Chapter 6 → "The Backyard Drill"
(2013)
The narrow strip of grass behind their apartment block wasn't much to look at—patches of dirt poked through where kids had worn it down with bikes and makeshift football games, and one side of the fence sagged like it had given up years ago. But to Adrian, it might as well have been a stadium.
Especially today.
"Alright, little man," Marek said, standing with his hands on his hips, a broomstick in one hand, a battered soft tennis ball in the other. "Today's the real thing."
Adrian's eyes widened. "The real thing?"
Marek grinned. "Your first proper hitting drill."
Of course, proper was a stretch. The broom handle was splintered at one end, hastily sanded down by Marek the evening before. The tennis ball looked like it had survived more than one dog's chewing session. But to Adrian, it felt like stepping into something bigger. More important.
He adjusted his feet automatically, legs apart, mimicking the baseball players he'd seen on TV with his dad on sleepy Sunday mornings.
Marek crouched, lowering the ball to eye level. "First lesson: it's not about swinging as hard as you can. Not yet. Balance first. Feet here—"
He nudged Adrian's right foot slightly forward with his shoe. "Hands loose but ready. Eyes on the ball."
Adrian nodded, serious now. His small hands wrapped around the broom handle awkwardly, one stacked over the other, fingers clumsy but determined.
"Good," Marek murmured. "Now… swing easy."
He gently tossed the ball up, just a slow arc.
Adrian's swing came with all the precision of a falling tree branch. Whoosh. The broomstick cut nothing but air.
Adrian blinked at the empty space in front of him, confused.
Marek didn't laugh. Not even a smirk. Instead, he nodded thoughtfully, like this had been part of the plan all along. "Good. You missed it completely."
Adrian frowned. "How's that good?"
"Because now you're paying attention," Marek said simply. "Again."
The next toss was slightly lower. Adrian swung again—this time nicking the side of the tennis ball, sending it skidding off into a low bounce. It wasn't a clean hit, but it was contact.
And that was enough.
A grin broke across Adrian's face.
"That's it," Marek said, a bit of pride creeping into his voice. "One more."
By the fourth swing, Adrian had adjusted his grip slightly, shifting his weight without realizing it. His father noticed, of course. Marek watched the way Adrian's toes curled in his old sneakers, how his eyes never left the ball. Not with the frantic wildness of most kids, but with intent.
That look. That focus.
Marek knew it because he'd worn it himself once, on basketball courts and muddy football pitches. Before injury, before life got in the way. Before family responsibilities meant he worked late shifts stacking shelves while his old teammates moved on.
But here, watching his son swing that stupid old broom handle, Marek felt something deeper than regret.
Hope.
They practiced until the shadows stretched long across the yard and the air smelled of distant dinners cooking on the upper floors. Adrian's arms felt rubbery, his grip loose, but he refused to stop until Marek said so.
"Alright," Marek finally relented. "Tomorrow again."
As they were packing up, a voice drifted from the next apartment over. "He's got good form for a little one."
Marek turned to see Pan Tadeusz, their elderly neighbor, leaning over the railing of his small balcony, pipe in hand.
"I used to play cricket, you know," Tadeusz said, giving Adrian a wink. "Back when knees worked and summers were longer."
Adrian puffed his chest slightly at the compliment, suddenly aware that his efforts had an audience.
"Baseball, not cricket," Marek corrected with a small smile. "Similar swing, though."
"Whatever it is," the old man said, tapping his pipe against the railing, "the boy's got coordination."
Marek's smile deepened just a bit. "Thank you."
Tadeusz nodded and disappeared inside, the faint smell of pipe smoke lingering behind him.
Elżbieta was watching too, from the kitchen window, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She didn't say anything yet—but the small upward twitch of her mouth betrayed the warmth spreading in her chest.
Family pride was a fragile thing here—not showy, not loud—but it was there, quiet, steady, growing.
Later that night, as Adrian lay sprawled out on the living room floor, the broom handle resting against the wall, Marek came back from the hallway holding something.
A shoebox.
It wasn't new. The cardboard corners were scuffed, and the brand label had faded, but inside were a pair of sneakers that were a size too big for Adrian now.
"Found these cheap," Marek said. "For when you grow out of those little ones."
Adrian sat up straight. "Really? For me?"
