The Little Things: The Story of a mother's struggle, a son's miracle, and a community's kindness.

He paces ardently at the end of his players’ bench. His gaze is stern with an underlying focus showing through his stiffened cheeks. He barks out commands to his team with vigor, unrestrained by his ailing throat. It is a Tuesday night at McInturf Gymnasium, and Federal Hocking is facing conference rival Eastern. The man I speak of is not the Lancers’ head coach. He is their team manager. He is Billy Porter. He is developmentally disabled. He is lucky to be alive.

*

It was September 8, 1981, and Sharon Porter was a mother of two in her second marriage. Her son, 10-year old Billy, was an active kid and a promising athlete. Billy was a little league all-star in baseball and was one of the leaders of his basketball squad. Billy’s birthday had been celebrated one week before, and he had received a new dirt bike. After a tiff with his mother on that morning, Billy found himself in a rebellious state of mind as he joined his cousin and sister for a dirt bike ride. The rules had always been clear. They were to ride in one specific direction on the path allotted for them and wear a fastened helmet whenever on the bikes. This time, Billy broke both the rules.

He tossed on his helmet without buckling it and took off on the bike going the “wrong way.” He eventually collided with the bike ridden by his sister and cousin. Billy fell off the bike, and the bike’s motor flew into the air and landed, tragically, on his face. When Sharon Porter came to the scene, what she saw was a mother’s worst nightmare.

*

Between the junior varsity and varsity games (at which time the girls play—Billy is not manager for the girls team) Billy walks up to the referees of the next game and greets them jubilantly. He jokes and talks with them. As the game begins, he heckles them. He constantly refers to one as “baldy” and assures him every time he makes a call that it is the wrong one. The official turns to Billy, points at him playfully, and laughs. What on earth did Billy say to them before the game? I think. This guy is like some kind of referee wind talker. Billy Porter just broke a social barrier that fans, coaches, and players across the world can never seem to figure out.

Then, we walk out into the lobby. Walking with Billy outside the gymnasium on game day is like walking next to Giorgio Armani on the Red Carpet. He knows everybody. He knows all the referees, coaches, and cops in the area. One of those very cops, Jimmy Childs, predicts that someday they will have a statue of Billy outside the school.

*

Sharon was horrified at the sight of Billy after the accident. “It looked like he had no face,” she explains. Her father instantly got his pickup truck and rushed them to the nearest hospital. When they got there emergency room doctors, angered that Sharon had not called 911, informed Sharon that Billy would likely not live through the drive to Columbus and they would prefer that she not go in the ambulance.

“They must have thought I was crazy,” Sharon says to me. “That’s cuz’ you are crazy mom!” Billy fires back. They laugh. Unrivaled sense of humor, check.

Sharon, drenched in the blood of her own son and living through utter hell, refused to be away from Billy. She hopped in the ambulance shaking wildly and praying frantically. Things would only get worse from there.

*

Now we sit in Athletic Director John Murphy’s office. Murphy and Billy share old stories, talk about the night’s referees, and argue about who they consider Federal Hocking’s biggest rival. Amidst conversation is uproarious laughter. John Murphy looks relaxed talking to Billy right now. Relaxed? I thought. The man is hosting three basketball games on a Tuesday night.

This speaks to what I have seen out of Billy. Everyone he approaches smiles, laughs, and just seems to be taken away from their daily burdens for the short time Billy is with them. McDonalds may want to make you smile, but Billy Porter does it. Billy’s the kind of guy that generates more smiles than a Colgate commercial. He could cheer up Mark McGwire in a confessional. He could make Eeyore look like Elmo.

Murphy turns to Billy and asks what is in his water bottle. Billy jokingly proclaims, “Whiskey!” More laughter. More Smiles. Even a high five.

McDonalds doesn’t stand a chance.

*

The ambulance trudged up the road toward Columbus. No speed could have been fast enough for Sharon, not with her son dying in the back. When they reached Logan, around halfway to Columbus, Billy stopped breathing. For a daunting three minutes, Sharon Porter’s worst nightmare was becoming more and more of a fatal reality. The EMS workers frenetically resuscitated him. They were in the clear but not for long. A mere five minutes further up the road a tie rod end broke on the ambulance. They were stuck. Sharon sat in the front seat hysterically, screaming and praying.

Another ambulance bolted over to get them, the next thing Sharon knew she was in Columbus and her son was about to go into surgery. Billy had two blood clots on his brain and broke every facial bone except his nose. They did emergency surgery. A dentist did his facial surgery by looking at an old photograph of Billy. Remarkably, he was able to restore Billy’s face to look strikingly ordinary. After surgery Billy laid in a coma.

