My older sister has always been great. It’s like a universal truth. The Earth revolves around the sun. What goes up must come down, because, you know, gravity. And Meredith Hancock is great.
Great at what?
Great at everything.
Great at school, near the top of her class since kindergarten; great at baseball, leading our town’s All-Star team to the Little League World Series when she was twelve. She was the only middle school girl on varsity cross-country and basketball and, of course, softball, once she swapped over to play with the other girls. All-State as an eighth grader, All-Region as a freshman, and then All-American honors rolling in by her sophomore and junior years.
Like I said, great.
But I’m not sure I understood just how great until right now, playing against her in a national championship game at Hall of Fame Stadium in Oklahoma City, the capital of fastpitch softball. It’s not even because of the home run she blasted off my best curveball last inning to put her team ahead. Though, yeah, my neck is still feeling the whiplash of watching the laser beam she rocketed disappear over the left field fence.
No, it’s from where I’m standing in the on-deck circle while she’s squatting behind home plate and she frames a pitch that’s clearly outside so well even the umpire behind her is fooled into thinking it’s a strike. The same way she’s done the whole game. The whole tournament, really. She’s the best player in this thing and it’s not close. And that’s saying something at the Amateur Softball Association’s 18-Under Gold Nationals, the most elite club fastpitch softball tournament in the country.
“Strike three!” the ump yells, but no one is even listening to him because Meredith shifts her weight down, pivots on her knee, and fires a laser beam to third, where the runner, my teammate Kiera, drifted just a little too far away from the base. Kiera dives back, but way too late.
“Out!” the field umpire calls as the girl who caught the ball checks the other runner, Hayden, at first. She gets back to the base without a throw, but the damage is done.
The crowd in the stands explodes behind us. It’s mostly our families and the players from the teams already eliminated and their families. And the college coaches here to scout. Not that I’m thinking about them. Or whether or not my parents are cheering.
I’ve always wondered who they’d root for if Meredith and I played against each other.
I’m absolutely never going to ask.
It’s a pretty good life philosophy: Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.
That’s not important now, though. What’s important is what just happened, because ten seconds ago we had the upper hand.
We had runners on first and third, nobody out, and one of our best hitters up at the plate. We were a fly ball away from tying the game, an extra base hit away from scoring two runs—Hayden’s superfast, she’ll score on anything in the gap—and walking off this field National Champions.
But that was then.
Now?
We’re down to our final out.
And I’m up to bat.
Tying run on first.
Winning run at the plate.
No pressure.
It’s not like I’m the only rising sophomore on a team full of almost seniors, facing one of the best pitchers in the country, my sister’s best friend, Nora.
“Hey, we got two down!” Meredith says from out in front of home plate, standing tall, nearly six feet in her cleats. Her catcher’s mask is up, revealing her face to her teammates like the field general she’s been since the first time she put on that equipment. She’s holding a hand in the air, waving it to the outfielders, pointer and pinkie fingers raised. Her face is streaked with dirt. So is her uniform, the black material and maroon lettering of the famous California Diamond Queens—the oldest and most prestigious travel softball club in the country, the team I didn’t make, thanks to Nora being completely dominant—almost disappearing under it. Her light brown hair, the same color as mine, is pasted against her forehead in the Oklahoma heat. It’s been unforgiving this past week, but it’s almost over now.
Bottom of the seventh.
Two outs.
Championship on the line.
I glance back at my dugout, my teammates lined up against the fence, fingers twined in the chain link, desperate to do something to change what just happened, but the only person who can do that is me.
And I’m just Molly. The other Hancock.
And yeah, maybe I’m good. Really good. But the SoCal Heat didn’t pull me up from their 16-Under team for my bat. I’m not a bad hitter, but I’m mostly here because one of their pitchers got hurt right before the tournament. I half expected Coach to pinch-hit for me. But asking someone to come off the bench cold and face down a girl who’ll play for UCLA next year? That’s asking a lot of anyone.
Too much.
Meredith doesn’t look at me when she backs up behind home plate, just replaces her mask over her face and squats down, waiting for me to get settled in the batter’s box, like I’m any other batter. To her I probably am. Great players, they can separate everything else from the game.
That’s what I need to do right now.
Okay, deep breath. I can do this. I take batting practice off Nora at home all the time. This is just like that, right?
Yeah, no, it’s nothing like that.
I rest the bat against my shoulder and exhale, relaxing my entire body as Meredith puts down the sign. Nora, just forty-three feet away, nods, then rocks into motion, arm whipping around in a circle. I have less than a half second to react.
