Back in the swing of life: Maddox’s return to baseball after cancer

 

Maddox blew past the coach’s stop signal at first base and headed for second, a trail of dust rising beneath his cleats as the crowd cheered. He slid safely into the bag, sprang to his feet and did something else no one expected.

Maddox pulled off his helmet and thrust it into the air. 

His hair, once styled into a mohawk, had fallen out during chemotherapy. Self-conscious about his bald head, he usually wore a cap. But on that sunny day in June 2025, standing on second base, none of that mattered. 

There was only joy. Only triumph. 

Just five months earlier, when his parents told him he had cancer, Maddox didn’t ask if he was going to die. He had two other questions: Could he still play baseball? And would he lose his hair? 

“Baseball is my life,” Maddox said. He started playing at 3 and earned a spot on a traveling team at 5. He loves the competition, his teammates and the strategy behind every play. “You have to use your head,” he said. 

Before cancer, Maddox was one of the hardest throwers in his age group, firing pitches that reached 53 mph. Then, shortly after winning a fielding challenge at baseball practice, he was in the intensive care unit at St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital®.

In January 2025, Maddox, then 8, was diagnosed with T-cell acute lymphoblastic leukemia, or T-ALL, an aggressive form of blood and bone marrow cancer that develops in immature immune cells. Outcomes for children with leukemia have improved dramatically over the past 60 years, but T-ALL remains one of the more challenging forms to treat, particularly if it returns.

Now, on that sunny June day, Maddox stood on second base for his first time since beginning treatment. For his parents, Courtney and Andrew, the moment meant everything. 

Because it was more than a boy celebrating a double. 

Maddox was where he belonged. Back in the swing of life. 

‘What is that?”

In January 2025, Maddox felt a small bump on the right side of his neck. “I thought, what is that?” Maddox said. 

He told his mom, Courtney, an emergency room physician assistant for 17 years. A tiny swollen lymph node. Not too alarming.

That weekend, Maddox played basketball with friends. But then, while visiting a friend’s house, he did something he’d never done before. He napped for an hour and a half. “When I’m at a friend’s house, I never sleep,” Maddox said.

Later, at home, he lay in his mom’s arms on the couch. Courtney noticed a few bruises on his shins, not unusual for such an active kid. “He’s all boy,” she said. “I’m all boy,” Maddox echoed.  

Nothing in the moment suggested anything serious. Yet over Maddox’s head, Andrew mouthed to Courtney: “Does he have leukemia?” She shook her head. No way. She’d seen kids with leukemia before; they were really sick.

That Monday, Courtney asked Maddox’s pediatrician for a routine blood panel. Strangely, the results did not register on the office’s hematology analyzer, so the doctor sent the sample to an outside lab.

Maddox had practice at an indoor facility a 2 ½-hour drive away. “Is it OK if we go?” Courtney asked. The doctor promised to call with the results.

At practice, Maddox was in top form, snagging the most balls in a fielding challenge to win it. Halfway through practice, Courtney’s cellphone finally rang. She went outside to answer the call. 

The doctor asked if Andrew was with her. He was away for work. Then, the doctor asked if Courtney's baseball family was there for support. Courtney knew. She told the doctor, “I know something is wrong. Shoot me straight.”

Maddox’s white blood cell count was dangerously high. The results were highly suspicious for leukemia.

Courtney fell to the ground. Someone inside the facility heard her scream and rushed outside. Inside, Maddox was still practicing. Still laughing with teammates. Still unaware that his life had just changed. 

Then, one of his teammates asked him, “Maddox, why is your mom crying?” Maddox ran to her. Courtney told Maddox they needed to go to the emergency room at a children’s hospital in Memphis, Tennessee, about an hour and a half from where they live in Arkansas. 

Looking back now at a video she’d shot during that practice, Courtney began, “Looking at him…” Maddox finished, “You couldn’t even tell I was sick.”

‘A safe place’

At the emergency room, additional testing confirmed the diagnosis. Maddox’s white blood cell count continued to climb.

A doctor asked Courtney if she’d told Maddox yet. “How do you tell your 8-year-old that he has cancer?” she asked. Courtney called Andrew so they could tell their son together.

Maddox didn’t know what leukemia was, but he’d seen the commercials for St. Jude. That’s when he asked whether he’d be able to play baseball and if he’d lose his hair. Courtney answered honestly: “Maddox, I don’t really know.”

