When Maddy was little, her hair was cut short and she loved to play outside. She called those years her “little boy days.” When she turned seven years old, she requested that her birthday party feature live animals—snakes and frogs—to be stocked in her family’s basement for herself and the neighborhood kids. Maddy loved the outdoors and all its creatures, and probably would have continued having animal parties and running around outdoors getting dirty if the world in which she and other girls live would have approved.
By the time Madison hit middle school, her “little boy days” were a distant memory. She had begun to grow out her hair a couple years before and started caring about how she looked, about the clothes she wore, about what other kids said about her. Still, much of who Maddy was as a little kid had stuck. As a second grader, she had fallen in love with art and soccer. Both helped her make sense of the world. In fact, during her first semester at Penn, Madison took an English class in which she had to give a speech. She started it with an anecdote about soccer: “When you were younger, what did you aspire to be? At some point in our lives, especially as children, we all question what we want to be in the future. In our na?ve and hopeful minds, we set big dreams for ourselves. As a third grader I remember setting my goals towards becoming a professional soccer player. During recess I would hop into any pickup soccer games I could; regardless of whether boys were playing or girls. Some of my teammates and I were even invited to play as guests on the boys travel team, and even though they intimidated us a little, we were able to hang in there with them…”
(Holleran family)
Madison’s best friend growing up was MJ White, a friendship forged by the single-mindedness they shared. By second grade, they were playing together on the local club soccer team, forming friendships that would last through high school. And at school, MJ and Madison would spend their free time drawing. One year, they started drawing dogs—different breeds, different names for each. The paper dogs were like pets, but without the hassle and long-term commitment. When they first started, they would look at each other and say, “We have to make them perfect, okay?” And both would nod. Soon after, they were drawing dogs every free moment. Once they built up a collection of a decent size, they decided to sell their paper pets to family and friends. The two friends donated the proceeds to buy hats and gloves for the homeless.
Art became a release for Maddy. During middle school, she would spend her free time sketching. One teacher allowed students to paint different parts of the hallway—creative café, the teacher called it—and Madison would take part every day. Even as she got older and other pursuits became cooler, Maddy continued drawing. She liked that she could control the space. The whiteness of the paper could become anything she wanted—and also only what she wanted. If Madison focused intensely enough, if she was willing to block out distractions, she could produce something flawless.
Soccer wasn’t like that. Everything happened in rapid succession, one decision forcing the next. But on the field, a different kind of perfection could be attained. Occasionally a play would unfold with such unexpected rhythm as to feel choreographed, and a kind of beauty existed in that chaos.
For years, Maddy had also played tennis, the family sport. She was good at tennis—really good. So good, in fact, that when she and Jim would attend the U.S. Open, as they did every year, she would watch and wonder if she could someday play at the highest level. Jim believed she could, of course. He believed she could do anything.
But eventually, around the start of high school, Madison dropped competitive tennis in favor of soccer. When asked why, she said she didn’t want to play an individual sport. She spent enough time inside her own head—thoughts bouncing around, sharpening inside her mind—that playing tennis felt too isolating. The sport was as much mental as physical: walking along the baseline after each point, trying to rally if things weren’t going well, or to stay grounded if they were. The roller coaster of emotions that was tennis was more than Maddy wanted to handle. Where tennis could trap you inside your own mind, soccer was open, even freeing. And Maddy was also really good at it.
Emma Sullivan and Jackie Reyneke started playing for the local soccer club in kindergarten. Jackie’s dad, Kobus, coached the team, called the Americans. When Madison and MJ joined, followed by Brooke Holle, another talented kid from Upper Saddle River, the Americans became a juggernaut. Their reputation grew as one of the most elite local teams in the state. Although most of them could have upgraded to a more prestigious team, the girls continued playing together through eighth grade. They didn’t want their time together to end, but they knew that by the time they reached high school they needed to switch teams. They needed bigger tournaments—the kind college recruiters attended—and better competition.
For the girls, leaving the Americans was the end of an era. Madison, Erin, Jackie, Emma, and Brooke were going to high school at Northern Highlands, a public school, while MJ would move to a local private school. They would all stay friends, of course, but Maddy became closer to Emma, Jackie, and Brooke, because they saw one another every day.
The Northern Highlands coaches, teachers, and students all knew of Madison before she started high school. That was partly because of Ashley, who was beginning her junior year, but mostly it was because of how Maddy had distinguished herself athletically, academically, and socially. People saw her as someone with endless promise. She was supposed to make varsity as a freshman, get straight As, and generally rule the school.
The summer before starting high school, Maddy became anxious. One night, a couple weeks before the first day of freshman year, she and her friend Trisha went over to MJ’s house and hung out in the backyard eating ice cream and talking. This was the first time any of Maddy’s friends had seen her unsteady, doubting. The transition to high school was the first major challenge for all of them—the first life change they faced with concerns beyond who they might sit next to on the bus. That night at MJ’s, Madison had just gotten back from a sleepaway soccer camp at Rutgers, and the first day at Highlands was looming.
Growing up, Madison had spent hundreds of hours, and often well into the evening, kicking the ball into the netting of a floppy white goal that Jim had constructed in their backyard. She studied for tests until she knew every answer. She was doing everything she could, and yet so much still seemed uncontrollable.
“I’m just nervous,” Maddy said that night at MJ’s.
“About what?”