It’s football season in Texas, and we all know how it feels … the hottest part of summer, coaches out on the fields for long practices, and coaches’ wives and kids trying to grab a few fleeting moments of his attention before he’s game-planning late into the night.
There’s a special kind of electricity in the air this time of year, as it brings excitement, school spirit, and the promise of a fresh start.
But for us, this season will be very different. It already is.
This is our son Tate’s senior year, his last year under the Friday night lights, wearing our team’s red and white, playing the game he loves. Tate was around five when he first started tagging along to practice with his dad, probably donning a team ballcap and carrying a water bottle bigger than his arms could manage.
But this year, he will step onto the field without his dad.
Matt’s no longer sweating through practices or breaking down film. He’s not on the sideline, clapping players on the back, offering guidance and encouragement. He won’t be calling plays from the press box or coming to meet us on the field after the game.
For 27 seasons, Matt was a mentor to countless young men, a friend and leader to his fellow coaches, and the heartbeat of our family’s football rhythm. But this January, after coaching through cancer for the past three seasons, Matt ran into the arms of Jesus.
Not only does our family feel his absence, but the players, coaches, and community have all been impacted by Matt’s generosity of spirit and gracious kindness. Now we’re all learning how to walk through a season we never imagined for ourselves - Friday nights without Coach Young.
When I think about this upcoming season, my heart aches. Not because I doubt Tate’s strength or grit, he loves the game and will give his all, but because I know what it’s going to feel like that first game, when he’s out there with a dad-shaped hole on the field.
As I walk into the stadium and don’t see him at the edge of the field, or search for him in the box as I climb the bleacher stairs, there will be an emptiness. While the national anthem plays and I see my boy standing tall, hand on heart, without his dad, I’ll whisper a prayer that he can channel every bit of “coaching” Matt ever gave him, and that it will carry him through, at least for tonight.
Because Matt won’t be there, and it’s the least that I can do in his absence. I’m asking God to carry us, and I believe he does.
Grief is strange. It’s a messy mingling of overwhelming loss and sweet memory. The sadness can be unbearable at the same time that the little quiet joys show up: in the pre-game excitement, in the way Tate adjusts his helmet, in the little fist-bump rituals that live on in muscle memory. It’s in every “yes, sir” on the field, every lesson learned in the huddle, every ounce of passion he summons when the score is close and he’s got to make the tackle.
We are walking into a season of “firsts without…” and honestly, it’s brutal. But, it’s also sacred.
Our faith leads us to a place where we trust that we are united not only through our lives on this earth, but also in spirit. Matt lived a life that demonstrated great faith, a love that didn’t keep score, and a deep level of encouragement. He believed that there was power in our words, and he used his to build up others. Matt saw every day as an opportunity to live as fully as possible. He was a living parable - a story of such powerful graciousness that you couldn’t help but be impacted by it.
This year, Tate will carry more than the team name on his jersey. He’ll carry Matt’s legacy. He’ll carry every on-the-field memory of his dad. And our family will be in the stands every game: cheering, crying, praying, remembering - and choosing to believe that while this ache may never fully go away, neither will the love that built this life of ours.
I’m not sure, even now, that I’m really ready for this season. But I’m showing up anyway because that’s what his dad would do. In fact, that is exactly what Matt did - he showed up, even when it was hard. It’s what Tate deserves: to look into the stands and know that we are here.
This season, when we put on our red and white and face Friday Nights without him, we’re putting on love, and we’re trusting that Matt has the best seat in every stadium.
