bjj-sportliterate

The Wink & Wow Report:

Season 1, Episode 1

by Ben Giamo

Wink: Well, it’s time.
Wow: And how!
Wink: As I was saying, it’s time for another round of Big Time College Football.
Wow: Hard to believe. I’ve been waiting with bated breath ever since the big game last January.
Wink: Yes, that final matchup settled things. For the time being.
Wow: And then they start up all over again.
Wink: Indeed. We all had to wait for seven long, agonizing months before the Big Bang boomeranged.
Wow: I’m apoplectic. Welcome to Pregame ForePlay! We greet all of you: players, coaches, fans, faculty, administrators, alumni, boosters, gamblers, TV viewers, radio broadcast listeners, social media followers, and tailgaters — drunk, bloated, and tipsy.

Wink: Every Saturday is a Roman holiday, and we’re here to bring it to you livestream, courtesy of YouBet.
Wow: It’s a whole new ball game.
Wink: Actually, one might call it a paradigm shift.
Wow: Let’s not get too academic.
Wink: Let’s not get academic at all. I mean, what’s that got to do with anything. The university is now hereby established to serve athletics, primarily football, and, of course, endowments.
Wow: A capital idea.
Wink: That’s what I’m talking about. Money doesn’t talk, it swears. So now we not only have NIL, the Transfer Portal, and Third-Party payments to the best and the strongest, but — drumroll — direct payments to our beloved athletes.
Wow: Cold, hard cash. It makes the world go round.
Wink: And it makes the idea of the university sustainable.
Wow: The sky is the limit.
Wink: And the result is parity. Of course, you’ve got to pay up to play up.
Wow: That’s the spirit.
Wink: I mean it’s only logical.
Wow: It’s pure reason.
Wink: As pure as money can buy. You know, the top ranked football teams spend the most money for their respective rosters. And, in the year of our Lord 2026-2027, schools in the Power-Four Conferences are allowed to spend up to 21.58 million directly to support their elite athletes. But wait, there’s more: 82% of Division I universities have chosen to opt in to this revenue sharing arrangement. Sadly, there’s much less revenue to go around for most of these schools.
Wow: As you say, you pay to play.
Wink: Well, let’s face it. These lower-revenue schools must find a way. Compete or get beat.
Wow: When there’s a will, there’s a way. Tough it out. You know, this country was built on competition, the free market, innovation, and investment. The puny colleges and universities must step up to the challenge.
Wink: It’s survival of the fittest. Capitalism always finds new markets. Soon, private equity will own the majority share of athletic departments.
Wow: Imagine the equality that equity will bring.
Wink: Parity will soon extend to the top 25, and soon enough to the top 50.
Wow: Oh, what a wonderful world it will be.
Wink: Just think of the odds, the over/under, the huge betting profits, hooking ever more fans with skin in the game.
Wow: Not to mention the huge TV contracts.
Wink: And with the boundaries between pro and amateur eroding, we will have a very fluid situation.
Wow: How enriching! We’ll all benefit from the monumental feats of champions, financial and otherwise.

Wink: As football programs become a thing of the past, the urgency of teams will take precedence.
Wow: It’s like magic. Poof: each year a new team appears. A real challenge for the coaching staff.
Wink: With an average of 15 to 30 new transfers per year spilling from the Portal onto any one school’s gridiron, coaches will have to mesh the new players with the old.
Wow: And the old will become new somewhere else.
Wink: Coaches must stitch it together. They must bob and weave so to speak.
Wow: I can’t wait to see what happens. How offenses and defenses come together for the glory of gory.
Wink: Teamwork, my friends. Good old teamwork.

Wow: Well, let’s get started.
Wink: Game on.
Wow: I’m all in.
Wink: So too our viewers, I trust.
Wow: You pays your money, and you takes your chances.
Wink: That’s the way it is in the new millennium.
Wow: The best of all possible worlds.
Wink: Here’s the kickoff.
Wow: The foot meets the ball.
Wink: And we’re off and running.
Wow: Let’s hope they play like a speeding bullet.
Wink: With violence and velocity.
Wow: One more thing.
Wink: Oh, yes. We’re under contract. Let’s give everybody their money’s worth.

Ben Giamo is professor emeritus of American Studies at the University of Notre Dame. He has published literary studies on William Kennedy and Jack Kerouac as well as books on both contemporary and historical homelessness. He is a regular contributor to Sport Literate, which ran “Played Out,” earning him a notable nod in Best American Essays.

