How many horses does Layne Batty own? It’s a question he doesn’t want to answer. He has nothing to hide. It’s just that if he were to say the number out loud, his wife, Peg, might cut him off from buying and raising more.
Layne is a cowboy in every sense of the word. A white hat, stitched beautifully, usually sits atop his head. He wears a bandana-like scarf around his neck. The rest of his body is covered in different shades of denim. Holding his jeans up is a brown belt with a massive oval buckle.
He developed a passion for horses at an early age. His neighbors and extended family owned horses — that was his introduction to the animal. His relationship with them felt personal. By the time he was 11, he was training them on his own.
“He was just a boy,” Peg said.
Layne, who now operates Circle B Farm in Payson, Utah, introduced his seven children, three sons and four daughters, to horses. He taught them all how to ride. They helped feed the family’s stable, cleaned the horses’ living spaces and even learned how to irrigate the pasture to give the horses the best living conditions possible.
Yet when it came time for Layne and Peg’s kids to find their purpose, none followed in their father’s footsteps, at least to the same degree. They didn’t dedicate their lives to the same small corner of the universe, though they did pursue their own little worlds with a similar fervor.
This brings us to their youngest son, Tyler, who has wanted to wear helmets and hit other humans for as long as Layne and Peg can remember. They can’t explain it. The family barely watched football during Tyler’s youth, but they had a boy who talked about playing in the National Football League. The wildest part? That boy somehow became good enough to do precisely that.
Tyler Batty, an undrafted free-agent signing by the Vikings, is here in Minnesota, wearing purple and gold, taking nothing for granted. It takes some digging to learn why he has a solid chance at earning a roster spot. It also takes some digging to know why the defensive end might be an easy rookie to root for.
One morning when Tyler was 14, he navigated a four-wheeler toward his house from the pasture about a half-mile down the road. He had finished one of his daily chores, changing the water to irrigate hay for the horses. Tyler eyed the bright orange sun, which was starting to peak over the mountains. That’s the last thing he can remember.
He didn’t return to the house at his usual time, and eventually, Peg got worried. Shortly thereafter, a sheriff knocked on the door with a look on his face that screamed problems.
“Your boy has been injured,” the officer said, “and he won’t let anybody get anywhere near him. Would you please come?”
Tyler had crashed his four-wheeler and fallen through barbed wire into an embankment. His head was bleeding from a collision with a wooden post. Steel had sliced his shoulders. Had it not been for an early-morning jogger who noticed Tyler pushing the four-wheeler back up toward the road, who knows?
Peg’s arrival set in motion what would become a blur. A Life Flight helicopter airlifted Tyler to a hospital in Salt Lake City about 60 miles away, where doctors diagnosed him with six facial fractures and a brain bleed. His left eye, discolored almost to a shade of purple, was practically triple the size of his right eye. The family needed a miracle for the internal bleeding to stop, and to this day, neither Layne nor Peg can fully explain how it did.
The recovery required another layer of fortitude. Doctors informed Tyler that he shouldn’t play football anymore, but he didn’t listen. He couldn’t listen. Love is blinding, and Tyler loved nothing more than this silly little game. He loved the camaraderie, the competition, the challenge. He loved how much you could learn and how quickly you could respond to failure. He reiterated to his parents that he would play again and not allow this accident to derail his dreams.
A young Tyler Batty. (Courtesy of Peg Batty)
Peg battled him over his hard-headedness. She feared what a concussion might do and knew his intelligence was set up for a successful college education and career. Yet Tyler wouldn’t waver. Football, he maintained, is what he was meant to do.
As a sophomore, he posted his highlights to a Hudl account and promoted himself as a prospect. He attended prospect camps at places like Dartmouth and approached basic hand-placement drills like he was training for a title fight with Mike Tyson.
Nearby BYU noticed the rugged and driven defender just 15 miles south of campus. The Cougars ignited the full-on recruiting pitch, once even sending former Heisman Trophy winner Ty Detmer to the Batty household for breakfast. Initially, Tyler wanted to attend a bigger school where he could be more visible to NFL scouts. He stayed close to a big family that knew better than anyone the source of his motivation.
“His determination,” Peg said, “determined the outcome.”
