Chapter 3 → Steps and Swings
(2012)
By the time spring arrived in 2012, Adrian's world had expanded beyond the padded corners of their small Warsaw apartment. He was walking now, in that awkward, uncertain way that toddlers did—legs bowed slightly, feet turned outward, arms raised for balance like a miniature tightrope walker wobbling across the room.
Every successful step was a victory. Every fall was a shrug and a giggle.
Marek watched him with cautious pride, hovering close but pretending he wasn't. "Let him fall sometimes," Elżbieta reminded gently whenever she caught Marek's hands twitching forward. "That's how they learn."
Adrian didn't mind the falls. He was too curious about the world. Too determined to get to the toys, the books, the kitchen cabinets, the plants—especially the plants. He had taken a particular liking to the drooping spider plant in the living room, which now wore the permanent scars of missing leaves.
But Marek had something else in mind for his son.
One early afternoon, with sunlight pouring through the windows and the faint hum of traffic drifting up from the street below, Marek emerged from the bedroom carrying a new prize:
A tiny plastic bat—smaller even than the foam toys Adrian already ignored in favor of houseplants and table legs. This one was green, hollow, and just short enough for Adrian to grip with both hands.
Marek squatted in front of his son and held it out like a knight presenting a sacred relic. "For you," he said softly. "It's time."
Adrian blinked at it. Then he reached out and grabbed the handle.
The bat was too big for him. The grip too thick for his tiny hands. He immediately lost balance, dropping onto his backside with a surprised huff of air, the bat falling sideways with a hollow plastic thunk.
Marek couldn't help it—he laughed. "Alright. We'll start small."
That afternoon, with Marek kneeling close by, Adrian began to swing.
If it could even be called that.
At first, it was more about holding the bat awkwardly in both hands, lifting it over his shoulder like he'd seen his father do, and then stumbling forward with something between a hit and a wild chop.
"Good! Good!" Marek encouraged, no matter how absurd the attempts were. Every movement was progress. Every stumble was a lesson. And beneath the laughter and the playful shouting, something else stirred inside Marek: recognition.
Because even though Adrian wobbled… even though the swings were wild… the boy's grip tightened each time.
And he didn't give up.
Summer arrived, and with it came the first proper family outing—a picnic in Pole Mokotowskie, a wide green stretch near the center of Warsaw where young couples pushed prams, students sprawled on blankets with textbooks, and families gathered for afternoons in the rare Polish sun.
They picked a quiet patch near the smaller pond, far from the main walking trails, and laid out an old, slightly fraying picnic blanket. Elżbieta unpacked food while Marek sat with Adrian in the grass, carefully showing him how to hold the little green bat.
It wasn't long before the first foam balls came out.
"Eyes here," Marek murmured, tapping his finger gently against Adrian's forehead. "Watch the ball. Swing nice and easy."
Adrian didn't quite understand the words, but he understood the tone. Serious. Focused. Important.
The first few "swings" missed by a mile, but Adrian didn't cry. Didn't whine. He just furrowed his tiny brow and tried again, clumsily dragging the bat through the air like a sword too heavy for a knight.
Finally—
Thock.
A clean hit. The foam ball rolled maybe two meters across the uneven grass, but Marek's whoop of joy made it sound like his son had just hit a home run into the Vistula River.
"YES! That's it!" Marek scooped him up, spinning him gently. "See? You've got it!"
Elżbieta, laying out sandwiches, smiled softly. She didn't say anything, but her eyes followed the way Marek held Adrian—the way his whole world seemed to fit in his arms in that moment.
It was the beginning of something. Not just a father teaching his son. Not just a game in the park. But the slow, careful weaving of family, childhood, and the first threads of purpose.
Later that afternoon, after the sandwiches were gone and the juice boxes empty, Adrian toddled around the picnic blanket, holding the bat like a walking stick, occasionally swatting at clumps of grass or imaginary enemies only he could see.
Marek lay on his back in the grass, arms folded behind his head, watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky. Beside him, Elżbieta rested on one elbow, picking absentmindedly at blades of grass.
"You know," she said softly, "I didn't think it would happen this fast."
"What?"
"You. Him. The baseball."
Marek tilted his head toward her. "It's just playing."
"Is it?" she asked gently. No accusation. Just curiosity.
Marek hesitated. "It's both," he admitted. "Playing now. Practice later."
Elżbieta sighed, plucking another blade of grass. "Just remember that he's still learning how to stand."
Marek nodded. But his eyes never left his son.
Adrian, meanwhile, had found a new fascination—throwing foam balls toward a small stand of trees nearby, chasing after them, then tripping over his own feet with wild, delighted laughter. Each fall was followed by a grunt or a huff, but then he was scrambling again, grabbing the soft foam like it was buried treasure waiting to be claimed.
There was something in that determination that Marek recognized, and it stirred something deep in him—not just as a father, but as a man who knew what it was like to want something badly enough to scrape your knees raw for it.
He glanced sideways at Elżbieta. "Do you think he knows what he's doing?"
She smiled softly. "Not yet. But he knows he likes it."
Adrian made another wild throw, the ball bouncing unevenly off a clump of grass. His legs tangled, and down he went again. For a split second, Marek tensed, ready to get up, ready to comfort him if the boy cried—
But Adrian just sat there, blinking, the foam ball still gripped in his hand. His lip trembled, but instead of tears, he squeezed the ball tighter, narrowed his eyes, and stood up again.
Didn't cry. Didn't quit.
Marek's throat felt tight for a moment.
"Maybe he does know," Marek murmured.
They stayed in the park until the shadows stretched long and cool, the afternoon warmth replaced by a faint evening breeze. Adrian eventually tired himself out, flopping onto the blanket with heavy breaths, clutching his bat like a sword laid to rest after a long battle.
On the way back to the car, Elżbieta carried their tired son in her arms, his head resting on her shoulder, while Marek gathered up the blanket and toys. The streets were busy with the usual Warsaw hum: cars weaving between buses, students on bikes, trams rumbling past full of weary workers.
Marek felt none of that noise. All he could see was the picture of Adrian's tiny fingers curling around the handle of that ridiculous green bat, swinging again and again no matter how many times the ball missed.
There was time for everything else later.
For now, it was enough to walk beside his family, to watch the stars starting to prick faint holes in the blue evening sky, and to hold the soft hum of promise like a secret, glowing ember inside his chest.
That night, as Adrian drifted to sleep after a bath, he gripped the foam ball in one hand. His other hand curled unconsciously into a fist, as though even in dreams, he wasn't ready to stop playing yet.
But out there—beyond the quiet streets, beyond the soft lullabies sung by city lights—was a whole world he didn't know yet.
New parks. New playgrounds. New children.
New games.
And somewhere out there, already waiting, was the first real challenge Adrian would meet beyond the safety of home.
Not long from now, someone would throw a ball back at him—not gently, not like a father helping a son learn, but with the wild, unpredictable energy of other kids playing for fun, or for pride, or just to win.
And when that moment came, would Adrian be ready?
He stirred gently in his sleep, rolling over in his crib, murmuring softly to himself, the ball still tucked under his arm like it belonged there.
Tomorrow would come.
And with it—the next step.
➡ End of Chapter 3 → "Steps and Swings"