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Rus Bradburd’s Big Time

by William Meiners

Rus Bradburd is taking a swing at big-time college athletics. Big Time, his aptly named satirical novel, is all at once purposely absurd, laugh-your-ass-off funny, and probably not that far off base from the present-day reality. I can tell you what I like about the book in around 750 words. He seems to be having a go at football, the gargantuan monster on campus, while also taking the stuffing out of higher education itself.

When I spoke to Bradburd in August 2024, he joked about being recently retired from New Mexico State University. Just in time to take the preverbal bite from both hands who fed him through a 30-year career. Ironically, Bradburd spent nearly equal time as a Division I assistant basketball coach (14 years) and a tenure-track professor (16 years). So from bench to classroom, recruiting road to faculty meeting, he paints these landscapes well.

This won’t give it away on a book you should buy and read, but Big Time begins at Coors State University, where the beer sponsor seized naming rights of a Colorado university, and football, undoubtedly, is king. In fact, the football coach fires the president. The History Department faculty is reduced to selling popcorn at games. Professors from Foods and Nutrition deliver training tables to all the players. The Criminal Justice folks are campus cops. And the English Department, aside from a crusty old poet and a hip new one, has been completely sidelined. Though a handful of them are keeping up with the committee work in a largely ignored “tent city” protest in the middle of campus.

There’s nothing new about the friction between faculty and football programs. See Knute Rockne vs. the Notre Dame priests from 100 years ago. Nevertheless, it’s worth a Google to find that the highest paid state employee, in all but a handful of states, is a college coach today. Players can also get paid now — above board. And though there’s maybe nothing fair or right about any of it, there’s also nothing I like more than college football Saturdays. Should I ever develop a conscience, what the hell would I do with all that face paint?

Bradburd said he sees himself in both history professors that open the novel. Eugene Mooney, the chairperson who perhaps goes along to get along, and Peter Braverman, a 1960s-obsessed rabble rouser who may be more bark than bite, decide to take on the football program.

With his book about a dozen years in the making, Bradburd had plenty of time to see sports through the academic lens. And maybe that’s where those conflicting professors emerged as characters.

“I found this sort of the acquiescence of the faculty if they’re not willing to say, ‘Hold on just a second here. This can’t be right,’” he said. “You’re a lonely voice if you start protesting.”

Maybe it’s the pious PhD attitude that resonated with me. I spent most of my professional career in the basement of higher education, aggrandizing the professorial types who get good at saying the same things over and over. And over.

Bradburd said it took him about three or four faculty meetings to learn that most folks were practicing doublespeak. “Everyone is talking in circles, and nothing is really happening,” he said.

In Big Time, Bradburd breathes life into a quarterback and a lineman, a multitasking university president, and a host of characters under the glare of a “silver bullet” campus. Turns out there’s no silver bullet, or magic one, for all the ills of college football. Maybe that’s what happens when you throw loads of television money on a problem.

Satire isn’t about solving problems. It’s about pointing out the insanity of all of it. And if you don’t think these are insane times, have a look out your window. Or turn on the television. One football great, a mere 18 years ago, could have been forecasting Big Time when he said, “Get your popcorn ready.” The history professors must have been listening.

 

William Meiners is the founding editor of Sport Literate.

Rus Bradburd is the author of four books: All the Dreams We’ve Dreamed, (Chicago Review Press, 2018) an examination of gun violence in Chicago; the novel-in-stories Make It, Take It (Cinco Puntos Press, 2014); the controversial Forty Minutes of Hell (HarperCollins/Amistad Books, 2010); and the memoir Paddy on the Hardwood: A Journey in Irish Hoops (University of New Mexico Press, 2006). His short stories have appeared in Southern Review, Colorado Review, Puerto del Sol, and Aethlon. His essays have appeared in the New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Chicago’s Daily Southtown, The El Paso Times, Las Cruces Sun-News, and The Houston Chronicle. He is a regular contributor to SLAM Magazine and New Mexico Magazine.

 

Reds Avoid Four-Game Sweep with Offensive Breakout in Milwaukee Finale

“Vengeance is Mine,” Says Eugenio, as Reds Takes Series in Pittsburgh

“Oh, Brother”: Brewers Sweep Sluggish Reds at Home

With Little Rhyme or Reason, Reds Take Two of Three in the Bronx

Reds Take Another Series from Mets, but Fall Short of Sweep

Snakes Take Series in Cincy, Damn It!

