Inside Arch Manning’s wild recruitment saga
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Seth Wickersham
Editor’s note: This story is an excerpt from the book “American Kings: A Biography of the Quarterback,” which will be available on Sept. 9 from Disney Publishing’s Hyperion Avenue.
SENIOR NIGHT AT Isidore Newman School in Uptown New Orleans. Class of ’23. A warm October sunset. A tunnel of cheerleaders under the lights, with a line of football players waiting to have their names announced and to meet their parents at midfield, and little surprise over who will be called first.
He’s in full uniform, wearing a kelly green jersey, with a white number 16. He stands, slightly tilting back and forth, waiting. The field is bright and clean. He turns to his coach beside him.
“Do I run?” Arch Manning asks.
He is the top-rated high school quarterback in America. His talent and production and work ethic merit the status, but it’s his name that makes the future feel inevitable. He’s a Manning. His grandfather is Archie, a Southern icon. His Uncle Peyton is a two-time Super Bowl champion, a national icon. His Uncle Eli is a two-time Super Bowl champion, which in New York gets you pretty close to icon status. Arch knows no other kind of life. There’s no hiding.
The crowd buzzes. A fervor awaits. The structures framing the stadium at Newman seem to mirror stages of his life. He’d started playing, almost as soon as he could walk, on the playgrounds behind the north end zone. Parallel to the sidelines are classrooms and buildings where he went to elementary school and then high school. As he approaches the south end zone, seventeen years old and at the beginning of something, he stands in the shadows of Manning Fieldhouse, named in honor of his father and uncles, all Newman alums. Tonight, as a senior, he commands the stage with little left to prove. In three months, he will be a freshman at the University of Texas. Anything other than a college career that ends with him being the first overall draft pick will seem like potential unfulfilled, an expectation both comically unfair and a reality of the life he has chosen.
Coach Nelson Stewart looks back at Arch. Stewart played with Peyton when they were young. He’s known Arch since he was running on that kindergarten playground. He looks out to midfield now, to Arch’s parents, Cooper and Ellen.
“Do a smooth jog,” Stewart says.
“How fast?”
“Not fast.”
You can make the case that Arch Manning wasn’t born on April 27, 2004, but on October 4, 1969. That night, Archie Manning’s Ole Miss Rebels played Alabama. Archie was a handsome junior from Drew, Mississippi, a gifted, gritty kid carrying a deep hurt and living out a tireless urge to prove himself after his father’s death by suicide. He liked the position of quarterback. He studied those who played it, even as a kid. He reveled in the responsibility and the status it afforded him. It felt comfortable, manageable, an extension of self and ability. This was the first nationally televised night game in college football history. Archie threw for 436 yards and ran for 104 more, accounting for five touchdowns in a one-point loss, in what is now considered one of the greatest games of all time. He cried when the game ended. He was a legend, a folk hero, a song title, an All-American before he took an NFL snap, and even though he couldn’t have known it at the time, he was the beginning of a family franchise that would show no signs of slowing down almost six decades later. Arch was part of a lineage before he was a glint in Cooper and Ellen’s eyes. When Arch played fifth-grade flag football, Stewart and Cooper talked about moving him up to the middle school team but decided to keep him where he was, staving off the mania that awaited him. When he started high school, college coaches circled.
He fit the part: tall, muscular, thick, handsome, driven and with a beautiful release point. The hype grew. Read the headlines–“The Next Manning” or “Better Than Peyton?” or “Overrated”–and you know it’s been a long time since he felt like a little boy.
Arch can throw the deep out, he can settle teammates in the huddle and he can read a defense. On Senior Night, as he stands at midfield, you can almost feel the weight of what lies ahead, the way it presses down on him, when he hopes someone might light the way for the short, tentative jog from the end zone to midfield, from what’s now to what’s next.
FOUR YEARS EARLIER, first drive, first game, Arch saw something. It was a spring game against Archbishop Shaw High. He was in eighth grade. He stood near the line of scrimmage. He scanned the defense, like he had been trained to do, trying to decipher it, decode it, looking for keys, subtle tells. The right cornerback was in tight coverage against wide receiver Jarmone Sutherland. Newman had a slant route called, but this was inviting. Sutherland turned to Arch, wondering what to do. Arch gently tugged his face mask, signaling him to go deep.
Arch had already shown promise at the essential thing: throwing the ball. That was evident from the start, when he was playing flag football in fifth grade. “He had a good throwing motion,” Uncle Eli says. But what stood out to Eli is that “it made sense to him. Some people, they pick up a ball, and it just works.”
