Girl's Basketball preview column

Friday I ventured to Alexander High School for a notoriously sloppy experience. I traveled to the land where optimism is unreasonably high and athleticism is unjustifiably low.  The land where mid range jump shots are as accurate as Dick Cheney birdshots. The land where 2-3 trapping zones are thinner than the Earth’s o-zone (that’s all you, Al Gore).  The place I speak of is the land of preseason basketball. In any form and at any level, it has its share of good, its share of bad, and most assuredly its share of ugly.

This time I found myself watching the TVC preview, an amalgamation of half games showcasing the ladies basketball teams in the Tri Valley Conference. I sat in on 100 minutes of the action and logged my experience from start to finish:

4:59- I scurry into the gym a minute before tip off. As I take a seat I noticed the evening’s officials simultaneously removing their matching OHSAA jackets and engaging in a brief period of uncoordinated calisthenics. Two things about this strike me:

1.     It is literally sunny and 65 degrees outside and at or above room temperature in the gym, so the refs needed jackets about as much as Billy Mays needed a microphone.

2.     This is preseason for the officials as well. They aren’t joking around. I’ll keep an eye on them from here on out.

5:00- The public address announcer halts tip off because we are waiting for “Randy.” Unless there is supposed to be an “i” on the end of that, and it’s a girl on one of the teams, I don’t see the need.

5:02- And we’re off. Trimble vs. Alexander. Trimble takes the tip and sinks a mid range jump shot. Dick Cheney? More like Annie Oakley.

5:05- We are a few minutes into this one, and I have heard no audible cheers from the crowd.

5:06- The first audible cheer I hear coming from a few feet away is, and I quote, “Kill that girl!” That might be a little heavy, especially for preseason. I begin to fear for my personal security.

5:07- Trimble hits their second three pointer of the game. Scoreless Alexander empties its entire bench. The only thing uglier than a basketball team playing its first exhibition game is a basketball team’s reserves playing its first exhibition game.

5:10- Alexander is down 9-0. The Trimble zone is eating at Alexander Coach Denton Guthrie. The imminent threat of the woman that yelled “Kill that girl!” is still eating at me.

5:12- The referees’ motions are crisp, unwarranted, and theatrical. At least someone is in midseason form.

5:13- Alexander lights up the scoreboard with a single made free throw with just over a minute remaining in the first of two quarters.

5:17- The first quarter tragically withers away with Trimble leading 13-1.

5:18 – While both teams strategize in their respective huddle the far side referee repeatedly murmurs “white ball” as if someone is listening to him.

5:18:30- I realize that, sadly, I am listening to him.

5:19- Perhaps struggling with transition from soccer season, a Trimble girl deliberately kicks the ball out of an opponent’s hand. I survey my surroundings hoping to make socially awkward eye contact with a fellow spectator and possibly even slightly raise my eyebrows in disapproval, but everyone seems to have just simply looked past the kick.

5:20- While looking for their first field goal of the game, an Alexander shot gets swatted like a domestic housefly.

5:22- Baffled by the Trimble zone, the Alexander point guard passes the ball to the back wall. It respectfully returns it.

5:23- The official assertively swings his elbow through a charging call. Phenomenal form.

5:25- Alexander has its first field goal………………midway through the second quarter.

5:32- While a Spartan is at the line shooting free throws, a Trimble girl trips over what appears to be nothing and falls flat on her back. As she gets up she is greeted with the loudest ovation of the night.

5:33- The girl’s face is beat red. This could be one of two things, I cheerfully conclude:

1.     1. The fluorescent lighting in the gym is emitting harmful UV rays, and she has acquired unnaturally quick sunburn.

2.     2. She’s simply embarrassed.

I’m stumped.

5:35- The ref playfully banters with a fan. If I were a ref I would stay as neutral as Switzerland.

5:39- Trimble wins 23-16. An inspirational mix of techno and rock serves as our interlude between games.

5:40- A fresh batch of jacket-clad referees saunter onto the court to officiate the second game. I guess in the preseason ref’s can only go half the game as well.

5:42- I use the lavatory.  The automatic sink sprays off my hands and into my face.

5:45- A woman enters the gym clutching a polka dot pillow.

5:46- The woman with the pillow exits the gym. All speculation regarding a conference-wide postgame slumber party abruptly ends.

5:48- Still mindful of my personal security I make the executive decision to stand in the vicinity of the event cop.

5:54- Belpre and Nelsonville York are locked up at 2 early. The refs look sluggish.

5:57- Federal Hocking coach Joe Butcher uncomfortably converses with a coach from Southern.

5:58- Conversation pauses.

5:59- After a painstaking minute, Butcher offers a relevant and witty conversation starter, and it resumes.

6:01- Nelsonville York coach Amanda Dalton calls a rare preseason timeout.

6:09- At the end of the first quarter, it is 9-7 Buckeyes. It has been a physical, scrappy game. The cop beside me has received about forty high fives.