Reds Drop Series in San Diego, Ending with Stud’s Walk-off Homer

Reds Swept by Birds

Royals Take Two of Three in Cincy as Reds Begin June Swoon

Reds Avoid Four-Game Sweep with Offensive Breakout in Milwaukee Finale

by William Meiners

Baseball is the ultimate traveling circus. The caravan, with rosters typically comprised of around 25 percent immigrant young men, set up camp for a few days in American cities, or Toronto. Day after day, these players put their skills on display at the game’s highest level.

The Reds late-June Milwaukee trip caught me reminiscing. With the benefit of hindsight, I would argue that this particular Cincinnati circus peaked on July 8, 2023. And I was there in person, traveling with wife and child from Michigan, through Chicago, to see a Saturday afternoon 8-5 victory over the Brewers in (appropriately) American Family Field.

You didn’t need a ticket to know what happened that Saturday. Elly De La Cruz, the rookie phenom called up to the Bigs a month earlier, stole second, third, and home on two pitches. Those seventh-inning swipes put the Reds up 7-5. Moreover, Elly’s home dash flashed all over the news, topped ESPN’s lists, and became forever part of baseball history.

Cincinnati then in first place, stood 10 games over .500 (50-40), a couple games ahead of the Brewers. De La Cruz emerged as the most exciting player on a team marked by speed and youth, yet still led by Joey Votto, an all-time great. In June, they won 12 games straight, the team’s longest streak since 1957. Mind you, the Reds lost 100 games in 2022.

On our Sunday drive home, we listened to the Reds on radio and a 1-0 loss. Jesse Winker and Wade Miley, both former Reds, did the damage with an RBI and six shutout innings, respectively. Milwaukee’s rubber-match win led to the All-Star break. On the other side of it, the Brewers swept through three wins in Cincy. With the MLB scheduling done by an apparent schizophrenic, the Reds were swept again in a three-game series in Milwaukee before the end of July. David Bell’s squad ended the season in third place in their division, finishing 82-80.

Nearly three years after his thrilling highlight, De La Cruz and crew made their first visit to Milwaukee this season. Instead of the conquering hero returning home, I consider the weary warrior pushed back into battle. The one-sided rivalry proved predictable in the opener with the Reds squandering Nick Lodolo’s good start, with the bullpen giving up five from in the sixth, seventh, and eighth in a 5-3 loss. On Tuesday, Rhett Lowder got pecked to death by ducks as the Brewers bounced a slew of consecutive singles in a four-run fourth that led to a 7-2 win. On July first, reliever Brock Burke served up a seventh-inning triple to Garrett Mitchell, scoring Andrew Vaughn. Mitchell then scored on Burke’s wild pitch. A 4-2 loss and seventh consecutive Brewer win over the Reds this season.

In protest, I had one eye on Thursday afternoon’s getaway game. Sal Stewart, a bona fide stud who should be Rookie of the Year, homered in the first inning. Jose Trevino’s three-run bomb in the fourth helped savaged a 7-2 win. Yet that three-year slide continues.

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“Vengeance is Mine,” says Eugenio, as Reds Take Series in Pittsburgh

by William Meiners

Late June and the Reds are coming off a home sweep (courtesy of the Brewers), looking for some revenge over a Central foe. The series victory in Pittsburgh, finally, came dramatically with a ninth inning, two-out, three-run homer off the bat of what I’d say is the best name in baseball.

I was happy to learn of Eugenio Suárez’s offseason return to Cincy. If only to hear my favorite color commentator (Jeff Brantley) announce his arrival to the plate. A dozen years ago, I wonder if the Cowboy perfected it through his own spring training, carefully sounding out each syllable of Eu-gen-io Sua-rez in a southern, melodic baritone.

A big bat with plenty of holes for strikeouts, Gino moved from short to third in his first stint with the Reds. In 2026, balancing some time with Ke’Bryan Hayes, a Gold Glove cornerman without much bat, the veteran would see some DH action.

Like many strange stats associated with this team, Suárez has provided that occasional pop — often longballs in bunches — but contributed to one of the highest strikeout percentages for a team in the big leagues. So in a perfect Reds’ world, you’d see more singles, doubles, and sac flies in his stats.