Hiss.
Yes—no. No! NO!
Too late. I swing and miss.
Pop!
The ball thwacks into Meredith’s glove.
Strike one.
It was a riser, the bane of every fastpitch softball player’s existence. Nora’s has been tantalizingly good all game. It starts off looking like a fat, juicy fastball right down the middle, but then jumps just before it reaches home plate, out of reach of your bat before you can stop your swing.
And just like that, I’m down in the count.
Lay off it, a voice in my head screeches, one that actually sounds annoyingly like Meredith.
Okay, deep breath. Look for something to punch to right. Get on base. Get Hayden into scoring position. Keep the line moving. Keep us alive.
I feel Meredith shift behind me—I can’t tell which way—just as Nora goes into her windup, and then the pitch is coming, my weight shifts, but way too early.
Changeup.
Shit.
I can’t adjust, it’s too slow and I swing, just before it crosses the plate, my feet tangling underneath me.
Strike two.
Meredith fires the ball back to Nora as I stumble out of the box trying to reset myself. Riser, then change, and now … what? A curveball like she threw me my last at bat? Another riser because of how silly I looked on the first one? Or a fastball, just to prove she can throw the thing by me after that incredible changeup?
No.
Don’t think, just hit.
Don’t think.
Just hit.
The crowd is back there somewhere, my parents in it, but that all fades to a distant buzz. I step into the box and breathe in and then out and focus.
Nora lets go of the ball.
Yes—yes. Yes! YES! It’s a riser that doesn’t rise. Contact, so solid and true I barely feel it as the ball launches into the right centerfield gap.
My feet grind through the dirt up the first baseline, wind whistling in the ear holes of my helmet. The outfielders converge on the ball in right center, but it bounces off the wall and then darts backward past them into no-man’s-land. That’s the last I see of it as I round second, my eyes lifting to our third base coach, who’s waving Hayden home.
She’s a flash of red, gold, and black uniform with her blond ponytail swinging out of the back of her helmet as she crosses the plate.
Tie game.
My foot hits third and Coach raises her hands to stop me, but I can’t, I’m going too hard, too fast. Instinctively, I feel something in the field shift behind me. The ball is coming back in. I raise my head and there’s Meredith looming ahead of me, out in front of home plate. There’s my path. Hayden waves her arms violently to the outside and down, signaling to slide to the back of the plate, but I know I need to get as far away from the ball and the tag as I can, as far away from my sister as I can.
I take one last stride and dive just as Meredith lunges backward.
The ball, she, and I arrive in the same spot at the same time, and just as my hand brushes against the back corner of the plate, her shoulder blasts into mine.
We go sprawling, the momentum sending me flying into the hard-packed dirt. This might be softball, but there’s nothing soft about it right now, with heavy brown dust rising around us into a cloud of confusion.
My breath goes out of me the same way the sound is sucked out of the stands, everyone falling silent around us as the air clears.
“Safe!” the umpire screams, and I’ve never heard a sweeter word in my life.
I’m still down on the ground and so is Meredith, but so is the ball, a few inches from her outstretched hand.
I’m safe.
I scored.
We win.
I win.
Waking up has a surreal, almost dreamy quality to it, back in my own bed after catching a late flight to San Diego last night.
But when I roll over on my shoulder, the aching bruise from that collision at home is very, very real. And so is the trophy sitting in the corner of my bedroom and the championship ring in its box on my nightstand.
Reality is so, so sweet, even if today is the first day of school and my body clock is still two hours ahead.
“Jet lag is the worst,” I grumble, dragging myself into the kitchen and onto a stool at the island. “Do I really have to go to school today?”
My mom raises an eyebrow from her spot leaning against the counter, nursing a mug of steaming coffee. She doesn’t even have to say it. This was part of our agreement. I can play with the 18-Under team as long as I don’t give my parents a hard time about school.
But we won Nationals. That should count for something, shouldn’t it?
“Morning,” Meredith says, moving in behind me. She’s already dressed. Not for the day, though, but for the run she’s already back from. Her shoulder bruise matches mine, blue and purple, the same colors as the sports bra she ran in this morning. She grabs a banana from the bowl on the counter next to Mom. “I’m leaving at six forty-five sharp if you want a ride.”
“Okay, fine,” I mutter. She tosses me a banana and I catch it before sliding off the stool and heading back upstairs to get ready for school.