Andrew arrived just before the ambulance to take Maddox to the ICU at nearby St. Jude. “I felt like I was in a safe place,” Maddox said. “They take care of you. They make you not feel scared.”

Treatment began immediately. Maddox’s doctor evaluated him on a protocol called INITIALL, which uses genomic information to determine what type of acute leukemia a patient has and how the disease should be treated.

By studying the genetic and biological features of each child's leukemia, researchers can match some patients with newer drugs designed to attack specific weaknesses in their cancer with the hope of reducing side effects and improving outcomes. 

Maddox was put on a protocol called SJALL23-T, a clinical trial for children newly diagnosed with T-ALL that adds new chemotherapy drugs tailored to the patient’s leukemia alongside standard treatments. 

Courtney prayed on the floor of Maddox’s room for five hours. That night, his white blood cell count dropped dramatically. Over the next week, it fluctuated but began trending down. The protocol was working. Another test showed the disease had not spread to his spinal cord or brain.

After about a week in the ICU and several more days as an inpatient, Maddox was discharged. The family moved into the Ronald McDonald House while he continued treatment at St. Jude.

Baseball would have to wait.

Game delayed 

Like baseball, cancer treatment came with its share of bad hops.

A peripherally inserted central catheter (PICC) line in his right arm — his throwing arm — prevented him from fully extending his elbow and made moving the arm difficult.

Then a norovirus infection.

Blood clots in his brain caused debilitating headaches, another week in the hospital and months of blood thinner injections in his belly. 

He lost weight. He lost muscle. At times he needed a wheelchair.

Again and again, his body couldn’t keep up with what his heart wanted.

Less than two months into treatment, Maddox was in remission — and determined to get back on the diamond. If something might help him get there, he did it. Physical therapy. Occupational therapy. Exercises.

“I wouldn’t let anything take me away from baseball,” Maddox said. “I would work my tail end off. I would work every single day — do anything — to help me play baseball.”

His parents marveled at him. Courtney said, “He had this determination that was just unstoppable.”

‘It was him again’

Maddox felt ready to play. His doctor disagreed. For a kid who had fought so hard to get back to the game he loved, the disappointment hit hard. 

Maddox and his parents returned home to Arkansas in April. On Mother’s Day weekend, they went to watch his team play. Maddox warmed up with his teammates and cheered from the sidelines.

But once he was back in the car, Maddox fell apart. The next day, his parents found him on the garage floor crying, “Why can’t I be a normal 8-year-old?” 

There was no easy answer. Only the hope that one day he’d play again.

Then, within a couple of weeks, after careful conversations with his medical team, Maddox got the news he’d been waiting for. He could play. There would be precautions. No unnecessary risks. But baseball.

“The moment we let him play ball,” Courtney said, “our whole world changed.” 

She sewed a special pocket into a compression shirt to hold a protective shield over the medical port in his chest. When Maddox was nauseous from chemotherapy, he’d dart to the sideline fence to be sick and then trot right back onto the field.

Maddox played first base in his first game back that May. Running still was difficult. If he made it to first base, a pinch runner took his place.

Then came that game in June. The one that took him all the way to second base. The one that had him thrusting his helmet into the air. 

“The excitement on his face was incredible,” Courtney said. “It was him again.”

Play ball!

A coach invited Maddox to try out for a new team in November 2025. He made the roster — and returned to tournament play in February. He’s been practicing twice a week and playing games every weekend ever since.

Maddox is still in treatment. He makes regular trips to St. Jude. In July 2026, Maddox finished IV chemotherapy — and got his port out. He’ll take daily oral chemotherapy, likely until May 2027, Courtney said.

Maddox is on the honor roll at school with straight As. His favorite subject is math, followed by science and art. He likes painting landscapes. He recently turned 10.

Before his birthday, Maddox said, “I can’t wait to be in the double digits. I’ll get to boss my parents around.” Andrew and Courtney exchanged smiles over the top of his head.

Maddox appreciates everything more now. His family. Friends. And, of course, baseball.

“I act like it’s just the last time I’m going to get to play baseball,” Maddox said. “I never want it to be the last time.”

For a boy who came close to losing the game he loves, those words carry unusual weight. One day, Maddox hopes to play professional baseball. 

For now, he’s exactly where he wants to be. Out on a baseball field. Dirt on his uniform. A glove and ball in his hands. Another chance to play.