On Friday night, Andrew Abbott served up a leadoff home run to Connor Griffin. Reds responded with four in the second off Paul Skeines. All without a homer… four straight hits, bloops, walks, and a couple of sacrifice flies.

Skeines settled down, shutting down the Reds through the remainder of his start, a quality one is you discounted the second. Pirates crawled back to tie with the help of two solo homers, getting their best pitcher off the hook for a loss. But the mercurial Noelvi Marte, athletic and strong but a weak fielder and inconsistent hitter, launched a two-run homer in the eighth inning for the 6-4 win.

On a gloomy Saturday afternoon in a back-and-forth affair, Reds led early, fell behind briefly with their ace Chase Burns on the mound, but regained the lead. Buckos battled back against the bullpen, ultimately taking a 7-6 lead late. Enter Eugenio with the late-inning theatrics.

Backtrack to a a bittersweet St. Patrick’s Day. That’s when Suárez’s ninth-inning double proved the game winner for his native Venezuela in the World Baseball Classic. In his typical (but amplified) celebration, he looked toward the heavens, shouting with two fisted hands. Not knowing any better, you might liken him to Noah yelling at God… “What’s with all the rain!”

But I’m happy for Gino, even when his team beats the U.S.A. Maybe we should have kidnapped the manager and his wife, stolen their oil. I’m happier for him when he makes the Reds victorious. Down to his last strike, he launched the three-bomb to right field in rain that could make Noah blush. God bless you, Eugenio Suárez. You make my heart sing. If only for this one Saturday evening.

Looking for their own sweep, Reds got a Sunday spanking from the Pirates, 9-4.

William Meiners is the editor of Sport Literate. Among his summer 2026 plans are the documentation of 33 Reds’ series. That should be about 500 words every few days. If you don’t expect too much breakdown or analysis, outside of his own troubled head, you may not be disappointed. From losing streaks through high-water marks, he’ll follow the club, sometimes literally, from the reluctant spring of early May through the dog days of August. Then he’s off to something else.

“Oh, Brother,” Brewers Sweep Sluggish Reds at Home

by William Meiners

Writing about bad baseball for the sake of posterity seems absurd. Especially with no one paying attention. Terry Tempest Williams ends her wonderful essay, “Why I Write,” with the line, “I write as though I am whispering in the ear of the one I love.”

I love her essay, that romantic ending. I make freshmen students read the whole thing out loud in class. Though when I go dark, which ain’t all that infrequently, I feel like I’m whispering in the deaf ear of a loved one. My mother was deaf in one ear, the lone one I lied in. Maybe my scribbling is a murmur into the transitioning soul of someone like Mitch McConnell. Although I’m not related to or in love with Mitch. God rest him (soon!).

Speaking of families, the Reds and Brewers seem like a mismatch of siblings. They’re the big brothers we can’t beat. Imagine a Cain hellbent on killing Abel three days a week. His bruising knuckles never tire. I’d say it’s a three-day stint that’s hardly worth remembering, but those losses pile up in a heap of bad memories. The Milwaukee mashers have been Reds’ killers for at least five years.

With relatively good starting pitching often wasted, my Reds find a way to lose. On Monday, a pitcher’s duel between starters Brady Singer (Reds) and Brandon Woodruff (Brewers) extended to relievers, leading to a string of zeroes through nine full innings. In extras, Milwaukee executed and Cincy did not. There’s an old joke about a coach commenting on his team’s execution. Check out how Brian Kelly screwed that up.

In the 10^th, Garrett Mitchell draws a lead-off walk. Sal Frelick bunts him and the ghost runner (Jake Bauers) to second and third, respectively. Joey Ortiz drives the ghost in on a sacrifice fly. Tony Santillian’s wild pitch gives the Brewers an insurance run. Two runs on no hits (and no official at bats for the sacrificial men). Reds scored their ghost runner with three consecutive groundouts, but they needed to plate two. A 2-1, blue Monday loss.

Reds got two hits on Tuesday. Brewers got four and won 2-0. A series loss, another potential sweep from a Central Division foe. Why not? Pirates, Cubs, and Cards swept them already.

The hump-day finale could be the season low point for the club. Reds’ batsmen stranded 16 runners, doing all the fundamental stuff poorly that the Brewers do well. “Abel,” says the sadistic father handing out boxing gloves, “you remember Cain, don’t you?”