Every aspiring quarterback must decide at some point: Are you about this world? Are you willing to do what it takes? Do you want to leave the old version of yourself behind? Do you possess all of the strange traits–talent, smarts, drive, luck, the combination of broken in the right places and healed in the right places–to do it? There’s a chrysalis, a metamorphosis that takes place. It happened to Peyton and Eli. Both faced choices about what they were willing to sacrifice. As boys, these men dedicated their lives to this job.
Archie and Cooper and Peyton and Eli all tried to shield Arch. They wanted football to be fun. In flag football, Arch loved throwing touchdowns to his friends. But when Cooper took him to games, NFL or college, Arch barely said a word.
He silently studied what was taking place on the field. “Like he was taking a class,” Cooper says. He’d constantly ask Cooper to throw with him in the den, and after a few passes whizzed too close to Ellen’s head, she ordered them outside. One time, the family had a layover in Miami, and Arch had a ball, because he almost always had a ball, and he threw in the terminal. Cooper took Arch to camp at LSU. People started to notice, because of course, and Arch was offered a scholarship on the spot.
But he hadn’t actually done the thing. Not yet.
In the Archbishop Shaw High game, he got the ball and took a few steps back. He looked left, then center, preternaturally calm, then turned right and threw with zip and touch deep down the right sideline. It landed over Sutherland’s outside shoulder, perfect placement for a touchdown and the beginning of something beyond anyone’s control. He invoked a feeling, reminding those who saw it of what they felt the first time they witnessed it, and showed them what it looked like now.
In the stands, Cooper and his longtime friend Richard Montgomery turned to each other. “S—!” Montgomery said.
Cooper replied with a look that said here we go.
IT WAS EASY to get swept up in Arch and all the buzz, his every act being viewed through the prisms of precociousness and prelude, even for coach Nelson Stewart. As a freshman, Arch threw 38 touchdowns in eleven games. There was one game where Arch struggled, throwing a few interceptions, which is memorable to Stewart not only because it was the exception but because of what he saw. Every quarterback needs to find a way to bury doubt; the Mannings were no different. Stewart looked at Arch’s eyes as he came off the field. Arch was overwhelmed and stressed and looked . . .young. “I had to remind myself that he’s just a kid,” Stewart says.
Was it already too late? A documentary crew had called Cooper and asked if Arch wanted to be featured alongside some of the game’s legends, including John Elway. Cooper loved the idea but couldn’t do that to his kid. Archie created headlines when he told a reporter that his grandson was “a little ahead of” his sons when they were freshmen. What was intended as a simple observation of fact–neither Peyton nor Eli had started on varsity as freshmen–became a family member upping the hype and went viral, not just on recruiting sites and college message boards, but on actual news outlets. Stewart says that Arch was the first freshman to start an opener in school history.
When Arch was a sophomore, Stewart and Cooper met to lay out a plan. Both men felt like they were staring at a tsunami taking form in the distance.
“What do we want this to look like?” Stewart asked Cooper.
“We’re gonna do a 1975 recruitment,” Cooper said.
Cooper wanted the impossible: an environment where Arch could thrive as a quarterback, but also for him to not fall out of love with the game, and the job.
Cooper’s own recruitment was straightforward. He was a wide receiver, and he went to Ole Miss, the family school. Spinal stenosis cut his career short, but he nonetheless managed to become a legend–“a social legend”–in Peyton’s words. Peyton honored Cooper by switching his number from 16 to 18, which his older brother had worn at Newman. It was Cooper’s legacy: The football life could end at any moment.
“I want you to run point,” Cooper told Stewart. “Very old-school.”
Very old-school meant that Cooper wanted Stewart to be his son’s gatekeeper, organizer, spokesman, confidant, security guard, evangelist, strategist, and of course, head coach of what the family expected to be the most sophisticated high school offense in the country. And one more condition:
“No offers,” Cooper said.
“What does that mean?” Stewart asked.
“No offers. No talking to the media if we can.”
Scholarship offers are a barometer for top recruits, a tangible way to measure demand. Offers are also a way for college coaches to mark territory. What happens to a boy when so many people want to tell him where to do this, with whom to do it with, when so many people make decisions for him, and when there’s no way to know what the right choice is? “Nothing you’re doing as a freshman or sophomore is gonna be relevant in the big picture,” Cooper told Arch.
“We’re not doing that crap,” Cooper said.