Sometimes in sports we label injuries as day-to-day as far as when a player will be able to play again. Billy Porter was listed as day-to-day as far as whether he would be able to live again.

*

Billy takes me into the Federal Hocking coach’s office at halftime of the girl’s game. He brings in a black duffel bag. I open it. It is a collection of Billy’s accomplishments. His old baseball and basketball pictures are included along with some yearbooks. As we review the items together, one thing in particular strikes me. Billy was a member of the Athens County 1989 Special Olympics basketball team. The team won the Special Olympics state championship. Talk about overcoming adversity to fulfill your life goals. Billy was so close to dying and still managed to find a way to go back to playing the game he loved. I sat in that office and looked up at Billy as he explained his team picture. I thought about how we tend to idolize celebrities and people with wealth. Billy Porter measures success in a different way. Perhaps, we all can take a lesson.

*

After a while, Billy began moving limbs. He would move an arm then gain movement in a leg and so on. The hospital had told them to institutionalize him because he would never talk and never walk. Sharon would work with him every day during the coma. After six months in it, he woke up. His first words were “mama.” This brought Sharon to tears.

Sharon and Billy’s stepfather worked to stretch Billy’s muscles. They had to start from scratch. Teach him to crawl, teach him to eat, and potty train him. Sharon quit her job and gave up her life for Billy. She took him to speech and physical therapy every day.

Two and a half years after the accident, Billy Porter was walking and talking. The only signs of the accident were a scar on his throat from a tracheal tube and his developmental disability. The accident came full circle for Sharon in an unusual manner. Billy, for the first time in three years, peed standing up. The pride in Billy’s eyes touched Sharon. She was touched the same way when he first put on pants. “It’s the little things you take for granted,” she said reflectively.

Billy’s stepfather, though a vital part of his post-accident recovery, would grow to be verbally abusive to Billy, ultimately causing Sharon to divorce him. Sharon has given up everything to raise Billy, and she would not have it any other way.

*

Billy is standing with the team during warm-ups dribbling the basketball with both hands. He does it mindlessly and fluently. He surely hasn’t lost his knack for the game. He goes into the locker room with the players and leads the coaches out. The game goes on and Billy grows tired. After all, this is the third game he has presided over this evening. He turns to me and informs me that his throat is hurting, but that does not even come close to stopping him from yelling to support his Lancers.

Federal Hocking has been just as good to Billy as he has been to them. Sharon Porter is infinitely thankful for how accepting they have been to him. Billy Porter has missed only a few games in the past 23 years. Murphy and Billy share a friendship that has lasted throughout his days at Federal Hocking. It dates back to when he used to drive the baseball bus to games, and Billy would be in the back seats joking around. Sharon says she would do anything for the school.

It is truly amazing that in a story with so many heroes, a story with so many people doing extraordinary things to help one individual, we can throw in an entire community. The whole TVC community from everyone at Federal Hocking, to opposing coaches and athletic directors, to referees, to radio announcers, to fans, and the list goes on. Sharon and Billy are humbled by their kindness.

Somewhere in the world a man stands before a toilet, does his business, washes his hands, and walks out of a bathroom. Somewhere else a man wakes up and gets dressed.

Stories like these make Billy Porter smile. Stories like these send shivers down Sharon Porter’s spine.

It’s the little things.

Behind the Stripes: An evening in the life of a referee crew.

Their jet black, Nike basketball shoes are laced tightly. Their mouths are dry with excitement. They jump up and down eagerly in the hallway outside Alexander High School’s gymnasium. Anticipatory beads of sweat reel down their cheeks. The lighthearted demeanor of a half hour ago has gradually escaped them. It is ten minutes from the start of Saturday night’s basketball game, and they are the officials.

These guys are as beloved as the IRS. They are more invisible than Adam Smith’s hand. They are lonelier than a salad fork in India. As fans, we batter them and bruise them. We heckle them and harass them. We tease them and taunt them. Sometimes we refuse to even acknowledge them as human. That’s why I sought to find the story behind these Martians. That’s right. Instead of taking in Saturday night’s basketball game, I shadowed the men in stripes. I went for a stroll in their shoes and found the real stories of these robotic referees.

“It’s one referee and two umpires,” Ed Caudill corrects me. We have just settled into the official’s locker room, which is in all actuality a large classroom with murals of past presidents lining the walls. “Umpire” Neil Knight and Caudill tease their partner Brent Billings about his pre game ritual that begins with an instant trip to the bathroom upon arrival to the arena. As they change out of their street clothes into their ironed black slacks and fabled striped top, they continue to banter and recall old officiating stories.

