter rivals Wisconsin and Minnesota, as well as frequent irritant Penn State, the Hawkeyes have amassed 103 points to their opponents’ 27 — and looked potent doing it.

Last Saturday’s blackout game against the Gophers — themselves feeling chipper after dispatching Nebraska by 18 — was Iowa’s most dominant to date. In the first half, the Hawks scored via pass, punt return, and pick-six, dashing any Gopher hopes early and often. In classic Ferentzian fashion, Iowa turned down the offensive heat in the second half, mostly content to chip away on the ground while the clock continued its inexorable march toward yet another pig defense.

Iowa has now won 11* games in a row against the rodents from up north, and any thoughts P.J. Fleck had of closing the gap with his biggest nemesis have been suitably shattered.

More importantly, however, we enter the back stretch of the college football season with the Hawkeyes poised to be a national player in the race for a championship. While winning out remains a huge ask, a 10–2 Hawkeye team with only a narrow loss to what looks like it will certainly be an undefeated Hoosier squad and a road loss by three to a rival is almost certainly in the field.

Indiana’s absolute domination of a UCLA team on a win streak in Bloomington last Saturday makes Iowa’s near miss against the Hoosiers look very impressive. No one on IU’s schedule has given them a game like Iowa has — which analyst Brad Nessler pointed out during the Minnesota broadcast. In fact, he opined that if Iowa quarterback Mark Gronowski hadn’t gone out with an injury, Iowa in all likelihood takes the game against Indiana.

Some will point to the Hawks’ pedestrian passing-game numbers as a reason for skepticism. However, against Minnesota, most of the scoring drives came on relatively short fields, and the running game was humming along so well there was little need to risk passing. The times Gronowski did air it out, he looked his most comfortable and threatening of the entire season, highlighted by the perfectly thrown touchdown strike to Reece Vander Zee early in the second quarter.

Tim Lester’s offensive game plans the past three weeks have been quietly masterful. He seems to embrace the old Hayden Fry mantra of “scratch where it itches” and has a superb feel for what each individual on offense can do best. Getting the ever-dangerous Kaden Wetjen the ball in myriad ways, letting both Kamari Moulton and Gronowski cook behind a dominant offensive line, and sprinkling in just enough play-action passing to keep teams honest means that, for the first time in a very long time, defensive coordinators don’t have an obvious go-to for stopping the Iowa offense.

On the other side of the ball, it’s just another incredibly stout Phil Parker defense. A couple of changes in the linebacking corps and a secondary back to its “Doughboys” dominance should keep the Hawkeyes competitive in every remaining game on the schedule. As evidenced by a couple of personal fouls, this defense also plays with an edge and a mean streak. While cheap shots are not condoned or wanted, playing up to that edge is — and you could see Minnesota receivers making business decisions as the game entered the fourth quarter.

While it’s clear Iowa is on a bit of a heater and feeling good, I still think the bye week arrives at a perfect time. Let any lingering injuries (particularly the quarterback’s leg) get extra rest, and give Lester two weeks to cook up a Duck-beating game plan. The scene is set for a massive matchup between Oregon and Iowa. Stakes will be high, with the winner still alive for a CFP berth and the loser likely out for good.

Fans in Kinnick this season have been fully locked in and engaged, and with meaningful football to be played in November, you can expect a wild crowd regardless of an early or mid-afternoon kickoff.

November can’t get here soon enough!

*I will never, ever, ever, never concede the Cooper DeJean punt-return-for–touchdown game as a loss and will accept no arguments to the contrary, so don’t bother.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/p/iowa-writers-collaborative

Mark Gronowski rode to the rescue of a sputtering Hawkeye offense, and Xavier Nwankpa’s late blitz sealed Iowa’s 25-24 win over Penn State — and earned him Big Ten Player of the Week honors. But my game ball goes to the 70,000 fans who shrieked, screamed and refused to let doubt darken Kinnick.

