Grace Lombardi is a sophomore shortstop from New Jersey who is known as a defensive wiz and lefty lead-off with gap power. She has “followed in the family (sports) business” as her father played college baseball and her mother competed in softball at Penn State and was the Head Coach for the Red Bank High softball team in Red Bank, N.J. from 2003 to 2010.

Ranked in the Top 40 of the Line Drive Softball HOT 100 Player Rankings, the future looked very bright for Grace until one day two years something just didn’t feel right.

Here’s Grace’s scary story that tested the faith of the athlete and her family before ultimately proving to be her finest hour not just in softball, but in life.

*****

Going into my 8th grade softball season in 2023 was supposed to look different.

After years of early mornings, late practices, and quiet sacrifices, I was finally closing out middle school in Ocean Township and gearing up for a summer of elite competition with the Newtown Rock 16U National team.

Then, in the fall, I’d begin the next chapter at Red Bank Catholic—the school I’d dreamed of going to since I was little. I grew up on those sidelines, watching my Mom not only coach, but build something lasting—something powerful.

RBC softball wasn’t just a team to me, it was home. I’d spent my childhood in the shadows of green and gold, cheering with wide eyes and a full heart, imagining the day I’d wear that jersey myself.

The future was so close, I could almost touch it… and one day it abruptly stopped. On the morning of March 23rd, 2023, something felt off.

Something different… Something “Really Wrong”

I woke up with a strange numbness and tingling going down my neck into both my arms and legs. It wasn’t soreness. It wasn’t something I could stretch out or shake off; this was something different.

When I told my parents, I’ll never forget the look on my mom’s face—instantly worried, fiercely protective. She didn’t say much, but she didn’t have to. She knew. And when I couldn’t pretend the pain away, she knew it was serious.

Something was really wrong.

I tried to rest, tried to wait it out, but things spiraled. The tingling and numbness in my arms and legs got worse and my body started tremoring.

Before I understood what was happening, I was being wheeled into the Pediatric ICU at Jersey Shore Medical Center. The same halls I’d seen my older brother, Cole, pass through for his own hospital stays. Now it was my turn.

Scans. MRIs. More scans.

Words like “bulging discs” were tossed around but then came something darker—something hiding behind my cervical spine. They kept calling it “trauma to the area,” but no one could give it a name. Each test felt heavier than the last, each result only deepened the fear.

Doctors spoke in careful, guarded tones that left more questions than answers.

The Dreaded Diagnosis

Then came the MRI with contrast. They focused on that mysterious spot, and this time, it revealed a tumor. Not just any tumor—based on what they saw, they feared it could be glioblastoma: the most common and aggressive type of malignant brain tumor in adults

That word drifted through the air like a ghost, cold and silent. I didn’t even know what that word meant, but the way it hung in the room, the way it made my mom’s face go pale—I understood enough, it was serious.

Later, I learned that glioblastoma is fatal.  My parents—especially my mom—carried that fear quietly, while I lay in bed trying to understand why this was all happening to me.

My parents did everything they could to shield me from the worst. They filtered the truth through gentle words, giving me only what they thought I could handle—just enough to understand, but not enough to break me. They carried the fear for me, choosing calm over panic, hope over despair.

Eventually, however, the weight grew too heavy, and there came a moment when they couldn’t protect me anymore. The truth had to be named and, from that point on, we faced it together.

Surgery… And Uncertainly

The plan was surgery—an intense, eight-hour procedure led by Dr. Steineke at JFK Medical Center.

There was a possibility that, depending on what they found, I might wake up with rods in my neck—metal supports to stabilize the delicate area around my spine. It was a sobering thought, but one we had to prepare for.

The morning of the surgery, I stared at the ceiling and tried to stay brave, but inside I was just a kid who wanted to go back to softball practice.

A kid who didn’t know if she’d ever play again.

When I woke up, there were no rods—my neck was structurally intact and no further concerns in this area! What remained was a scar, about five inches long down the back of my neck, a quiet reminder of everything my body had been through.

The tumor—an osteochondroma, a benign bone tumor—had been successfully removed. Glioblastoma was no longer a possibility and two weeks later, we finally got the news back from pathology that the osteochondroma was benign.

I was safe… but I was also changed.

The Start of a New Battle

People assume that once you’re “cleared,” everything’s back to normal—but for me, that was just the start of a new battle.

Months of grueling physical therapy followed, just trying to make my body feel like mine again. I missed an entire travel season—game after game—cheering on my teammates from the dugout while aching to be out there with them.

It hurt, but even in the hardest moments, I stayed grounded in gratitude. God was so good to carry me through, even when it didn’t feel easy.

I was finally cleared by my neurosurgeon to resume full activity with no restrictions that fall and rejoined my travel team. I wore the uniform. I stood on the field. But I wasn’t quite myself—not yet.

Every time I played, it felt like I was meeting a new version of me, one shaped by everything I had been through. There were moments of fear—what if it all failed me again?—but there was also hope. With each game, I started to trust my body again and, slowly but surely, I was finding my way back.

Still, I kept going.

Back On the Field… & Falling Back Into Place

Freshman year at Red Bank Catholic arrived, and with it, my first varsity at-bat—a triple. I can still hear the roar of the crowd and the excitement in the air. It didn’t fix everything, but in that moment, the spark was reignited.

Last season, I was still healing—physically and mentally. Even so, I held my own, hitting .329 in a varsity lineup in a competitive conference starting at second base. I was proud of how far I’d come.

Through the grace of God, everything began falling back into place—just as it was meant to.

Last Fall, I achieved a lifelong dream by making the Newtown Rock 18U Gold Garvey team. Being part of a nationally ranked program—#43 in the Line Drive HOT 50 18U Club National Rankings is an incredible honor, but what makes it even more special is the opportunity to play for coaches like Joe Garvey and Dan Santelli.

They’re not just respected—they’re the best in the game. Their passion, knowledge, and commitment to developing players is unmatched, and I know they’ll push me to reach a whole new level. Playing under their leadership is more than a dream come true—it’s a game-changing opportunity.

This Spring—my sophomore season—everything feels different. For the first time in a long time, I feel whole. I’m hitting third in the lineup, locking down second base, and playing with a sense of confidence I fought hard to earn.

I truly feel like I’m not just back—I’m better than I was before the injury. The stats say I’m one of the top hitters in the state, but numbers can’t tell the whole story. They don’t show the setbacks, the sweat, or the faith it took to get here.

But every time I step on the field now, I carry my story with me.

Broken… & Healed

The real story? It’s about my brother, Cole.

He has Prader-Willi syndrome, a rare disorder that makes everyday life a challenge. He’s been in and out of the hospital his whole life. He’s needed help, attention, care. I’ve always been the “Glass Child”—the one who quietly stepped aside so my brother could have what he needed. I never resented it. I learned strength from him. Patience. Grace.

And when I became the one who needed help, Cole gave it right back in his own way. Our bond only deepened. The way he’s endured his own storms helped me find my calm during mine.

Now I know this: scars don’t weaken you. They mark where you were broken—and healed.

And I know that softball isn’t just a game; it’s my anchor. My safe place. The thing I missed more than anything while lying in that hospital bed, wondering if I’d ever play again.

I’m back now… my neck is structurally intact and I’m cleared to play with no restrictions, but not just playing—but living!

Fiercely. Fully… and with more heart than I ever thought possible because, when you’ve nearly lost everything, you play every inning like it’s your last.

And for me, every swing is a thank you—for the pain, the fight, the comeback.

For the season I learned to breathe again.

— Grace Lombardi

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To read more about the athlete’s amazing comeback story, click HERE…