So yeah, I’m a little bit jet-lagged and I barely slept last night, but now I’m actually pumped. Today is gonna be awesome. None of our teammates go to Mitchell High School with us except for Nora, but everyone knows what happened. It’s all over social media. My phone was so out of control when I got off the plane that I had to shut off my notifications.
I shower fast and pass Meredith in the hallway as she heads in for her own. She barely looks up at me, her eyes glued to her phone as she shuts the bathroom door.
She’s probably texting Sawyer, her boyfriend. He’s almost as annoyingly perfect as she is, but with his broad shoulders, bright smile, and purposefully messy hair, I’m willing to overlook it. He’s headed to Harvard next year, probably, or Yale or whatever genius school people go to, to be a brain surgeon or president or whatever.
Meredith still hasn’t decided where she wants to go and she’s been really quiet about it all summer, despite all the college coaches drooling over her since she was like twelve. All the top schools—Oklahoma, UCLA, Alabama, Washington, Northwestern, Arizona, Stanford—they all want her.
Now it’s my turn to get drooled on.
Wait … over, not on. Whatever. I’m definitely still jet-lagged.
We left Oklahoma with a stack of coaches’ business cards that didn’t even fit in Dad’s wallet. And when I get home from school today I have a bunch of emails to send to Division 1 programs all around the country.
I throw on a T-shirt and shorts, pull my hair up into a wet, messy bun, tug on a pair of Chucks, and let myself stare at my trophy for a little while, but not too long. Meredith will actually leave without me if I’m not on time, and then I’ll have to take the bus. I’m halfway down the stairs when a high-pitched murder shriek nearly sends me tumbling down them.
“What? Who died?” I yell, racing into the kitchen where Mom and Dad are squeezing the hell out of Meredith, tears running down her cheeks.
Shit, did someone actually die?
“Northwestern! Oh, honey, a full scholarship. It’s amazing,” Mom says, and Meredith laughs, gently pulling out of the hug and wiping away her tears.
Oh.
She’s going to Northwestern. One of the best softball programs in the country. One of the best schools in the country, especially for journalism, and I know she wants to be like a female Steve Kornacki when she grows up.
And she decided today.
That’s just … great.
“Congrats, Mere,” I say when she sends me a watery smile.
“Thanks,” she says, giving herself a little shake. “Okay, we should head to school. Still have to graduate.”
Mom and Dad laugh and give her one last squeeze each before they hug me, too.
“Have a good first day, girls!” Dad calls behind us as we move through the front door and head for Meredith’s car. Our car, technically, but I only have a permit, so until I pass my test, it’s hers.
“You drive,” she says, tossing me her keys. “I need to call Sawyer.”
He picks up right away, clearly driving to school, too, because I can hear the engine in the background.
“Hey babe, what’s up?”
“It’s official!” Meredith squeaks, in a voice that’s the exact opposite of her commands on the field. “Coach Hernandez sent me the offer last night. I didn’t see it until this morning because I passed out after the flight, but I’m going to Northwestern.”
“Congrats, superstar! No one deserves this more, M! I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks,” she says, a smile playing across her mouth, her expression going soft. “I’m really proud of me, too.”
Sawyer laughs. “I’m pulling in now. I’ll see you in a minute, congratulate you properly.”
Fair warning, then. I need to get out of the car and head straight inside if I don’t want to watch them make out in the school parking lot.
We pull into our spot and it’s already getting crowded, a mark of the first day of school. By tomorrow less than half the kids will be here at this time.
I take off for the building, passing a small crowd headed for Meredith getting out of the car, led by her boyfriend.
“Hey Molly,” Sawyer and Nora chorus together, but that’s it, before the group of seniors totally surround my sister, drawing an even bigger crowd from the arriving buses when the shouts of congratulations start to flow.
So much for my win, I guess.
“She just had to pick today, didn’t she?” I complain, slamming my locker door shut. “She couldn’t give me one day before it had to be about her again?”
“I mean, it’s kind of a big deal,” Carly, my best friend, says, her thumb scrolling through her phone. “Northwestern is amazing. I’d love to live in Chicago; a few of the girls from camp are from there.”
“It snows ten months out of the year in Chicago. You start wearing sweaters when it drops below seventy.”
Carly shrugs, not giving me the sympathy I’m craving because she’s my best friend and knows as much as I do that I’m being ridiculous. “That way when I come back home I can appreciate eighty-five and sunny every day.”
“Whatever. Maybe she can graduate early and go in January instead.”
“Don’t say that. You’re gonna miss her. Who’s gonna help you with Trig once she’s gone?”