6:10- 41. I’m now officially jealous.

6:18- After a couple Maria Martinez baskets, I decide to take a break from basketball and go outside for fresh air.

6:19- The first thing I encounter upon walking outside is a team of middle school girls playing basketball.

6:23- Back inside the gym, I partake in introductory small talk with a recent graduate of Alexander high school.

6:25- As my newly attained friend exits he initiates a mutual high five. Take that officer.

6:34- As I stand awkwardly in the middle of a conversation between two Federal Hocking coaches, the buckeyes ice the game at the free throw line winning 26-22.

6:36 - I decide that the real winners of the evening were the astute officials of the first game and the law enforcement agent that was more popular than a pot of coffee at an overnight pharmacy.

6:39- Thankfully unscathed and understandably indifferent, I depart Alexander.

Gridiron Glory West Muskingum Column

As time waned away in West Muskingum’s first round playoff loss Friday night, tears were rampant on the home sideline. What had been an utterly magical season was coming to an abrupt halt, and it was the end of an era for Tornado football. This is precisely why, amidst a slew of sobs, I did not expect to see a smile from anyone wearing blue with a futile minute left on the clock. In fact the scene was so morose (and rightfully so), that I considered stopping at Walmart on the way home and staring at the “rollback man” on the savings racks just to cheer myself up.

Todd Rhinehart has played football since the fifth grade. He has grown up in the West Muskingum system and maintained a close relationship with all the team’s seniors. The tight-knit group has a lot in common on and off the field, but there has been one glaring difference between Todd and many of his teammates—playing time.

Todd has participated in the same rigorous offseason workouts and brought an indelible work ethic to daily practices just like the rest of his teammates. The opportunities for his work to culminate on the grandest stage in high school sports have been minimal. While guys like Cade McCullough can hardly read a newspaper without finding their names, Rhinehart would be happy just to find his in the program.

Rhinehart spent his underclass years on the teams JV squad where he was as expendable as the Euro. “I played anywhere they wanted me to,” Rhinehart explained. He played everywhere from cornerback to quarterback and never thought twice about it. When his senior year rolled around, it became clear to him that he would see very limited action.

When he told me this, my mind instantly reverted to quitting. If I knew I had no chance of starting, I thought, I’d be out like than Sarah Palin in Alaska. I’d be gone like Richard Nixon after Watergate. I’d hit the road like Paula Abdul with a 30% raise.

That’s not what Todd Rhinehart is made of though. When some people hear that they immediately think: ‘replacement’ or ‘towel waiver’ or ‘benchwarmer.’ Todd Rhinehart thought: competitor, contributor, and champion.

I briefly inquired as to why he didn’t just hang up the spikes. He asserted that he knew the team was going to be special and he had to be a part of it. As we continued to converse he proclaimed, “I knew I wasn’t the best player on the team, but I knew I was on it (the team) for a reason whether for moral support or for making plays.”

Moral support? I thought. Cheerleaders give moral support.

He was ecstatic that his team made the playoffs and only heightened his commitment in week eleven practices. He epitomized diligence as he played on the scout team to give his team the best look possible for Friday night’s game. He knew it wasn’t likely that he would be called on Friday night, so he went out of his way to do his part during the week.

When Friday night came around, he found himself in a familiar place—the sideline. He was overwhelmed with various emotions throughout a raucous first half that found his team down three touchdowns after two quarters of unbridled scoring. As the fourth quarter winded down, he began crying the same tears as his teammates. These were the last moments he would spend with them as his quiet high school football career was coming to a dreary end.

Down 55-27, head coach Paul Perry inserted Rhinehart into the game for their final drive. It was an honorable gesture, but Rhinehart still found himself preoccupied with the heartache of the moment. The Tornadoes drove down the field easily and pulled star running back Cade McCullough in favor of senior starting linebacker Dakota Gutridge at the goal line. Gutridge would eventually plunge into the end zone from a yard out. Rhinehart watched from the slot with genuine appreciation for the moment that his senior teammate got his first high school touchdown, but sadness still overcame him.

It was when Rhinehart began jogging off the field that he realized they were going to attempt a two-point conversion. In the huddle, senior quarterback Austin Brock, a close friend of Rhinehart, instructed him to cut to the inside on the snap and informed him that he would throw the ball to him. Eight years of football. Gallons of sweat. No glory. Rhinehart had always dreamed of having a varsity catch. His team had always dreamed of making the playoffs. It was almost too perfect.

Rhinehart waited tensely as it seemed like it took hours for Brock to go through the snap count. The ball was snapped. He cut sharply behind the linebacker. Brock rocketed a pass right to Rhinehart’s chest. He grasped it and held tightly. A group of his senior teammates congregated around him, and for a brief, bittersweet moment he let out an authentic smile.

He later told me that the smile barely came out. He was still crushed for his team’s loss and focused on finishing the game strong.