BYU’s coaching staff was bored during the COVID-19 pandemic. Assistant coach Ed Lamb and defensive coordinator Ilaisa Tuiaki knew Tyler’s family operated a farm down the road, so they asked if they could spend some time learning about ranch life. Layne extended an invitation.
One afternoon, they were chomping on sandwiches in the shade. Layne explained that they offer horse rides throughout the week. One of them, Layne said, targeted special-needs children. Lamb mentioned that his son, Edward, had been born with severe autism and was nonverbal. Layne interjected.
“Horses will help him,” he told Lamb. “The horse world will help him.”
More than a decade earlier, Layne had met a neighbor who had moved to Payson from Scotland. They discussed horses, and the neighbor asked Layne if he’d heard of equine therapy. The neighbor shared that clinical studies had proven that exposure to horses benefited patients with autism and psychomotor disorders. Layne researched the studies himself, reconnected with the neighbor and invited his 3-year-old son to come ride.
The boy learned more words as the years passed and spoke more successfully. Layne relayed the story to Lamb, who, the following week, took Layne up on the opportunity to get his son, Edward, involved. Edward enjoyed it immediately. He squealed. His arms and hands shot to the sky. Layne suggested Edward ride again the following week, and over time, as the Lamb family regularly made its way to the Batty farm, Edward started to point out the correct directions.
“That opened up a whole new world for me and my son,” Ed said. “It changed our lives.”
When Lamb left BYU to become the head coach at Northern Colorado in 2023, his family bought a couple of horses. By then, Tyler had become the rock of the Cougars program. He painted smiley faces beneath his eyes before games, then sideswiped offensive linemen on the way to the quarterback.
He was a ferocious pass rusher. He dropped and secured interceptions. Coaches asked him to line up over the center. He obliged. Then they positioned him over the guard. Tyler made that work, too.
During a 2023 matchup against Cincinnati, defensive line coach Kelly Poppinga poked at Tyler, who took personally a comment about how well the opposing quarterback was playing. Tyler sacked him once and made seven tackles in a 35-27 win. During a nationally televised game against Kansas State in 2024, Tyler forced a fumble, intercepted a pass and pressured the quarterback on three straight possessions. His performance set a tone.
His play style and personality earned him a platform. Tyler elected to use his for good. In tandem with his father, and with the blessing of his former coach, Tyler created a nonprofit called “Edward’s Hands.” The name itself tells you almost everything you need to know about who he is and how he thinks. “Edward’s Hands” worked as a double entendre. Ranch hands are folks like his father, who have committed their life to hard work. And, oftentimes, autistic children flap their hands when they feel genuine excitement.
The family gathered in the backyard a few weekends ago for the NFL Draft. It was a day Tyler had dreamed of for years. At long last, and against all odds, he was bound for the NFL.
Smiles faded as the hours passed. Peg paced and went inside. One of Tyler’s siblings came running, saying that Tyler had just answered a phone call. She’d peek outside, only to find that it was his agent calling, informing him that nothing seemed imminent.
The fourth round went, then the fifth, then the sixth. Nobody understood why his name remained on the board. He produced in college. He nailed all of the measurables and testing exercises at the NFL Scouting Combine. Poppinga told NFL general managers that Tyler was “probably the toughest kid I’ve coached in 17 years.”
Tyler and his older sister. (Courtesy of Peg Batty)
Despite Tyler’s high character and self-driven profile, 257 players were picked ahead of him. He remained an undrafted free agent for approximately 30 seconds. Vikings defensive coordinator Brian Flores and the team’s personnel department had identified him as a versatile player who would squeeze every droplet of potential out of his career. The Vikings quickly made the call, and finally, as the sun fell behind the mountains and the pasture was tinged with bright pink, the family celebrated.
“It all turned out good,” Layne says. “Tyler told us that in one of the first meetings, the (Vikings) coaches said, ‘Every position is open. It’s yours for the taking. Who wants it? Who wants it the most?’”
The parents admit their bias, but even for an outside observer, it’s easy to think Tyler has a great shot. This is a guy who used to wake up ahead of his alarm for before-school weightlifting. It’s a dude who once brought his mother a grocery list of healthy items to buy so he could prepare his body. It’s a father’s son who has known what he’s loved for as long as he can remember.
Tyler was just a boy.
(Top photo: Chris Gardner / Getty Images)