“You mean who is going to help you with Trig.”
“Wow,” Carly says. “Harsh, but fair. And maybe this will make you feel better. Someone grabbed a video of you scoring that last run and posted it. It’s got like half a million views.”
“What?” I squeak, as Carly shoves her phone under my nose.
“It’s one of those highlight accounts.”
I take the phone and stare at the screen. The video is good, taken from just behind home plate on the first base side. It’s zoomed in on me rounding third, right through my coach’s stop sign as the ball is fired home. It’s just like I remember it. I can feel my shoulder hitting Meredith’s, the air rushing out of my chest when I hit the ground, the umpire calling me safe, the crowd roaring a tidal wave of noise down to the field, my teammates piling on top of me and I’m happy to be suffocated by them. Ecstatic even.
This is almost as cool as living it.
Half a million people have watched me score a run to win a championship.
My eyes scan down to the comments and I start to scroll, pulling in a deep breath at all the verified accounts, actors, singers, athletes, and a few professional baseball teams at the top adding all-caps responses, thumbs-ups, and little notes.
GIRL POWER!
Third Base Coach: Molly, no! Molly: Molly, yes!
Nothing was stopping her. Look at her go. You can’t teach hustle like that.
And it gets better … they’re SISTERS!
It spreads through school almost as fast as it spreads online. My teachers have seen it. Everybody in my classes has seen it.
“Molly, someone set it to the song from Titanic!” Mimi, a very cute ice hockey player in my Chem class says, leaning over from her seat across the row to show me, just as Jake, the equally cute junior class president sitting in front of me, turns around to watch, too. There I am rounding third base in slow motion as the music swells, and just as Celine Dion’s voice echoes through the tiny speaker, I collide with Meredith at home and actual goose bumps spread across my arms, making me shiver.
And that’s when my eyes catch on the account that shared it.
Holy crap.
ESPN.
It’s gone viral.
I’ve gone viral.
My notifications have been off since late last night and my DMs were a total mess even before the video blew up, so I haven’t even been trying to keep up. It’s not until I get to lunch when I have a chance to check my messages and when I do, I get goose bumps again, but this time not the good kind.
It’s not winning if you cheat.
How nice, big sister let little sister win.
Her hand flexes on the ball before it falls out. She dropped it on purpose. Pathetic.
This is bullshit. Both of them should be banned.
And then, in my DMs, a bunch of media outlets sending long rambling messages about the video, asking for a comment, asking me to appear on their channels, asking if it’s okay to come to our house for an interview.
I ignore them all.
Because I know they only want to ask me one thing right now: Did my sister, my annoyingly perfect, absolute beast-of-a-ballplayer big sister, let me win?
“It’s crap,” Carly says, as we move into the courtyard and sit at the table we claimed as our own last year, far enough away from the trash cans to avoid the smell, but close enough to the building to avoid being late to our next class when the bell rings.
I set my lunch tray down and sigh heavily. “Of course it’s crap,” I say flatly. “It’s crap, right?”
“Total crap,” Carly agrees, reaching out and squeezing my hand. “Meredith wouldn’t do that.”
“She wouldn’t,” I say, but the doubt is there now, spurred on by those stupid comments, talking about the way her hand hit the ground and how her fingers didn’t lose grip right away and how she didn’t let go as soon as it hit the ground and what if … what if she did let me win? What if she … what if she knew how much I wanted it, how desperate I was in that moment not just to win the game, but to beat her, and what if … what if my big sister, in a moment of absolute madness, just let her hand fall open and let the ball roll out of it? What if she let me win? What if the one thing I’ve ever felt like I earned all on my own is fake? The crowd, the college coaches, the viral video, what if it’s all bullshit?
The rest of the day flies, and when the final bell rings, I head straight for the locker room. We have cross-country practice after school, but when I get there, Nora’s waiting, holding out the car keys.
“Sawyer drove her home,” is all my sister’s best friend says to me, but it’s enough. If Meredith’s missing practice, even for her third-best sport, then she definitely saw the messages. Her DMs are probably even worse than mine. She’s the one they’re accusing of throwing the game. Something she’d never do.
And I know that, logically, but the doubt is still there, pulling at my chest.
I try to push it out of my head, but it’s impossible. Practice today is just a long recovery run since I’ve missed the past week because of Nationals. So it’s just me, by myself, setting my own pace, listening to the pounding of my feet on the pavement as a question I definitely don’t want an answer to repeats over and over again in my mind.
What if it’s true?