“All right,” Stewart said.
The plan quickly faced its first test. One day Stewart returned to his office after teaching class to see Ole Miss head coach Lane Kiffin sitting in his chair. He told Stewart,
“I have to offer this kid.”
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” Stewart said. “But we’re not, you know . . .”
Still, Kiffin wanted his world, the world of college coaches and of recruiting junkies, to know that he was already staking his claim. Kiffin took a selfie at Stewart’s desk and posted it on social media.
It was on.
ARCH MANNING HAD his own command center: Nelson Stewart’s office. Only Arch wasn’t in command, and for the most part, neither was Stewart. College coaches often showed up for the sake of showing up, setting up shop at Stewart’s empty desk while he taught class, just popping up on campus with little or sometimes no warning. Some schools–Ohio State, Princeton, Texas A&M, Rutgers–stopped by once, hoping for mutual interest. But for most of 2021, there was a steady stream of fifteen or so coaches from the main contenders: Texas, Alabama, Ole Miss, and Georgia. NCAA rules forbade them from regularly talking to Arch, so they were there to be seen by him–and to get to know the quarterback by getting to know the coach. They’d sit down and talk ball with Stewart, who would take notes and steal ideas, losing track of time and hustling off to teach. When he glanced at his phone, the screen was filled with text messages and voicemails from other coaches. Coaches would FaceTime Stewart, hoping that Arch happened to be with him, a way to sneak in actual face time. On the day of the 2020 NFL Draft, when the Bengals picked Joe Burrow first overall, LSU coaches FaceTimed Stewart, hoping Arch was in the background. He was. The message was clear: You can be next.
Arch was nominally aware and acutely oblivious to it all. He just went about his thing, existing, playing golf, watching every episode of “Friday Night Lights,” and playing quarterback. He was self-assured, cocky but endearing, good-natured and calm. Arch had Peyton’s situational intensity, Eli’s situational indifference, Cooper’s situational savvy, and his own sincerity. He was a byproduct of the entire Manning infrastructure, the receptor of every aspect of quarterback intelligence that this iconic family had learned through the decades. He had a quick release, an inheritance and the result of hours of work with his uncles and coaches. He went to Tulane for arm care. He had a huge trunk, thick thighs, and a quick torso, honed from drills useless in any other field. One day Arch sat in on a meeting with New Orleans Saints coaches and scouts as they evaluated the quarterbacks in that year’s draft.
Grandpa Archie seemed more engaged with his grandson’s recruitment than he had been with his own kids’, often leaving Stewart long voice memos. Uncle Eli was there to answer any of Arch’s questions, but he knew better than to impose–he had been in Arch’s shoes, as the youngest taking on this job and all that attended it. But the benefits were undeniable.
Arch and Cooper flew from New Orleans to Denver, where Uncle Peyton lived. They worked out at the Broncos facility. Peyton also got Clyde Christensen, a longtime NFL offensive coach who’d worked with him in Indianapolis and Tom Brady in Tampa Bay, to send private videos of Brady’s practices, melding the best of Manning’s theories with Brady’s techniques, two legends funneling into a boy. Peyton texted them to Stewart, telling him to run those drills. There were dozens of video clips.
Arch visited Clemson twice, Alabama four times, Georgia four times, Texas four times, Ole Miss a few times, LSU, and even Virginia. Of all places, Cooper liked Virginia for his son for one reason: It wasn’t a football crazy school. He could live under the radar. His older sister, May, was a student there. As Cooper and Arch walked through campus, the father saw an opportunity for something close to peacefulness. “You could come here, be a normal guy,” Cooper told him. “No one’s gonna mess with you.”
Cooper wasn’t a classic quarterback dad, but he was learning fast and wasn’t afraid to be cutthroat. Peyton would sometimes hop on the phone with Stewart after games, going through play-calling, and then would follow up a day later wondering if the school needed any donations. Eli, meanwhile, would purchase thousands of dollars of equipment for Newman without telling anyone. New shoulder pads would just show up.
Stewart taught five classes a day. Visiting coaches learned his schedule. Tuesdays at 10 a.m., Stewart’s job was to watch Newman’s pre-K kids on the playground where Arch had once played. College coaches, with nothing better to do, pitched in. Pete Golding, then Alabama’s defensive coordinator, pushed kids on the swings. So did Bill O’Brien, then the Tide’s offensive coordinator. Nobody minded; they were with Stewart. Texas coach Steve Sarkisian showed Arch the play sheet from Alabama’s national championship over Ohio State when he was a Crimson Tide assistant. Golding would FaceTime Sarkisian from Stewart’s office, just to tweak him.