After Milwaukee’s two three-run frames, Reds managed a late-inning run, scoring three of their own in the home eighth. However, Dane Myers hit into a double play in the ninth, negating the tying run that would have scored on a hit, sac bunt or fly, passed ball, gift from God, whatever. It’s a 6-5 loss and their first home sweep in almost two years. I consider swearing them off. For the umpteenth time. But who the hell would tell the tale?

William Meiners is the editor of Sport Literate. Among his summer 2026 plans are the documentation of 33 Reds’ series. That should be about 500 words every few days. If you don’t expect too much breakdown or analysis, outside of his own troubled head, you may not be disappointed. From losing streaks through high-water marks, he’ll follow the club, sometimes literally, from the reluctant spring of early May through the dog days of August. Then he’s off to something else.

With Little Rhyme or Reason, Reds Take Two of Three in the Bronx

by William Meiners

Betting men and women, as easy as a phone flip, might have gone big on the Yankees hosting the Reds over the official first summer weekend of 2026. The contending Bronx Bombers, 18 games over .500, could surely feast on an underwater team from the NL Central.

The Friday night shutout, where Cam Schlittler breezed by Reds’ hitters, whiffing 13 while scattering four hits, surely confirmed a sure thing. With four in the second off Rhett Lowder, the game seemed over early. Not sure if a Red even reached third base, but I paid little attention. Lawn work, you know. I later learned three Yankees relievers struck out four more. Seventeen strikeouts in the 27 outs. Talk about non-competitive baseball with so few balls put into play.

Saturday, Paul Goldschmidt looked a bit like Mike Schmidt with his right-field homer off Andrew Abbott in the first. One-nothing early. And here we go again.

But hold the phone, gamblers. Reds woke up in the third inning as Sal Stewart doubled home two teammates with two outs. A legit Rookie-of-the-Year contender, swaggering Sal added a sacrifice fly, putting up the visitors 3-1 in the fifth. Then Spencer Steel put one in the leftfield seats (fair territory) with two mates aboard. Six-one, Reds.

In the eighth, man-of-the-hour, Stewart, unloaded the bases with another double, giving him six afternoon RBIs. Dane Myers doubled home Stew for an exclamation point in the 10-2 win. A much-needed breakout to give the Cincinnati kids some confidence.

In the Sunday rubber match, Chase Burns proved to be his usual stud self. He surrendered a solo homer to Ben Rice in the third but otherwise pitched around walks and struck out seven Yanks to chalk up only that single run through five full innings.

Tyler Stephenson’s three-run shot into the Yankee bullpen (also in fair territory), gave Burns back the lead in the top of the fourth. Three Red relievers, a collective scuffling bunch as there has been in the Bigs, combined for four shutout innings. Noelvi Marte’s ground-rule double in the ninth scored an insurance run in the form of Spencer Steer. Reds win 4-1.

Stop the New York presses. I called the cellphone of my father, who died in March 2015; he didn’t answer. What in the world would allow a small-market David to beat this Gotham City Goliath? Surely this was divine intervention.

Yet the Reds swept them two years ago at Yankee Stadium. You (and I mean me) were mowing the lawn on the fourth of July in preparation for heavy-duty fireworks. Not the cheap stuff. And if you cried you could have blamed it on summer seasonal allergies, which you don’t have.

Are the Reds creeping back to something? They swept the Yankees in the 1976 World Series, winning the last two games in Yankee Stadium. I missed the clencher, attending the Pacers season home opener. An overtime loss I cannot recall. Thanks, Google, for the confirmation. And thank God for small New York miracles.

William Meiners is the editor of Sport Literate. Among his summer 2026 plans are the documentation of 33 Reds’ series. That should be about 500 words every few days. If you don’t expect too much breakdown or analysis, outside of his own troubled head, you may not be disappointed. From losing streaks through high-water marks, he’ll follow the club, sometimes literally, from the reluctant spring of early May through the dog days of August. Then he’s off to something else.

 

Reds Take Another Series from Mets, but Fall Short of Sweep

by William Meiners

Baseball is for thinkers. Maybe more so than other sports. Set aside analytics and that whole can of worms. It could be the grind, for players and fans alike, dealing with the ups and downs of a six-month season.

By mid-June, not even officially summer yet, the pundits are predicting the worst for the last-place Reds. With good reason. And even though I often run blue, I share that dread.

With daylight pushing 10 p.m. in Michigan, it’s a glorious time for swimming. Although it could be sink or swim for the Redlegs. And there’s no Johnny Weissmuller in the farm system, so this 2026 squad had better get better.

