Justice Fights to Defend Girls’ Sports at Supreme Court Showdown

Paul Riverbank, 1/11/2026Supreme Court battle spotlights fairness, identity, and dreams in West Virginia girls’ sports.

He doesn’t talk about plays or missed calls. Instead, his concern skips straight to the bigger scoreboard—one where the numbers are arguments and lives. “Why don’t we really stand behind our girls and women in sports?” Justice asks, his tone almost conversational, but then again, not entirely. It’s laced with a frustration that feels personal, and not just political.

Anyone who’s spent time around a high school gym in rural West Virginia knows what’s at stake. Basketball, track, volleyball—it isn’t just games. It’s scholarships, hopes, sudden heartbreak, and sometimes, years of yearning boiled down to a single state meet. Justice, who coached his way from the stands to the statehouse, says flatly: “You should see how hard our girls work, day in and day out, trying to make themselves a little better. They’re out here dreaming about college, about a chance.” He shakes his head slightly, more dad than senator in that moment.

But the world Justice knows best has been swept into a much colder and more formal contest. Enter the Save Women’s Sports Act, a law he championed in West Virginia back in 2021, which prevents transgender girls from joining girls’ school teams. The matter now sits before the Supreme Court, largely because of one teenager—a shot putter known as B.P.J.—who simply wants to compete as herself.

B.P.J isn’t chasing headlines or lawsuits; at least, that’s how friends describe her. She’s practiced for seasons on end, and according to her family, just wants the routines every young athlete knows: qualifying meets, the anxiety of lane assignments, nerves before her throw. But her presence has drawn not just legal scrutiny but protests, national commentary, and, perhaps inevitably, harassment.

Her case embodies a clash that’s spread far beyond Lewisburg—across swim lanes, locker rooms, and the legal system. Those defending the law claim it’s about fairness, arguing that girls could be pushed aside if transgender athletes compete in their place. Justice, and plenty of his supporters, see Title IX as immutable—they say it was written for biological sex, not gender identity, and changing that should be a matter for Congress, not courts. "If there’s going to be a change, let the elected officials handle it," he insists.

On the other side, B.P.J. finds her champions—activists, several Democratic lawmakers, her family—arguing that inclusion is the heart of what Title IX set out to fix. Their question, on signs outside courthouses and in op-eds, is pointed: Does protecting one group mean excluding another? And what does that mean for the kids caught in the middle?

Outside the legal wrangling, there is the quieter story—the one rarely told. Parents and coaches wrestle with questions that aren’t always easy or tidy. It isn’t just about court cases or statutes; sometimes, it’s about the night before tryouts, or the drive home from a disappointing loss. Harvey Araton, a veteran reporter, remembers the time he urged his son to try out for a travel team, hoping something special would happen. “I was projecting my own ambitions,” he admits now, “when all he wanted was to run around and eat snacks with his friends.”

It’s a kind of pressure, public but also intimate, that spreads whether you’re in small-town Appalachia or a New Jersey suburb. Some days, as much as anyone wishes for a scholarship or a trophy, the moment that matters is the laughter in the parking lot, not the tally on the scoreboard.

In North Korea, the girls on government-run teams play for a sense of duty, maybe even survival. In West Virginia, parents hope for letters from college coaches, and in both places, the ambitions adult and child sometimes don’t quite align.

Jim Justice looks at the legislative fight as a call to defend hard-earned dreams, for “common-sense” West Virginians and their daughters. “If we can’t stand up for our girls, stand up for our women,” he says again, “I don’t know what in the world’s wrong with us.”

But, for everyone involved—politician or parent, athlete or activist—the bigger questions hover, unresolved. Is youth sport about protection, progress, or simply play? And who gets to decide what fairness means when each story feels so personal? For all the policies being written, there’s still an unpredictability—an untidy, deeply human uncertainty—that no statute, no matter how well-meaning, can ever truly settle.