Most people wouldn’t even think of the team in that situation. Most people would be smiling like a four year old at a Tickle Me Elmo factory. Most people would look happier than Barney after Botox.

Not Rhinehart. He stuck with football for the team, and the team was all he thought about.

So, Todd Rhinehart laid his body on the line day in and day out through four years of high school football. He watched encouragingly from the sideline as his friends led West Muskingum to a dream season. He worked tirelessly in practice to ensure the starters would be prepared for Friday nights. And in the last possible moment of his high school career, he made every ounce of work he put in come full circle.

Ha, I’d like to see a cheerleader do that.

Taste of the Town N-Ville York

I took my ingestive itinerary to Nelsonville Friday night to enjoy the Buckeye’s Senior Night festivities. I ambled up to the concession stand a full hour before kickoff and was astonished at its surroundings. The stand was cramped between the souvenir t-shirt shop and the Dippin’ Dots stand. I casually inspected the premises to see if the Garmin had accidentally steered me to Cedar Point or if I had simply ended up at the amusement park that Southeast Ohio doesn’t have. It was then that I realized that Nelsonville York was selling Dippin’ Dots and souvenirs at a division five high school football game, and no one was laughing about it.

Perplexed to find out that the elaborate vending setting was indeed not a joke, I turned my attention to the concession stand. What I walked in on would in some circles be considered sheer pandemonium. Band parents were hustling around fervently with an underlying diligence in preparing the night’s entrees. As I stood dumbfounded in the middle, I realized I was interrupting the flow of preparation. I proceeded to attempt to find a place where I would be out of the line of fire. I tried the front window and almost got leveled by a plate of nachos. I tried the back door by the grill and almost joined the hot dogs on the grill. I tried the corner of the storage room next to the reserve microwave and almost got jolted by a wayward elbow. It was impossible. I was like a middle-aged man at Macy’s on Black Friday. I was like an Enron executive at the New York Stock Exchange. I was like Kanye West at the VMAs. I was just in the way.

I managed to find the head of the stand, Angie Thompson, and she informed me that it would be a while until my food would be ready. So, I was at a stand still until I noticed that I didn’t fit in. I was the only person in the entire room not wearing tremendously practical and dreadfully unattractive plastic gloves. Obviously, I reached into the box and put on a pair. I was like a chameleon. I was finally fitting in. Four hours before October 31^st, I had discovered the most realistic Halloween costume. Just as I was championing my disguise, I was abruptly informed that my concealment had failed. I may have fit in physically, but I stuck out more than I had before. It was because I wasn’t working. Of course, Thompson put me to work. I was legitimately excited to lend a hand.

Apparently in the concession world you start at the bottom and work your way to the top because my task was unforgiving. I was given an onion. I was given a knife. What started as enticing took a turn toward dicing and it was not a pretty scene. I was bawling. The onion was Dr. Phil, and I was a broken relationship between two weathered workaholics. The onion was an Oscar, and I was Halle Berry. The onion was Katherine Heigl in 27 Dresses, and I was, well, myself.

By some miracle I got through it. There was a collective puddle below me. I was half an onion away from having to install a sump pump in the concession stand. I was a few slices away from taking in every animal two by two. It got so wet at one point that I took precautionary measures and called FEMA. They should be in Nelsonville in about four months.

After extensive recovery procedures, I was rewarded with an opportunity to eat:

Buckeyes- Their mascot is a buckeye so this was a fitting treat. They were provided in milk and white chocolate. Got to love diversity.

Hamburger- I ate this American classic like it was my job. In fact, this Friday night it was my job.

Bratwurst- I cremated the bratwurst. I was sitting in the back corner of the storage room hanging out with my friend from earlier (the reserve microwave) and ate this in about 30 seconds. The microwave congratulated me by doing absolutely nothing.

Sloppy Joe- A local favorite. It came in a frozen hunk and took forever to cook in the crock-pot. After I was done weeping from the onion, I actually did a considerable amount of work to prepare the sloppy joe. I also did a considerable amount of work to eat it.

After my marathon of eating, the fabulous people of Nelsonville were gracious enough to provide me with a bottle of water. And I was clumsy enough to spill it all over my shorts. That’s right. Whether I was mentally affected by everything I had eaten or simply still suffering from the onion slicing, I made a fool of myself. I looked like an untrained toddler who forgot to put on his pull-ups. I was Nelsonville’s unofficial Huggies representative. It looked like I had defied the depths of domestication. As I scurried out of Nelsonville, I drew an array of inquisitive looks. I am now likely known around town as the resident twenty-year-old who still isn’t housebroken.

It is tough to match the excitement that surrounded Senior Night in Nelsonville. It is even tougher to match the excitement of Senior Night in the concession stand. I ate an insane amount of food, got put to work, and even got choked up a little bit. So, from souvenirs to onion tears Nelsonville gave me a good taste of the spirit of Friday night.