Thankfully, the New York Mets, another basement dweller, rolled into Cincy from the Big Apple for a three-game affair. Monday’s a laugher, and one for us. Handsome Eugenio Suárez hit a two-out, two-run homer in the first. Then he doubled up in the second, launching a two-out grand slam. It’s 9-0 after two, and they just need to roll through the rest of it.

Seems so easy when the solo homers become two, three, and grand salami bombs. It has to be more than good hand-eye coordination and a quick bat. It’s the knowledge of confidence, right? What the snake sold Eve and her man Adam on in the garden.

Reds won 12-zip on Monday. In a two-for-Tuesday thrill, Sal Stewart and Spencer Steer (SS & SS) went deep in the first. Stewart made the Mets pay for two leadoff walks. Steer went solo with two outs. After one full, 4-0. Not necessarily over, but they held on for a 5-3 win. Brady Singer pitched five full for the victory, and four guys from the bullpen pitched well enough to hold it up.

I was looking forward to the televised sweep in Wednesday’s businessman’s special. But the Cincy boys looked as flat as a winter-worn welcome mat, mustering five hits, surrendering 15, and losing 9-1. Hungover maybe? I would be, celebrating those Monday and Tuesday night dingers in Queen City bars.

Oh, the elusive sweep. The Reds, swept by division rivals Pirates, Cubs, and Cardinals, have not brought out their brooms since the first week of April in Texas. April! Those were the days, mon ami. Seems like a lifetime ago.

There’s no surge from the basement without an occasional sweep. The Reds are three games under .500 and they can’t play the Mets every week. They’ve got Thursday off. They’ve got every Thursday off in June. Good enough reason for me to get drunk every Wednesday night. But these guys probably don’t think or live like me. They probably don’t know a thing about me, even as I spend a few hours a day on them.

The six-game homestand is a sister kiss — three and three against Diamondbacks and Mets. Both dogs enough at time who could have easily had their noses rubbed into the dirt of Great American Ball Park. I’d sell singer/songwriter Jewel’s soul for a sweep.

William Meiners is the editor of Sport Literate. Among his summer 2026 plans are the documentation of 33 Reds’ series. That should be about 500 words every few days. If you don’t expect too much breakdown or analysis, outside of his own troubled head, you may not be disappointed. From losing streaks through high-water marks, he’ll follow the club, sometimes literally, from the reluctant spring of early May through the dog days of August. Then he’s off to something else.

Snakes Take Series in Cincy, Damn It!

by William Meiners

The Arizona Diamondbacks, slithering into Cincinnati over a mid-June weekend, got healthier taking two of three from the Reds. Runners left on base, misplays, and a shaky bullpen all factored into Friday and Sunday losses.

Of all religious rituals, snake handling has an origin story that surely needs telling. Imagine a Pentecostal preacher, perhaps in a post-game analysis of a lackluster sermon. “The congregation seems less inspired, Silas,” a young man tells an elder. “Jebediah Smith did say he’s got a whole mess of snakes he can bring to church.”

The snakebit Reds, losing at least five close games since June began, faced an Arizona team equally scuffling on the offensive front. Most offensive for the Reds is their inability to move runners off the bases. Case in point: Friday’s first inning, where lefty Eduardo Rodriguez threw a slew of pitches, walking three Reds with less than two out. Unproductive flyouts  from Sal Stewart, Eugenio Suárez, and Blake Dunn left them all stranded.

Another Cincy starter, Nick Lodolo, pitched well enough to win. His teammates, however, accounted for just four hits, including a second-inning solo homer by Noelvi Marte. With deuces wild in the ninth — two on, two out, and the game tied at two — Dunn dropped a line drive that broke up the tie. Jordan Lawlar’s flair to right added two more in the 5-2 loss.

Camping alongside Lake Huron with my family, I bicycled around with the Reds broadcasters in my ears on Saturday. Rhett Lowder served up a long ball to Corbin Carroll, the game’s first batter. But he settled down from there.

The Reds managed to even it in the third, but otherwise made Michael Soroka look like Max Scherzer; as the D’back starter gave up only two hits in seven innings. The homeboys would only get one more — Marte’s second homer of the series — an eighth-inning shot that proved to be the game winner. Tony Santillan, who had been struggling mightily, earned the save.