Ever the offensive lineman, Stewart tried to protect his quarterback, lead-blocking through fans after games to get Arch to his car. Other times, the backup quarterback, Christian Sauska, would come out and claim to be Arch and pose for selfies. Never in the history of humankind has it been easier to check a face, famous or otherwise, yet people fell for it.
One day Golding took a photo of his dip cup on Nelson’s desk and texted it to Sarkisian, his buddy: “Guess where I am?” Sark started to freak out and he rapid-texted Stewart. On another day, Sarkisian pranked Kiffin by saying that he’d spoken with Arch at least one hundred times. Sure enough, Kiffin exploded on the other end of the phone.
One day, someone sent Stewart a link. It was for an Arch Manning autographed football. The price: $957. It was almost impossible for him to process. He showed it to Cooper, who shook his head and lamented.
“Put my last name on it . . .”
NOBODY KNEW WHERE Arch Manning wanted to go to school. Some in the family preferred Georgia, where head coach Kirby Smart would coach him hard. Others, Alabama. The problem for Alabama was that Nick Saban — whom the Crimson Tide assistants affectionally called “Daddy” — was getting up there in years, and nobody knew how long he’d be there. Texas kept lingering. Competition was so fierce that everything was fair game. It was public record that Steve Sarkisian had battled alcoholism, a disease that nearly cost him his career. Sark had rebuilt his life and work in recovery. But during one Zoom call with Arch, Golding was discussing Alabama’s schematics and culture, and then he went there.
“I love Sark,” Golding said. “He’s my best friend.” He paused. “I hope he can stay sober.”
After the Zoom ended, Stewart called Golding. “Pete, that’s f—ed up!”
Golding knew. He had no choice.
“Daddy’s on me.”
In June of 2022, Nelson Stewart served as a counselor at the Manning Passing Academy in Thibodaux, Louisiana, the annual camp in the sticks that’s as much of a tour stop on the high school quarterback junket as Elite 11, thirty-some years strong. Arch has been at the camp since he was in middle school and is the most tenured attendee in the camp’s history. Stewart was overseeing a drill at another camp, due to arrive to Thibodaux late, when he looked at his phone and saw that he had missed five calls from Arch. He wondered if something was wrong. He called back. Cooper answered.
“Someone wants to talk to you,” Cooper said.
“Coach,” Arch said, “I just want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and how you’ve handled it. I just want to let you know that I’ve decided to formally commit and play at Texas.”
He liked Sark. He especially liked that Sark was the head coach and the play-caller, increasing the odds that he’d be there for the duration of Arch’s time. Texas was a good school, in case he were to suffer a career-ending injury. He liked that Texas was joining the Southeastern Conference. Texas had just finished an 8-5 season when he committed; he wanted to be part of an upswing, of bringing something back.
Holy s–t! Stewart thought. “I’m proud of you,” he said. He started to well up. Arch told him he needed to call more people before news broke. “Coach, I’ve got a lot of people to thank.”
“You’re good,” Stewart said.
“Do me a favor,” Arch said. “Don’t tell anybody. It’s a secret.”
Within minutes, A.J. Milwee, Texas’s quarterbacks coach, called.
“What’s up?” Stewart said, knowing exactly what was up. They danced around the obvious.
“I can’t talk,” Milwee said. “But I can’t believe this, we did it.”
“Yeah, man. I’m so happy for you.”
News broke. Texts flooded in from coaches who had been a part of Stewart’s life for the past few years. Alabama’s Pete Golding called Stewart. Saban wanted an explanation.
“Why Texas?” Golding asked.
Stewart listed all the reasons, including that Arch had once said that he felt Austin was big enough that he wouldn’t be recognized.
“Stop,” Golding said. “No motherf—ing way.”
YOU KNOW THE moment. It happens every game. When the quarterback takes over. When he creates and alters momentum, when he separates himself, when we know, everyone knows, why this job is different. Arch Manning’s seminal moment is in the third quarter of a close game on Senior Night, closer than expected. The Greenies face third-and-29. There are no plays for that situation. Arch gets the ball. He stands in the pocket as it breaks from behind, and skips forward, eyes downfield, until nobody obstructs his view, and he sees a chance, a deep post route. He sets. He’s at his own 26-yard line. The ball launches into air, above the stadium lights and into the darkness, then down again, nose over nose until it drops at the opponent’s 15-yard line, into the arms of his receiver for a first down, 60 yards traveled in all. The local television broadcaster says wow four times, yet that seems insufficient.