By the time I get home, after the slowest drive ever, terrified I’d get pulled over without a licensed driver in the car with me, Meredith’s in her bedroom, the door shut. And when I sit down to dinner, freshly showered after running a quick 5K during practice, I can only stare across the table at my parents for a few seconds before breaking.
“How bad is it?”
Mom sends Dad a quick glance, but then sighs, putting down her fork. “The Northwestern coach called earlier wanting assurances that what they’re saying online isn’t true.”
Anger prickles at the back of my neck. How dare that coach even suggest that my sister would … wait, but … isn’t that what I’ve been doing? And then a terrible, god-awful thought occurs to me.
“Are they going to take her scholarship back?” I ask quietly, nudging my roasted carrots around my plate, circling the grilled salmon but not actually eating any of it. I’m not sure my stomach can handle food right now.
I expect a quick no, but Dad shrugs. “I’m not an expert, but I think they can withdraw it if … if something like this happens.”
“They can’t do that. It’s all she’s ever wanted. They can’t just take it away from her. She earned the scholarship. She should tell them to shove it and go to Stanford instead.”
Their silence speaks volumes.
That might not even be an option. Stanford won’t want her if Northwestern doesn’t. No one will.
Mom picks up a plate and leaves the kitchen, probably to try to get Meredith to eat something, so I pull out my phone and watch the video again. A reporter on one of those sports talk shows that fill up the day before actual sports are played at night has slowed it down and added commentary.
“She catches the ball clean and she’s fundamentally sound,” the dude says as the camera flashes to his unimpressed-looking co-host, Vera Nuñez from ESPN. “Her foot slides back, knee goes down to block the plate while she’s moving to tag her sister. It happens so fast, there’s no way for her to really secure the ball, and even though it’s a clean play according to the rules, there’s an actual collision, which complicates everything even more. There’s no way to know if the ball got knocked loose or if she decided in that split second to give her little sister the win. The only person who knows is Meredith Hancock. If you had a little sister, wouldn’t you let her win?”
Vera opens her mouth to respond, glaring daggers across the desk. “I am a little sister and I would be furious with my big sister if she let me win anything, let alone anything as important as a championship game. Who are we to be questioning this young woman’s integrity?”
The jerk just shrugs, a smug grin on his face while the clip cuts out.
Mom comes back a minute later, the full plate still in her hand, shaking her head.
“I’m gonna try and talk to her,” I say, pushing my own full plate away.
“Molly, that might not be—” Dad starts, but I don’t hear whatever else he says as I move past Mom and out of the kitchen.
I knock on her door gently. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t just barge into Meredith’s room, greeted by an annoyed, but affectionate eye roll as she stops whatever she’s doing to ask me what I need.
“Mere?” I ask quietly. “Can I come in?”
For a second and then another, there’s only silence, and I’m about to turn around and leave when she says, “It’s open.”
“Hey,” I murmur as I push the door open just a crack and slip through, leaning back against it as I close it behind me.
She’s sitting on her bed staring blankly down at her phone on the duvet as it lights up, the messages continuing to pour in, and she hugs a pillow to her chest, her knees drawn up against it. She looks so small. I’ve never seen her look this small before.
“You okay?”
It’s a stupid question, but it’s the only thing I can think of to say. Of course she’s not okay. She lost a national championship and now she might lose everything she’s ever worked for, everything she’s ever wanted.
I’m such an idiot for doubting her.
“Sorry, I—”
“No, it’s—” she says, and stops. “Well, it’s not really fine, but you know that.”
“Yeah,” I say, hesitating, biting my lip and studying the floor, the brown wooden planks that lead to the soft cream-colored area rug under her bed, covered in a pink velvet duvet and an army of throw pillows. My sister is an incredible athlete, but she’s a girly girl at heart. She must take my silence for something it’s not, though, maybe judgment or, worse, anger.
“Just ask me, Mol,” she says, her voice tight, and I look up to see her face, streaked with tears. Not the happy kind from this morning, the terrifying kind. Her eyes are bloodshot, her mascara and eyeliner staining the skin below them, her hair hanging limply around her shoulders; even the tan she’s sported all summer seems faded. “Ask me if I let you win, if I deliberately lost a National Championship, letting down my coaches and my teammates, putting everything I’ve ever worked for at risk, just so my little sister could win a fucking game. Ask me.”
She says it all with an eerie calmness, her voice barely rising above a whisper.