Marek nodded. "For baseball. One day soon, you'll need better footing. Can't have you slipping when you hit that home run, can we?"
Adrian hugged the box to his chest like it was treasure.
Elżbieta watched from the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on a worn towel. Her eyes stayed on the two of them—father and son, crouched over that old, battered shoebox like it contained gold. There was warmth in her smile, but also something else underneath. Tightness. Thoughtfulness.
The truth was, Marek hadn't told her he'd bought them.
She didn't need to ask how much. She could tell by the way Marek's fingers tapped gently against his knee, a small, unconscious rhythm, like he was working out numbers in his head. Rent. Groceries. Winter coming soon, meaning new coats for Adrian.
But right now, she didn't interrupt.
Let them have this moment.
"Thank you," Adrian said again, almost in a whisper, looking up at his father. His small face was earnest, the kind of pure, burning gratitude only a child could offer.
Marek smiled, not wide, but solid. Steady. He ruffled Adrian's hair with one rough hand. "You'll grow into them."
A faint chuckle escaped Adrian. "When I'm big?"
"When you're ready," Marek corrected softly. "That's the word. Ready."
Elżbieta leaned against the doorframe, folding her arms now, the towel draped over one wrist. Her eyes softened. Despite the weight pressing at the back of her mind—the bills on the counter, the coat that needed patching again—there was still pride. Small sacrifices didn't feel small, but worthwhile—watching Marek light up when he coached Adrian, watching Adrian soak up every lesson with wide-eyed focus.
And those shoes.
Not fancy. Not flashy. But possibility, wrapped in cracked cardboard and hope.
Adrian kept hugging the box to his chest like it held something alive, something fragile and important all at once.
"Can I use them tomorrow?" he asked eagerly.
Marek hesitated. "Not yet. Let's save them. First, we wear out the old ones properly. When you're hitting that broom handle clean every time—then we break out the new ones."
Adrian's eyes sparked with that familiar stubbornness. "Soon."
Marek's smile deepened. "Soon."
—
That night, after Adrian had finally been convinced to put the shoebox aside and crawl into bed, Marek sat in the half-dark living room with the old broom across his lap. His thumb ran absently along a splintered edge, sanding it with the pad of his finger like smoothing over old memories.
Elżbieta moved quietly around him, folding clothes. A ripped seam on one of Adrian's shirts caught her attention, and she pulled her sewing kit from the small basket by the radiator. Threading the needle was mechanical now, muscle memory built from years of careful hands mending what they couldn't yet afford to replace.
Neither of them spoke for a long while, but eventually, Elżbieta broke the quiet.
"You didn't tell me you were buying him shoes."
Marek nodded once, his eyes not leaving the broom. "I know."
More silence. Not angry—just weighted.
Finally, Marek looked over. "It's… I just—"
"I know," she interrupted softly.
That was enough.
More words weren't necessary. Both of them carried it—the balance of stretching zlotys, calculating paychecks, measuring want against need. But here, in this room, they shared something else: faith in that little boy asleep in the next room. Faith that maybe—just maybe—all of this meant something.
All of it, for him.
"I can fix that winter coat again," Elżbieta offered, almost absently.
Marek smiled faintly, grateful but guilty. "We'll manage."
A long breath. The weight of responsibility felt endless, but strangely lighter now, like carrying it between them made it bearable.
"I'll start setting aside for new socks," she added after a moment, eyes narrowing in practical determination. "His are all worn thin."
Marek laughed gently under his breath. "He doesn't notice. Not when he's running around after that stupid tennis ball."
A grin now curled at the edge of Elżbieta's mouth. "He's stubborn. Like his father."
"Like his mother," Marek countered.
The sewing needle glimmered briefly in the low light as she guided it through fabric. Outside the apartment window, the soft buzz of distant traffic hummed against the quiet city night. Somewhere below, a cat yowled, and someone cursed softly, but in here—inside these thin walls—it was just the three of them, and the growing weight of a future they were all building together, one stitch, one swing, one lesson at a time.
Adrian shifted in his bed across the room, mumbling something incoherent in sleep. Marek glanced toward him, his jaw tightening—not with anxiety this time, but with resolve.
"Tomorrow," Marek said quietly, voice low but firm. "We work on his stance."
Elżbieta nodded once. "Tomorrow."
—
➡ End of Chapter 6