After Newman wins, players gather in the end zone. Stewart addresses them. Arch is on a knee, toward the back. Stewart paces, calling out high and low points. Then he stops. He holds a ball.
“I’m about to embarrass him,” he says.
Arch looks down. He had started Senior Night by sitting with the freshmen at the team dinner; it was important to him to connect with every player, regardless of stature or age. He’s ending it with a reminder of who he is, was, and where he’s going.
“I’d argue tonight was his toughest game,” Stewart says. “He got hit a bunch. He got up every time. He didn’t yell at the line once. He kept his poise. That’s what being a leader is. Now Arch has 129 career touchdowns. He’s our career leader.”
The team applauds.
Arch brings the team together and gives them a rally cry for the night. The kids disperse, toward the fence separating the stands from the field. Parents and friends gather. Seniors pose for selfies. Arch wanders over, his path stopped for a photo or autograph, half dozen in all. A life is just beginning, and Arch has yet to face the crossroads that his famous family members did. In two months, he would clean out his locker. It was a mess. Cooper shook his head. Arch sifted through stuff, tossing things away as he went, when both men noticed something buried in the back and at the bottom. It was a trophy. It had a football player kneeling. It was what he’d been awarded when he won the Bobby Dodd National High School Player of the Year from the Touchdown Club of Atlanta. Archie had won Touchdown Club’s version of the award in 1969. Peyton had won it in 1993. Eli had won a different award from the same club in 2003. Cooper told Arch that it should be in his room or in a trophy case. Arch gave it to his dad to figure out. In three months, he’d be a freshman at Texas, and property of the public in an even greater way than he is now.
In 2024, after he got his first career start and helped the Longhorns defeat Louisiana-Monroe, the life he knew would change; something he had prepared for and thought about caught him by surprise. Kids wanted his photo as he walked through campus. Dinners out took on a new meaning. He could not hide in Austin, and in fact he was easier to spot than ever. You think you know when you’re starting to lose control of your life, but you don’t until it happens. He texted Eli: Can we chat for little bit? Eli figured it was to talk ball. It was to talk fame. How do you handle this stuff ? Eli had a few rules. It’s okay to say no. It’s okay to tell people to wait until after dinner. Tell the team: No photos with anyone drinking alcohol. If you blink at the wrong time holding a beer, it’ll live on the internet forever, coming up after the inevitable bad game. They were tips, but not answers. Eli didn’t offer solutions. There are none.
One morning after Arch is gone, Stewart is at his office when he gets word that Peyton is going to stop by Isidore Newman the next day. He won’t be alone. He’ll be with his young teenage son, Marshall.
They need a place to throw.
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Dan Wetzel
Week 0 is college football’s oft-ignored start to the season. The good stuff doesn’t generally happen until the smorgasbord of Labor Day weekend.
This year, though, it begins with a unique bang. Consider that, right now in some Dublin pub, two fan bases from Middle America are likely baffling locals by arguing not merely over their teams but the per-acre yields of wheat vs. corn.
It’s Iowa State and Kansas State to kick things off — in Ireland no less.
It’s Farmageddon on the old sod, or Farm O’Geddon, as some have dubbed it this year.
The rural-rooted and wonderfully self-aware rivalry is getting a rare but well-deserved turn in the spotlight.
These are two proud and solid programs. Both are nationally ranked. The Wildcats check in at No. 17, and the Cyclones at 22. It’s a Big 12 game with conference title and national playoff implications.
“It’s certainly a great opportunity, and we certainly feel honored to be able to be a part of it,” Iowa State coach Matt Campbell said.
It’s also a reminder of how, even when college football is doing something well, the sport’s self-destructive ways can hang over everything.
This is the 109th consecutive meeting between these two schools, a run that dates to 1917.
Yet in 2027, there will be no scheduled game; Farmageddon’s streak will be a casualty of conference realignment.
The series predates the old Big Eight, which is now called the Big 12 even though it has 16 members, complicating everything. Trying to manage a schedule in a league that large is a massive challenge. The conference relies on what it calls a “scheduling matrix” to get it done.
The Big 12 chose just four long-standing rivalries to be “protected” and thus forced into the matrix each season: Arizona-Arizona State, BYU-Utah, Baylor-TCU and Kansas State-Kansas.
