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.
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