They are laughing. Hmm, that is kind of human, right?

Seeing what appeared to be a notion of emotion in them, I request to learn more about them.

Ed is 53 years old. He has been married for 28 years. He also is sure to point out that he has been officiating for 28 years. Amidst a roomful of chuckles, he insists it is merely a coincidence. He enjoys what he calls “man stuff“ such as hunting, fishing, and golf. Brent is 49 and married twenty years. He golfs, shops, and yells at his son. Neil is 52 and widowed. He has officiated 24 years. He loves sports and plays guitar.

Their human level is rising rampantly. They are no different than the average fan. Brent’s son even plays high school basketball himself making him, at times, one of the fans.

“What is the number one reason you ref?” I inquire. All three answer within ten seconds. All answers are the same. They do it because they love the game of basketball. This is striking to me. They are not out there conspiring against teams. They are not trying to take over games. They simply yearn to be a part of the game they love, the game they all played when they were younger.

Now, all Shrek aside, whenever I hear the word love it just screams human to me. In fact, officiating basketball games makes them even more human. Brent tells me it serves as a stress reliever at the end of long workdays. That speaks volumes to his passion for the game. I am guessing you will find only a select few people who consider leaving work and going to get publicly scrutinized for two hours straight a stress reliever.

It is an escape for Neil Knight. Six years ago his wife passed away. In a period of mourning, what was the thing that served as an escape, giving him a much-needed opportunity to be around something he loved? You guessed it, officiating high school basketball.

Now the transformation begins. As they enter the court, they turn from their exuberant, talkative selves to the machines we perceive them to be. Why? Because they have to. They refuse to be partial, and quite frankly, they tell me, they like it that way.

As they waltz onto the floor they are as apathetic as Alexander’s water coolers. They are more neutral than Switzerland. They stand alone, blending in to their surroundings as pre game warm-ups take place. The game begins and moves quickly. The game is played cleanly throughout the first half. In less than a half hour, halftime arrives.

I follow the officials into the locker room and ask what such a quiet first half means. They adamantly proclaim that it is an overwhelming good sign. Neil tells me that not hearing anything from fans or coaches is the biggest compliment a referee can get.

In the locker room, three chilled Gatorades await the officials. Alexander Athletic Director, Josh Merckle, waits with a pen and piece of paper to take the officials’ orders for a post game meal. Wow, I thought, this is not so bad.

Merckle is a regular Martha Stewart when it comes to hosting officials. He provides them a meal, their game paycheck, and even offers them a place to shower after the game. It is like a Holiday Inn Express with a Continental dinner. He constantly thanks the refs, which is magnified in their eyes because officiating is generally a thankless job. He takes welcoming to an entirely new level. He jokes with them, caters to them, and makes certain that they know their work is appreciated. I decide if I ever would ever win the lottery, I would hire Josh Merckle to bring me a Gatorade and talk to me when I am having a bad day.

The second half comes quickly. The officials told me things tend to get more intense late in the game, and their suggestion proved true. A late third quarter foul call results in grief for Ed. A player lays out for the ball and takes out an opponent’s knees. Unhappy with the call, fans roar in disapproval. Ed’s rebuttal is, well, not to rebuttal. He is irreversibly indifferent. The next play contact is made and none of the officials made a call. The crowd erupts again. The officials are utterly unaffected. They remain rigorous in their duties. Their ability to block out their surroundings is superior. For the fans, it is like yelling at a coffee table. For the officials, it is like doing their job.

After the two outbursts, the game ends with very few whimpers of appeal. They come into the locker room sweating like oil executives on Capitol Hill. They are human again. They congratulate each other on a well-officiated game and partake in their respective meals. They converse about the game and speak highly of the teams. “We’re all a fan of the kids,” Ed insisted referring to all officials.

They change back into their street clothes and return to their everyday lives. As they walk out of the gym no one notices them, no one makes eye contact with them, and no one says anything to them. Neil Knight, Ed Caudill, and Brent Billings are free to release a grin, for now they know they have done their job.

THE ANSWER: A BCS MANIFESTO

In light of tonight’s BCS leftover bowl, I thought it would be appropriate to release my personal solution to the BCS bonanza that has engulfed college football’s postseason. If President Obama’s goal is to overhaul health care, mine is to overhaul the national championship. And when I say overhaul, I mean it. I will leave few details behind.

What I propose seems preposterous, and in all reality, it probably is. However, it would be an injustice for me not to share my views. What is the answer? A 65 team March Madness style tournament. Too many games for such a grueling sport? Try not enough. Here is how it works.