Even with their team down 21-10 in the third quarter, due mostly to self-inflicted injuries, the partisans in the striped-out stadium refused to lose faith. It truly felt like the crowd willed Iowa to last Saturday’s victory. From my seats in Section 103, I could see Hawkeye players visibly feeding off the frenzied Kinnick Stadium energy.

Even in his disappointment at the Lions’ fourth straight loss — yet again after choking up a fourth-quarter lead — the Penn State fan behind me acknowledged the specialness of Hawkeye passion.

“I didn’t think anything could come close to the intensity of a night-game whiteout at Beaver Stadium, but this is even louder,” he told me. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

Say what you will about “Ferentz fatigue” or frustration with “staleness” around Iowa football, Hawkeye fans continue to bring it every fall Saturday they get the opportunity to fill up the venue.

Coach Kirk Ferentz made sure to note the role the fans played in the critical, come-from-behind victory that kept Iowa in the thick of the Big Ten title hunt at 3-1.

“You kind of expect that in Kinnick,” he said. “I tell our players all the time, it’s our job to make sure they are into it. I think our guys did that. Boy, the fans have just been fantastic.”

While the fans brought their A-plus game to the fray, Iowa players and coaches were decidedly more ragged Saturday. Some credit is due to Penn State, which, despite the turmoil of a fired coach and an injured starting quarterback, fought tenaciously. Still, it was primarily Iowa miscues that let the Lions lead for long stretches.

On the third play of the game, a well-placed pass by Gronowski skimmed off the hands of receiver Jacob Gill, rising into the night sky where it was snatched one-handed by Penn State defensive back Zakee Wheatley, setting up the Nittany Lions at the Iowa 35. It appeared Iowa would hold PSU scoreless after making an apparent fourth-and-goal stop in the deafening end zone, but the Hawkeyes were offside. Penn State then punched in a touchdown for a 7-0 lead, and you knew it was going to be one of “those” games.

Much of the postgame chatter has centered on Ferentz’s out-of-character decision to try for a 66-yard field goal at the end of the half, up 10-7, that resulted in a block, scoop and score that handed the halftime lead to Penn State. I think he may have been sending a vote of confidence to embattled kicker Drew Stevens, who pushed an earlier field goal wide. Instead, the decision backfired and ensured the Hawkeyes would have to fight from behind to win.

Despite the blown field goals, a paltry passing game and other errors, Iowa relentlessly stuck to its run game and stiff defense through the second half, setting up Gronowski’s backbreaking long runs that finally earned Iowa a late lead and victory.

It’s interesting to me that Iowa’s next opponent — the Minnesota Gophers — who boast the same 5-2 (3-1) record as the Hawkeyes, are receiving AP votes while Iowa is not, despite the Hawkeyes being an 8.5-point favorite in the upcoming matchup. Once again, it feels like Iowa’s propensity to win ugly is being dismissed by voters.

While this team remains an uneven work in progress, it feels to me like a squad that could really find its footing and do some damage before autumn comes to a close. We’ve seen many past Ferentz teams look wobbly in September and October, only to begin firing on all cylinders in November. Does this version have that in them?

The schedule certainly sets up nicely. Three straight home games after a big win in Madison — the final against a top-five Oregon team — give it the opportunity to vault itself into the thick of the championship race.

A pessimist would say the thus-far anemic passing game and the uncharacteristically sloppy placekicking are bound to trip them up at some point. An optimist, like me, feels that as Gronowski’s health improves, the passing game will come around, and in the meantime, the punishing rushing attack and typically stout defense will give the Hawkeyes a good chance to win any game remaining on the schedule.

Regardless of which side of the optimism-o-meter you reside on, one thing is certain: the Kinnick crowds for the battle for Floyd of Rosedale and for welcoming the Oregon Ducks for the first time since 1989 will be everything opposing teams’ nightmares are made of.

Stock up on your Ricola throat lozenges, gargle regularly with warm salt water and get ready to scream your guts out as we enter the most critical phase of the Hawkeye football season. The 12th man (and woman) is alive and well in Iowa City.

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. Please click below to see work from my talented colleagues.

Iowa Writers Collaborative