My Goal Line Stand

Here are some NFL stats to digest.

• Players’ salaries will total 10.5 billion in 2024.
• Revenue will be 13 billion.
• The top five stadiums cost 11.5 billion to construct.
• The average cost for a family of four to attend a game is $800 but varies widely by team.

Why mention all this in the heat of the current season? Because I’m not the only one who wonders how we could use these enormous sums for other purposes. I’m not the only one who thinks that Dak Prescott’s $240 million contract is freaking obscene.

Yet, like a good little plebe at the Roman Colosseum in 80 A.D., I lustily enjoy these gladiatorial spectacles. Football flows deep in my blood; it’s timestamped throughout my history. I vividly remember Rams’ games at the L.A. Coliseum with my father, screaming with other rabid fans for our home team. I enjoyed my time as a wide receiver in high school before an injury sidelined me. And I admit that during my decades as a pastor, I often rushed home after services to worship at an altar of a different type.

Now I live in Texas, the land of Friday night lights, where football is truly an obsession—from high school to college to the pros. As the Houston Chronicle once said, for many Texans, football is as much as part of them as their heartbeat.

Any fan will tell you: we LOVE a goal stand, those moments when our team sets up a wall of determined human flesh, denying entrance to the end zone.

It reminds me of a goal line stand I made for our family. Let me explain.

Kristoffer, my intellectually disabled son, is now 27 years old. All his life, my wife and I have been his caretakers, caseworkers, and primary advocates. We appreciate professionals along the way who lightened our load, but there’s an unavoidable truth for parents of disabled children. Unless we stand up for them, the system can easily cast them aside.

Case in point. Kristoffer once attended a small (unnamed) high school in Texas. The teacher of his special education class was good-hearted. We were grateful for her care, which included her advocacy for the kids to get involved in Special Olympics. Each year, the school provided transportation to the state finals held at the University of Texas, Arlington, covering hotel accommodations and a stipend for food. This was the district’s sole annual support.

Then, in our third year at that school, we heard they had canceled their funding for this event. Simultaneously, they announced they would spend an enormous sum retrofitting their football team with new uniforms, equipment, and upgrades to the playing field.

Hell no! Not in my lifetime!

I quickly huddled with my family and a lawyer friend who agreed to provide pro bono help. We got a copy of the district’s proposed budget for the next year, verifying the facts. Then we called the school board and demanded a place on their docket for the next meeting. I had a reputation in town, not only as a pastor, but as a regular columnist for the local newspaper. We were given a spot on the agenda.

The night of the meeting, sitting in a spectator seat along the wall, I kept my game face. Just another concerned parent. But when I got my chance to speak, I hit them like a player on steroids slamming the practice sled. I have no recording of those moments, but here’s the gist.

“Thanks for allowing me to speak,” I said, “Before I begin, please know that I have retained legal counsel who is here with me this evening.”

I nodded to my friend who, as planned, glared at them like a barely restrained pit bull.

“Let me cut to the chase. My son, Kristoffer, attends your high school. He’s intellectually disabled, and the only outlet he has for organized sports is Special Olympics. My wife and I drive him many miles around South Texas to give him these opportunities.

“Now listen. The ONLY support your school provides is annual transportation, food, and lodging so that he and a few of others can attend the state finals in Arlington. We just found out that you cut this funding.”

At that point, a couple of the board members looked away, unable to meet my gaze.

“At the same time, you allocated a huge amount to revamp your football program, a sum that makes the money for my son and his classmates seem like a tip or an afterthought.”

I raised my voice a few decibels.

“Make no mistake. If you don’t reinstate your support for Special Olympics, I will not only take legal action. I will use my journalistic connections to make sure that this travesty gets highlighted in every newspaper from here to Corpus Christi to San Antonio to Dallas.”

There was dead silence. The chairperson of the board cleared his throat and tried to act nonplussed.

“Thank you, Mr. Van Tatenhove. We will take this under advisement.”

I grinned satirically. “Don’t think for too long.”

Then my friend and I left without a backward glance.

Months later, our family joined a few others in an air-conditioned bus on our way to Arlington. I looked around at Kristoffer’s classmates and their parents who, like us, would forever be the most important advocates for their children.

I put my arm around Kristoffer’s shoulders. “Hey buddy, I hope you get a gold medal. But no matter how you do, I want you to know that I love you and support you.”

Kristoffer did something he rarely does. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.