On a winter night in Lewisburg, inside a gym where the air bites as much as the wooden bleachers, Senator Jim Justice stands out—not just in stature, but in bearing. The last buzz of the scoreboard has faded, and the crowd’s cheers echo off the rafters, but Justice's jaw is tense; he’s looking past the court, somewhere far beyond the next tip-off.He doesn’t talk about plays or missed calls. Instead, his concern skips straight to the bigger scoreboard—one where the numbers are arguments and lives. “Why don’t we really stand behind our girls and women in sports?” Justice asks, his tone almost conversational, but then again, not entirely. It’s laced with a frustration that feels personal, and not just political.Anyone who’s spent time around a high school gym in rural West Virginia knows what’s at stake. Basketball, track, volleyball—it isn’t just games. It’s scholarships, hopes, sudden heartbreak, and sometimes, years of yearning boiled down to a single state meet. Justice, who coached his way from the stands to the statehouse, says flatly: “You should see how hard our girls work, day in and day out, trying to make themselves a little better. They’re out here dreaming about college, about a chance.” He shakes his head slightly, more dad than senator in that moment.But the world Justice knows best has been swept into a much colder and more formal contest. Enter the Save Women’s Sports Act, a law he championed in West Virginia back in 2021, which prevents transgender girls from joining girls’ school teams. The matter now sits before the Supreme Court, largely because of one teenager—a shot putter known as B.P.J.—who simply wants to compete as herself.B.P.J isn’t chasing headlines or lawsuits; at least, that’s how friends describe her. She’s practiced for seasons on end, and according to her family, just wants the routines every young athlete knows: qualifying meets, the anxiety of lane assignments, nerves before her throw. But her presence has drawn not just legal scrutiny but protests, national commentary, and, perhaps inevitably, harassment.Her case embodies a clash that’s spread far beyond Lewisburg—across swim lanes, locker rooms, and the legal system. Those defending the law claim it’s about fairness, arguing that girls could be pushed aside if transgender athletes compete in their place. Justice, and plenty of his supporters, see Title IX as immutable—they say it was written for biological sex, not gender identity, and changing that should be a matter for Congress, not courts. "If there’s going to be a change, let the elected officials handle it," he insists.On the other side, B.P.J. finds her champions—activists, several Democratic lawmakers, her family—arguing that inclusion is the heart of what Title IX set out to fix. Their question, on signs outside courthouses and in op-eds, is pointed: Does protecting one group mean excluding another? And what does that mean for the kids caught in the middle?Outside the legal wrangling, there is the quieter story—the one rarely told. Parents and coaches wrestle with questions that aren’t always easy or tidy. It isn’t just about court cases or statutes; sometimes, it’s about the night before tryouts, or the drive home from a disappointing loss. Harvey Araton, a veteran reporter, remembers the time he urged his son to try out for a travel team, hoping something special would happen. “I was projecting my own ambitions,” he admits now, “when all he wanted was to run around and eat snacks with his friends.”It’s a kind of pressure, public but also intimate, that spreads whether you’re in small-town Appalachia or a New Jersey suburb. Some days, as much as anyone wishes for a scholarship or a trophy, the moment that matters is the laughter in the parking lot, not the tally on the scoreboard.In North Korea, the girls on government-run teams play for a sense of duty, maybe even survival. In West Virginia, parents hope for letters from college coaches, and in both places, the ambitions adult and child sometimes don’t quite align.Jim Justice looks at the legislative fight as a call to defend hard-earned dreams, for “common-sense” West Virginians and their daughters. “If we can’t stand up for our girls, stand up for our women,” he says again, “I don’t know what in the world’s wrong with us.”But, for everyone involved—politician or parent, athlete or activist—the bigger questions hover, unresolved. Is youth sport about protection, progress, or simply play? And who gets to decide what fairness means when each story feels so personal? For all the policies being written, there’s still an unpredictability—an untidy, deeply human uncertainty—that no statute, no matter how well-meaning, can ever truly settle.