Our Sunday drive home allowed for the Reds on the radio in a back-and-forth game marked by homers. J.J. Bleday launched one in the first. Suárez just missed on a two-out, RBI in the third (breaking the 1-1 tie), and Marte hit his third solo homer of the series in the sixth. But the bullpen could not hold again, allowing single runs in the eighth and ninth. Reds lose 5-3.

In 11 Sunday games, the Reds are just one game under .500 (5-6), so you cannot blame God. With half their games in homer-friendly GABP, you hope they outslug the visitors. But I’m not sure of the stats on that. Consistent hitting, or lack of it, concerns me more. Not a single player is even sniffing near the .300 mark.

Even fans of a godforsaken team need to keep the faith. Keep some post-season hope alive. They still have the best record of all the last place teams in the big leagues. Though the slide away from .500 can make anyone feel like a hopeless sinner.

William Meiners is the editor of Sport Literate. Among his summer 2026 plans are the documentation of 33 Reds’ series. That should be about 500 words every few days. If you don’t expect too much breakdown or analysis, outside of his own troubled head, you may not be disappointed. From losing streaks through high-water marks, he’ll follow the club, sometimes literally, from the reluctant spring of early May through the dog days of August. Then he’s off to something else.

 

 

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Soccer Dad Offers Humor, Advice for Coaching Up a Talented Player

by William Meiners

In the grand scheme of things, soccer is an acquired taste for most Americans. At least over the last 50 years. It’s relatively easy to assemble marauding herds of cleated and shin-protected 3- and 4-year-olds chasing a single ball with single-minded hopes for goal-scoring glory. With coaches and parents all shouting the same supportive advice, “Spread out!” it’s all very cute. Up until one kid, seemingly on standby on the pitch, takes a swiftly kicked ball off the forehead.

If you are not in lockstep with every facet of the World Cup taking place in North America this summer, you’d get no grief from me. I appreciate the traveling traditions of the fans, especially the thought of Scots drinking Boston dry. Just as I marvel at the endurance and athleticism of soccer players. Yet other than a couple of middle school, non-scoring years in short pants, followed by some fun playing in an “over 30” Indy indoor league (then in my late 20s), it’s just not my game.

Soccer wasn’t David Murray’s game growing up in Ohio either. He and Christie Bosch, once girlfriend, later wife, moved to Chicago in the early 1990s primarily “because of Wrigley Field,” he told me in early May before the ivy had even reached its lushest green.

“I just couldn’t believe there was this ballpark in the middle of a neighborhood,” he said. “It just lit my imagination in a way. I also knew I was going to be a writer and needed to get to a bigger market. I don’t think I had the guts for New York.”

Their daughter Scout, born in 2003 and named — perhaps in equal parts — for Harper Lee’s iconic character from To Kill a Mockingbird and Murray’s classic International Harvester Scout, would soon make the world’s most popular sport central to their lives. Her footwork, demonstrated by a knack for dribbling around towheaded boys and frequent goal scoring, did more than raise shouts of “Goal!” in city parks. It raised questions. How good could Scout be? It also attracted advice, much of it unsolicited to parents still learning the game.

In his book, Soccer Dad (Disruption Books), released in April to coincide with Scout’s graduation from Ohio University, Murray recounts the family’s soccer journey. From playing in a league with teams named for vegetables (Celery won every game, and most of them weren’t very close, he writes.) to travel squads to her high-intensity days with the Ohio Bobcats as a D-I athlete.

Murray said the idea to write about it all didn’t come until Scout headed off to college. On that first recruiting trip, her eventual coach called her a “well-kept secret,” someone he hoped would stay under the radar of other programs. She did, accepting that lone offer to play in Athens.

With their only child out of the house, Murray said he suddenly felt like he’d been gifted another four or five hours a day, even as they stayed in daily contact with Scout. The writing rhythm came quickly, getting those first goals on paper, capturing the know-it-all parents in sidelined lawn chairs, and wrestling with decisions over how to guide a talented kid.

Early in the book, Murray writes, “I was almost studious in my soccer ignorance, which I sensed might be my greatest strength as a soccer dad.”

I think he’s right about that. Just as her freshman year kicked off her college career, Murray looked back nearly two decades to gain perspective. There’s no shiny coat of revisionist history of the carefree road taken to a D-I scholarship. Instead, Murray writes about what they did not know, or what they could have done differently, as a family that was never maniacal about soccer. Readers, with or without athletic offspring, will find both good humor and an honest take on Scout’s path.