At the end of a full football season, we take the top 65 teams in the newly expanded BCS computer rankings. We seed them from 1-16 according to their finish. Then, the fun begins.

Each team will be represented by its nickname/mascot in its wildest, most native form. The team’s “mascots” will duel in a no holds bar fight. Why play the season, then? Because your ranking gives you home field advantage. The higher ranked “mascot” will hold the duel in its natural habitat.

Point of clarification: By duel I’m not talking early 19^th century. This isn’t Aaron Burr vs. Alexander Hamilton. This is wilder. This is better.

The matches will be structured similar to boxing. Fifteen rounds at three minutes per round. All games will air on the Discovery Channel or Animal Planet. They will be announced by the glorious combination of Gus Johnson and James Earl Jones. The sideline reporter will be Mike Rowe who will be wearing his generic, logo-less hat from the Ford commercials. Ed Hochulee and Tim Donaghy will officiate every bout. There will be a seven person panel of judges in the event of a 15-round match. The judges will be as follows:

-Mike Tyson

-Tonya Harding

-Bruce Lee

-Sylvester Stallone

-Ron Artest

-LeGarrette Blount

-Chris Brown

The alternate judge will be Charlie Sheen, who will end up judging since Bruce Lee is dead.

Michael Vick will be the BCS president (his advice would make for an easy transition into the animal competition industry). Billy Joel will play every halftime show--drunk. Kelly Clarkson will scream a National Anthem Remix before every match that features T-Pain repeating the words she sings, and Lil Wayne doing whatever he wants--whenever he wants. It will also technically feature Lil Jon, but he will actually just be yelling “hey” the entire time. The cast of The View will do pre and post game shows, so no one will watch them. The only ads that will air through the entire game will be Allstate’s commercials that feature their token reassuring black man, Dennis Haysbert. And all duels hosted by Texas Tech’s Red Raider will be in a solitary electrical closet.

That is my vision. That is my dream. That is and will always be no one's reality.

Thursday Night in Gettysbu...I mean Eugene

Chip Kelly should take a lesson from history going into tomorrow nights battle with rival Oregon State. It would be irresponsible not to. There was World War I then there was World War II. Napoleon invaded Russia and froze his way to defeat, and Adolf Hitler self destructed the same way. Flanel. Aviators. Skinny ties. Pop stars in rehab. Cincinnati Bengals in court. Sluggers on steroids. Tragic coastal hurricanes. The French surrendering. American governors and extra marital affairs. If you aren't careful, history always repeats itself. 

Why would this apply to Chip Kelly? Three words, American Civil War. There has not been another one in the United States, and Kelly is leading his Oregon Ducks into a high-stakes, competitive "battle" that just so happens to be called the Civil War. And guess what---it's in America. 

So, why must Chip Kelly beware? After all, his team is the favorite and the North (the clear favorite in 1861) did win the war. It did not come without a scare though, and in football once the contest is close there's no telling what happens next. 

In fact, the easiest option may be to not name the game so aggressively. Perhaps, the Civil Town Hall Forum or the Civil Beer Summit (brought to you by Barack Obama) would be a milder name. 

But no one is looking for the easy way out. In all reality, the game deserves to be called the Civil War. I brainstormed the top things America should break out into Civil War over, and it came out looking something like this:

3. To save the Union

2. Slavery

1. The Rose Bowl

So, it looks like the Ducks and Beavers have it right on. As for Kelly's concerns, they should lie with the result of America's first major Civil War. Let me draw a few comparisons. The North struggled early to find a consistent general. The first was a passed his prime Winfield Scott. He was a great general, but it was time to hang it up. Oregon's version is current AD Mike Bellotti, a solid coach that just moved on. Then there was General George McClellan. He had the credentials, but he just underperformed. Sounds like one Jeremiah Masoli in a hideous early season loss to Boise State. Next, there was General Henry Halleck who showed a general lack of discipline in leading. Enter Lagarrette Blount. The star (more like a black hole now) running back lost his temper after that tough week one loss and struck a member of the Boise State team. 

This is where you have stepped in General Ulysse....I mean Chip Kelly. I'm not saying your counterpart Mike Reilly is Robert E. Lee. I am saying you better treat him like he is. In American Civil War history the upset has been prevalent on the battlefield, and in American football history the upset has been rampant on the playing field. All signs point to trouble for your Ducks tomorrow night. 

Don't be surprised at all if the spirit of Stonewall Jackson takes the form of a Beaver Thursday night. Just play your game and before you know it the spirit of William Tecumseh Sherman may come back to "march" you and your Ducks to Pasadena.

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.