Those make sense — each is an intense, in-state clash. K-State would rather assure a game against Kansas than Iowa State, just as Iowa State wants to make sure it plays Iowa, of the Big Ten, each year in nonconference play.
Scheduling is tough. Sometimes something has to give.
Still, Farmageddon’s run of games is longer than Texas-Oklahoma, Michigan-Ohio State and the Iron Bowl between Alabama and Auburn. While Iowa State-Kansas State will be played again in future seasons, any break feels unfortunate.
Obviously, the rivalry isn’t nearly as storied as those. Both teams have endured lengthy periods where even mediocrity would have been welcomed. Still, there is something endearing about tradition. It isn’t just for the winners.
The strength of college football isn’t the blue bloods, or at least it isn’t solely in the blue bloods. Yes, the powerhouse teams drive the boat and command the television ratings. Every sport has that, though.
What college football has is everything else, everywhere else. The nation’s 136 FBS-level programs hail from more than 40 states. They are in big cities and tiny towns. There are big state schools and small private ones, religious institutions and military academies. Not everyone expects a national title. Or even a conference one.
This is an American creation that represents America in the broadest sense. That is: None of it makes sense except all of it makes sense. The passion. The pageantry. The pride.
That includes these weird neighborhood rivalries. Leagues were once formed because of familiarity or cultural commonality. You went to one school, your neighbor another. The geographic footprint mattered. Now it’s all about media rights and money.
The Big Ten has 18 teams. The Atlantic Coast Conference has two schools overlooking the Pacific Ocean. And the Big 12 is so big that the Kansas State-Iowa State rivalry — which survived world wars, droughts and depressions — can be brushed to the side.
Saturday’s game is a showcase for what needs to be maintained against the avalanche of money. It’s old-school stuff featuring two programs with reasonable expectations that mostly just want a taste of the big time and all the fun that comes with it.
So they’ve invested in it — as institutions and individuals. Try explaining to some Irishman that the 50,000-seat Bill Snyder Family Football Stadium in the Little Apple of Manhattan, Kansas, is larger than any sporting venue in the Big Apple of Manhattan, New York.
Or that Iowa State running back Abu Sama III is already a school legend for racking up 276 yards and scoring four touchdowns during a winter storm in 2023 at Kansas State.
That game will be forever known as Snowmageddon.
The tradition continues in Ireland, of all places, now with everyone watching. It’s a fitting moment for an overlooked series. It’s also a reminder to appreciate what this sport can produce, because even the good stuff isn’t necessarily safe.
MILWAUKEE — Milwaukee’s Joey Ortiz went on the 10-day injured list with a strained left hamstring Friday, leaving the NL Central-leading Brewers without their starting shortstop.
The Brewers also reinstated first baseman/outfielder Jake Bauers from the injured list and sent outfielder Jackson Chourio to a rehabilitation assignment with Triple-A Nashville.
Ortiz left a 4-1 victory over the Chicago Cubs on Thursday after hurting himself while grounding out in the fifth inning. Manager Pat Murphy said he has been told it’s a low-grade strain, an indication that Ortiz’s stay on the IL might not be too long.
Ortiz, 27, is hitting .233 with seven homers, 43 RBIs and 11 steals in 125 games. He has batted .343 with an .830 OPS in August.
“I felt like I was finally kind of getting a groove going, especially offensively, that I was starting to swing the bat as I feel I can,” Ortiz said. “Things happen. It’s baseball. It’s going to happen. I’ve just got to do what I can to get back.”
Murphy said Andruw Monasterio will be the Brewers’ primary shortstop while Ortiz is out. Monasterio, 28, has hit .254 with two homers and 11 RBIs in 43 games.
Bauers, 29, was dealing with a left shoulder impingement and last played in the majors on July 18. Bauers is hitting .197 with five homers and 18 RBIs in 59 games. He had gone just 2-for-23 in July while dealing with the shoulder issue before finally going on the injured list.
“Since April, May, I’ve been dealing with it,” Bauers said.
Chourio, 21, hasn’t played since straining his right hamstring while running out a triple in a 9-3 victory over the Cubs on July 29.
“He’s got to be able to get comfortable standing on the diamond back-to-back days,” Murphy said. “He’s got to be comfortable playing all nine (innings) in the outfield back-to-back days, because you can’t bring him back here and then just [go] zero to 100.”
Chourio is hitting .276 with 17 homers, 67 RBIs and 18 steals in 106 games.
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