A star on her high school team and on middling travel leagues in Chicago, Scout might have improved her game by playing on elite travel teams in the suburbs. “I always relied on her coaches to tell us the truth,” Murray said. “They were always saying, ‘You’re D-I material.’ They just didn’t tell us that she was in the wrong league.”

Through it all, Murray shares the experience of working with personal coaches, cheering on Scout as one of the best players at less competitive levels, and a summer road trip to visit colleges. There’s a father-daughter story here, plus the family’s story, that only intensifies with the competition in the Mid-American Conference.

For all her talent, Scout’s confidence sometimes faltered throughout her career. The best of times could be literal highlights, including a game-winning goal against Bowling Green that made SportsCenter’s Top 10 plays. That goal was part of her MVP performance in the MAC tournament as a sophomore. The following fall, however, with her playing time reduced, Scout’s Facetime talks with her parents often revolved around frustrations. Her college coach, unnamed in Murray’s book, could be highly intense and critical of athletes. Coaching a player up perhaps not his strong suit — and perhaps not that of most college coaches.

Soccer Dad ends heading into Scout’s senior season. Intentional beyond her graduation, Murray did not want the book to affect her playing time or anything else regarding the team. With the uncertainty of that final fall season, Scout and her parents probably had “the same conversation 25 times.”

“She had a great senior spring,” Murray said. “She worked out like crazy, trying to make herself as good as she could be to score 30 goals and win the national championship. But we understood that none of that’s guaranteed and maybe it’s even a long shot.”

Though he thinks the book ended on the right note after her junior year, Murray believes a “chapter 13,” including details of a 2025 season that ended with a losing record, could spawn good conversations. Maybe those talks take place in a podcast that include Murray, Scout, and her college coach, who seems game for it. To address the cliffhanger of her senior year, he recently wrote “Soccer Dad, Postscript: How to Make an Ending Happy.”

“I am looking forward to a year or two of having people react to the book,” Murray said. “Not just sports parents, but parents in general.”

Based on experiential knowledge, Murray ends the book with his own parenting advice. He prefaces that counsel in the conclusion in typical good wit and self-deprecation, writing …

I wrote Soccer Dad because I thought it might be helpful for other soccer dads,
soccer parents, sports parents, and parents of any kids wrapped up in serious
activities from a young age, to hear from one parent who staggered semi-mindfully
all the way through the process and came out the other side with the kid intact,
and reasonably happy.

 

It’s wisdom well earned. Without spoiling the book, I’ll share some of those one- and two-liners, each of which he expounds upon in the final pages.

• If you’re going to do travel sports, figure out the very best way to do it, and do it. (I reckon that’s true of a lot of things.)
• Trust your self-doubt, forgive yourself your mistakes.
• Give coaches advice on how to coach your kid — for five minutes.

Murray told me his book is also about the larger importance of sports in our world. In fact, I write this on the same day millions worldwide will tune into a World Cup U.S.A.-Belgium matchup. At stake, even for folks who typically don’t watch the sport, is victory or loss for each nation, so something linked to national identities. Even with “our squad” stateside filled with numerous sons of immigrants. You could focus on the complications of compromise between FIFA, a corrupted organization, and the most corrupt presidency in the history of the United States. Or I suppose you could tune in for the pure love of the game.

Maybe that love of play has drained away. “Sports have gotten so intense, it’s not some casual fun thing anymore,” Murray said. “And so if we’re going to devote this much to it, we have to figure out what we’re doing.”

Looking even further down the road, Murray imagines conversations Scout might have with her own children. He said, “She might tell them, ‘Your mom was a really talented player who didn’t always know it.’ And because of that, Scout had some hard times.”

Although the happy ending, which leads to another new beginning with graduate school in Chicago (studying psychology) and the lifelong sisters she met as college teammates, marks just the first few chapters of Scout’s life. And in a first-page “disclaimer and dedication,” Murray writes, “First, my daughter Scout, twenty-one years old at this writing, has read and approved every word in Soccer Dad.”

High praise for a parent and a writer. Well done, David Murray.

 

David Murray is the author of several books, including Soccer Dad and An Effort to Understand: Hearing One Another (and Ourselves) in a Nation Cracked in Half. He is an award-winning journalist whose writing on sports and other subjects has appeared in The New York Times, the Chicago Tribune, The Atlantic, and many other publications.

William Meiners is the editor of Sport Literate.