“I don’t have to ask,” I say, all my doubt entirely gone, climbing up onto the bed and moving in beside her, putting my arm around her shoulders. I know my sister better than anyone, maybe better than I even know myself. “I know you’d never, ever do that.”
“Do you?” she asks, laughing, a slightly hysterical note to it. I pull her in tighter. “No one else seems to.”
“I bet Sawyer does,” I say, trying to lighten the mood a little bit.
“Sawyer doesn’t count,” she says, pulling away, smiling. The smile stays for half a second before dropping again. “I talked to Coach Hernandez. She says she needs to know that her players will put the team first, no matter what. I told her that I’m that kind of player and she said she believes me, but I don’t know. What am I supposed to do? What does she want me to do? How can I prove … I was just … I was so happy for you, Molly. I was sad we lost, but I was so happy you won and I’m so sorry everyone else ruined it. I’m sorry I ruined it and you have to deal with this instead of celebrating your win. You deserve to celebrate. I am so proud of you.”
“You are?” I ask, flinching at how incredibly desperate the question sounds as her eyes brim with tears again.
Meredith laughs as the first one falls. “Of course I am. I don’t know if I told you, after, but I am. I mean, I’m always proud of you, you’re amazing, but you absolutely crushed that ball, Mol, and I tried, I really did, but you won, fair and square and now … now I don’t know what to do. I’m so, so sorry, but I don’t know how to fix this. I know I should. I’ve been trying to figure out how to do it all day, but I just don’t know what to do. I’m the big sister. I’m supposed to know what to do.”
“I do,” I say, suddenly, pulling my phone out of my pocket.
“What?” she asks, leaning away and wiping her tears. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
I know exactly what to do, and maybe it won’t be the end of it, not entirely, but at the very least I know how to help her keep her scholarship.
I scroll through my DMs to find the account I’m looking for, sure it will be there. It’s pretty buried, but when I find it, I just respond with my phone number and almost immediately a number based in New York lights up on my screen.
“Hi, this is Molly Hancock,” I say, and grin at Meredith, who still looks incredibly confused. “Is this Vera Nuñez from ESPN? Great. My sister and I want to tell our story.”
SAFE AT HOME
You may recognize the name Meredith Hancock. Six years ago, the San Diego native dominated from the mound in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, the first girl to pitch a no-hitter at the Little League World Series. Now she’s one of the top softball recruits in the nation. But you might not know her younger sister, Molly, whose exploits at the fastpitch softball National Championships have put her in the spotlight alongside her history-making sister.
Only a day removed from her now-viral home-plate collision with Meredith to score the winning run, securing the National Championship for her team, the video has been shared over three million times in just twenty-four hours across ESPN’s social media platforms alone. The play has sparked massive controversy, with some believing that Meredith allowed her younger sister to score that winning run, throwing the game and the championship, and earning herself a label that’s kept some of the best ballplayers ever out of the Hall of Fame: cheater.
When asked whether she thought her sister dropped that ball on purpose, Molly laughed so hard that she couldn’t answer my question for more than a full minute. Finally able to catch her breath, she said, “My sister wouldn’t even let me win at Monopoly. Anyone who thinks she would deliberately lose knows nothing about softball or sisters, let alone my sister. And now, because some people hiding behind their keyboards with barely a fraction of her talent and drive and integrity decided she’s a cheat, she just is and she has to figure out a way to prove she’s not? She has to worry about her reputation as an athlete? About the full scholarship from Northwestern that she accepted this morning?”
It’s common knowledge in fastpitch softball circles that Meredith Hancock has scholarship offers from all the top NCAA programs, but she hadn’t yet decided on where she would be taking her talents next year.
“Coach Hernandez has been so supportive through this whole mess,” Meredith confirmed over the phone from the Hancock family home in San Diego. “I’m really grateful for her and I can’t wait to join the Wildcat family.” And as for the accusations? “Molly beat me. It happens. That’s softball.”
We reached out to Northwestern’s head coach, Emilia Hernandez, who said, “We have no doubts about Meredith Hancock’s integrity or her ability. She is everything a coach looks for in an athlete on and off the field and we’re thrilled she’s decided to join our program.”
Why then, if anyone who knows Meredith Hancock is sure she would never do something like this, are people questioning the play?
Molly is pretty sure she knows.
“If we were brothers, would we even be having this conversation? If we were two boys who collided at home plate at the end of a championship, would you doubt for one second that I wanted with everything in me to score that run and Meredith wanted with everything in her to stop me? The answer is no and everyone knows that.”
From one little sister to another: Well said, Molly, well said.