Chapter 14 → "Failure Hurts"
For most of that summer, it felt like Adrian could do no wrong.
His throws were faster. His swings were sharper. His rivalry with Janek pushed him further each day, like they were two rockets racing for the same sky.
But summer doesn't last forever.
And sometimes, it takes only a single moment to crack the armor of confidence a child builds around himself.
It happened late one afternoon, when the Warsaw heat hung in the air like a wet blanket, and the park buzzed with restless energy. Adrian's team was up by one run. Kids from both apartment blocks crowded around the edges of the cracked park field, forming their usual chaotic version of a "game."
Janek, as always, was on the other team, his cap twisted backward, daring anyone to beat him. His voice was louder that day, sharp with that edge that made the rivalry between them feel like more than just fun.
Adrian loved these moments. Loved the pressure. Usually.
But today—something felt off.
Maybe it was the sweat sticking to his shirt. Maybe it was the nervous buzz in his stomach. Maybe it was just one of those days.
But standing out in the outfield, gripping the wooden bat Tomasz had let him borrow and his father had fixed, Adrian felt the first twinge of doubt creep into his gut.
"Alright, Wójcik!" Janek yelled from the pitcher's mound. "Let's see you catch this one!"
The throw came wild, bouncing awkwardly across the uneven grass, but the batter on Janek's team swung anyway, sending a looping hit deep into the air toward the far right side of the field.
And it was Adrian's ball.
His teammates were already shouting. "Get under it!"
Adrian sprinted toward the falling shape of the ball. The bat was still in his hand—he shouldn't have been holding it, but he hadn't thought to drop it—and his sneakers slipped slightly in the patchy grass.
I've got it, he told himself. Easy. I've caught harder ones before.
The ball hung in the sky like a dare.
He reached out his hands—
—and missed.
It wasn't even close. The ball clipped his fingers, skipped off, and bounced away toward the overgrown weeds along the fence. Shouts erupted everywhere, but none louder than Janek's.
"HA! Knew you'd miss it!"
The runner rounded second, tearing through the bases with kids cheering behind him. By the time Adrian chased the ball down and threw it wildly back toward home plate, the winning run was already scored.
The game was over.
Adrian stood there, dust sticking to his sweaty arms, his chest heaving, the world around him suddenly too loud.
He'd missed it.
Worse—he'd lost the game for his team.
Julia jogged over first. "Hey," she said quickly, breathless from running. "It's just a game."
But Adrian wasn't listening. His heart felt like it had sunk into his shoes. The other kids were laughing—some because they were on Janek's team, some just because that's what kids did when someone messed up in front of everyone.
Janek, of course, made it worse.
"Nice catch, superstar," he called, brushing dirt from his knees. "Guess you're not so great after all."
Adrian clenched his fists, not trusting himself to answer.
The shame hit harder than he expected. And it wasn't just about the catch—it was about everything. The rivalry, the games, the long afternoons spent practicing in secret behind the apartments—all of it felt stupid now. What was the point if he couldn't even do the easy part?
Julia nudged him gently with her elbow. "C'mon. Don't listen to him."
But Adrian shrugged her off and walked away without another word.
—
That night, Adrian sat on the windowsill of their apartment, staring out into the Warsaw night. His wooden bat sat across his lap, the grip worn smooth where his hands had held it so many times before.
Marek found him there, quiet, his normally bright eyes dulled with frustration.
"Bad game?" Marek asked softly, not pressing too hard.
Adrian just nodded.
Marek pulled up a chair and sat beside him, resting his forearms on his knees. "You know," he said after a long pause, "I once missed a ground ball in a real match. Full stadium, too. Felt like everyone in the whole country saw it."
Adrian finally glanced sideways at him. "What happened?"
Marek smiled, but it was that kind of sad smile grown-ups used when they wanted to teach something. "I went home and cried in the laundry room so no one could hear me. Thought I was done with baseball. Thought I'd embarrassed myself so bad that I'd never play again."
Adrian's eyes widened slightly. His father—the one who told stories about line drives and backyard heroics—had cried over baseball?
Marek leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "But after a while, I realized something: I wasn't crying because I was bad. I was crying because I cared. That's the difference. The ones who don't care? They don't get upset. But you—you care a lot."
Adrian stared down at the smooth wood of his bat, thumb tracing the grain where his father had sanded it by hand. "It still felt bad."
"It's supposed to feel bad," Marek said gently. "But what matters is what you do next."
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant hum of cars and the faint buzz of insects drifting in through the open window. Somewhere below, kids were still playing, still laughing.
Still winning.
Adrian's chest felt heavy, like all the weight of that missed catch was sitting there, making it hard to breathe.
"I wanted to be the best," he mumbled.
"You still can be," Marek answered softly. "But being the best doesn't mean never failing. It means failing, and still showing up the next day."
Adrian's throat tightened, hot and sharp like he might cry right there. But he didn't. Instead, he bit his lip hard and nodded once.
Marek squeezed his shoulder gently. "We'll work on that catch together. And next time Janek runs his mouth—"
"I'll catch it," Adrian finished, voice hoarse but steady.
"Exactly."
—
Two days later, Adrian was back at the park. Julia was there, of course—barefoot as usual, arms crossed, pretending not to watch him every second.
Janek shouted loud as ever, swaggering like a king.
But Adrian wasn't thinking about Janek anymore.
He was thinking about that missed catch. About the way it had felt. About the way it wasn't going to happen again.
He stayed late after everyone else left, practicing alone under the fading blue of the summer sky.
Throw. Run. Reach.
Miss.
Throw. Run. Reach.
Catch.
And when he finally caught one, standing there under the dimming light, dirt streaked on his cheek and sweat curling in his hair, he felt something new in his chest.
It wasn't pride yet. Not quite.
It was determination.
He wasn't done yet.
And soon, someone else was going to notice that too.
—
End of Chapter 14