Ten months ago, during the longest nights of the year, Ned Rice reached out to strangers across the country, sharing the unimaginable challenge his family was facing. These were doctors he had never met, specialists who had never treated his 3-year-old daughter, Wynnie, who had been diagnosed with brain cancer. As an assistant general manager for the Philadelphia Phillies, this was how Rice coped—by gathering as much information as possible.

His wife, Cary, took a different approach. “I’ve never googled medulloblastoma,” she said. “I can’t handle it. And I’m someone who usually thrives on analyzing things. But when it’s this emotional, I can’t do it.”

The whole situation felt overwhelming. Wynnie had started losing her balance, and suddenly, her parents faced an urgent and life-altering decision. The doctors at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP) told the Rices that radiation was not an option for Wynnie because of her age—radiation could cause severe neurocognitive damage, leaving her unable to live independently as an adult. But the alternative was a grim prognosis.

Ned sought a second opinion from another top children’s hospital, where the doctors argued that not using radiation, despite the risks, would be reckless. This was different from his work negotiating million-dollar player contracts for the Phillies—a mix of cold facts and subjective judgment. This was a parent’s worst nightmare.

Then, a neuro-oncologist named Richard Graham at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital replied to one of Rice’s many emails. “I was in full panic mode,” Rice recalled. “He didn’t even know who I was. He has his own patients and life to worry about.” But Graham offered his advice and soon became a trusted resource for the Rices, sharing his expertise and offering support.

These small but meaningful gestures kept accumulating. A surprise gift left at the door. A video from Wynnie’s classmates. More emails from doctors who would never meet Wynnie but still took the time to help. Family and friends stepped in to look after her siblings. Nurses at CHOP went beyond caring for Wynnie—they also looked after her parents, providing comfort and care at every turn.

“There’s so many people who want to help,” Rice said. “And they all do it in their own way.”

One of the people Rice turned to was his former boss, Matt Klentak. Their late-night talks used to focus on baseball operations, but now, they centered around Wynnie’s fight. Even though Klentak was working with the Milwaukee Brewers, he made time to check in on Wynnie through the Instagram account the Rices had set up to chronicle her battle with cancer. The account had grown to over 700 followers, with friends of friends of friends offering words of encouragement: “Go Wynnie go!”

The Instagram account became a way for the Rices to express the difficult emotions they were facing. More than anything, it opened the door to understanding and support. “Caregiver burnout is a real thing,” said Dr. Jane Minturn, Wynnie’s neuro-oncologist at CHOP. “But Ned and Cary have done an amazing job of supporting each other through this.”

Wynnie may not understand what brain cancer is, but everyone around her is shouldering the weight of it together.

Rice found himself carrying the strength of those who had entered Wynnie’s world, even if he couldn’t fully share in their experience. “You can’t really understand what someone is going through,” Klentak said, “but people want to help in any way they can.”

Wynnie’s health issues began subtly. At first, her balance seemed off, but nothing alarming. She was just a 3-year-old girl, learning to move faster and occasionally stumbling. But things didn’t improve. By December 2023, it became clear that something wasn’t right. After a few concerning visits to the pediatrician, they were referred to CHOP for further testing. An MRI revealed a large tumor in Wynnie’s brain. It was a devastating discovery, leading to immediate surgery over a holiday weekend.

From there, everything spiraled quickly.

“It was a low point,” Rice said. “You take a mostly healthy, happy child in for an outpatient MRI, and then everything changes. You just wonder, ‘Will we ever see that child again?’ It was so hard.”

Wynnie was diagnosed with medulloblastoma, a rare form of brain cancer.

Throughout this whirlwind, Rice had been on the phone with Phillies executive Dave Dombrowski, negotiating a major free-agent deal for pitcher Yoshinobu Yamamoto. Rice didn’t mention what was happening with Wynnie. He continued working, trying to maintain some sense of normalcy.

As Wynnie underwent surgery, Rice called Phillies GM Sam Fuld to explain the situation. Dombrowski, on a rare vacation, assured Rice, “We’ll see you when it’s over. Take whatever time you need. Don’t worry about anything.”

With their treatment options limited, the Rices chose not to pursue radiation and instead opted for an intensive course of chemotherapy and stem cell transplants. This meant weeks of inpatient care, with Ned and Cary taking turns staying by Wynnie’s side. They were ships passing in the night, hardly interacting, as they balanced the heavy burden of caring for their sick daughter.

Yet even in the hospital, they found a community. “The nurses weren’t just nurses,” Cary said. “They were therapists, friends, and cheerleaders.”

One nurse, Heidi Turner, became a special bond for Wynnie and her parents. Wynnie was discharged after almost eight months of treatment. On her last night at CHOP, Turner handed Cary a letter to give to Wynnie. “I’m going to miss you so much,” Cary said to Turner. “We’ll stop by, and I hope to see you soon.”

But Turner’s response was simple: “I hope I never see you again.”

That moment stuck with Cary because it encapsulated the complexity of their situation—a sense of both relief and dread.

Even as Rice stayed in touch with agents and team executives during the off-season, his role with the Phillies had shifted. Conversations with B.B. Abbott, agent for pitcher Zack Wheeler, began with updates on Wynnie’s condition before moving into contract talks.

Abbott, who had been a longtime advocate for pediatric cancer research, wanted to help in any way he could. He worked behind the scenes to organize a fundraiser for the National Pediatric Cancer Foundation, knowing the money raised would ultimately support Wynnie’s fight.

The Phillies rallied around the Rices in ways that were subtle but meaningful. Dozens of team staff members shaved their heads or dyed their hair in solidarity. Players made donations to the cancer foundation, and relief pitcher Matt Strahm’s wife, Megan, organized a massive gift basket for Wynnie, showing the depth of support from the team.

Meanwhile, the Rices stayed focused on getting through each day. There were no regular updates on Wynnie’s prognosis—just a singular goal: get through today.

“We always thought of her as a little delicate flower,” Cary said. “But she’s a beast.”

Wynnie’s birthday came two weeks ago, and the Rices celebrated outdoors with a small group of friends. Despite the challenges, Wynnie’s hair was starting to grow back, though she wore a purple knit cap to cover her head. At the end of the party, however, Wynnie fell ill again, requiring a trip to the emergency room. It was yet another obstacle, but she was 4 years old and still here—fighting.

And through it all, the Rices held onto what mattered most: the love and support of the people around them.

“You just have to keep going,” Cary said. “We’re so grateful for the people who’ve shown up for us. We want to feel normal. We want to have hope for a normal future.”