Chapter 7 → “New Shoes”

Chapter 7 → "New Shoes" (2014)

Warsaw's summer mornings were starting to warm now, sunlight creeping between the buildings like lazy fingers stretching through parted curtains. The hum of the city was distant here in their modest neighborhood, softened by the chirp of birds and the occasional bark of a neighbor's dog.

Adrian sat on the edge of his bed, swinging his legs. Today was special.

On the floor in front of him sat a brand-new shoebox—not scuffed or borrowed, not secondhand from a cousin or friend, but new. The cardboard edges were sharp, the corners unbroken. The laces inside were still crisp, not yet loosened or dirtied by dust and playground mud.

His very first proper sports shoes.

The excitement in his small chest was hard to contain. He could already imagine how they'd feel—lighter, faster, stronger. Shoes that could help him hit better, run faster. Shoes that made him feel like those players on TV, standing tall, uniforms clean, ready to win.

But what he didn't know—not yet—was how much these shoes had cost his family.

—

A week earlier, Marek had stood in the small sports store tucked between a kebab shop and a pharmacy, holding those shoes in his hands while staring at the price tag.

They weren't even top-shelf shoes. No big international brand. Just a solid pair of Polish-made trainers, nothing fancy, but proper. Shoes that wouldn't tear apart at the seams after a few months.

But they were still expensive for a family like theirs.

Marek had rubbed his jaw, eyes narrowing as he mentally calculated what that price meant: no nights out for him and Elżbieta for a while. No movie nights. No new shirt he'd promised himself for work.

He glanced over his shoulder toward Adrian, who was crouched by the display, running his small fingers over the rows of shoelaces like they were museum treasures. The boy didn't beg. Didn't ask.

But his eyes were glowing with hope.

Marek had bought the shoes.

—

Now, Adrian carefully untied the stiff new laces, sliding his feet inside one at a time. They felt slightly too big—his toes didn't quite fill the front yet—but that was part of the plan. Room to grow. Just like his father had said.

He stood up, wiggling his toes inside them experimentally.

They felt powerful.

"Come here," Elżbieta called softly from the kitchen.

Adrian padded over, his footsteps sounding louder now in the rubber soles, like he was already stomping over gravel or dirt fields in a stadium somewhere.

Elżbieta knelt down beside him, adjusting the laces to sit neatly across the tops of his feet. She tied the knots with gentle, practiced fingers. At her side sat a small pile of neatly folded shirts, most with carefully repaired hems, collars reinforced with stitches in slightly mismatched thread. The fabric wasn't new, but it was clean. Maintained.

Next to her sewing kit, there was another shirt draped across her lap—Adrian's favorite one, with a small cartoon lion on the front. The hem had frayed, torn last week during a neighborhood game of tag. She threaded the needle without pausing, her movements automatic, delicate, efficient.

"Don't scuff them up on the first day," she teased lightly, though her tone was soft, not scolding.

Adrian gave her a small, proud smile. "I won't."

She nodded. "They're for playing. For learning."

"For baseball," Adrian corrected seriously.

Elżbieta smiled at that. "For everything."

She didn't tell him about the other things they'd gone without this month. She didn't mention how the groceries had been trimmed down again, or how she'd patched Marek's work trousers twice in the same week. That wasn't for Adrian to know. Not yet.

What mattered was that he stood there now, in those new shoes, standing taller like he could take on the world.

—

Later that afternoon, Marek took Adrian out behind the apartment again for practice.

The courtyard was the same cracked patch of dirt and dry grass it had always been, but today it felt different to Adrian—like stepping into something bigger. He walked carefully at first, afraid to crease the shoes, then more naturally as his confidence grew.

Marek carried their usual "bat"—an old broom handle, shaved down and smooth in places from wear. A dented bucket held three faded tennis balls.

"All right," Marek said, kneeling down to Adrian's eye level. "Remember: feet apart, knees a little bent, eyes on the ball. Not on me, not on the sky—the ball."

Adrian nodded seriously. He took his stance, copying what he'd seen players on TV do. His little chest puffed out.

Marek gave a slight grin. "Good. First swing in those shoes—let's see it."

He tossed the first ball underhand, gentle, floating.

Adrian swung hard—and missed completely, nearly spinning himself off-balance.

"Steady, steady," Marek said, catching him by the shoulder with a laugh. "Don't need to kill it, champ. Just meet it."

Adrian bit his lip in frustration but nodded. He adjusted his grip, adjusted his stance, pressed his brand-new shoes a little firmer into the loose dirt.

The next ball came. Another swing. Another miss.

And then—something shifted. His weight settled differently. His hands relaxed just a little.

The next pitch, he made contact.

The thunk of broom handle meeting tennis ball wasn't loud, but to Adrian, it might as well have been fireworks.

The ball skipped along the dirt, bouncing awkwardly toward the concrete steps near their building entrance.

"I did it!" Adrian shouted, jumping on the spot. "I hit it!"

Marek stood and ruffled his son's hair, his heart filling with quiet pride. "That's it. That's the feeling. That's your swing."

A voice from one of the windows above floated down: "Good arm on that one!"

It was old Tadeusz again, pipe clamped in his teeth, watching from his balcony like always. Adrian grinned and waved up at him.

Practice continued until the sun lowered and painted the buildings in soft orange hues. Adrian swung and missed plenty more, but he also connected again—twice, three times. Every time the broomstick hit the ball, a sharp thrill ran through him, as if each swing was one more brick laid on the path to something important.

When the bucket was empty, they gathered up the balls and broomstick, Marek tossing one last glance over his shoulder at his son as they stepped back inside.

He didn't say it aloud, but he could see it as clearly as anything:

One day, Marek thought, this boy's going to wear real cleats. Real gloves. Swing real bats. And he's going to play for real crowds.

—

That evening, after dinner, Adrian lined his new shoes carefully at the foot of his bed. He brushed at a tiny smear of dirt on the toe with his sleeve.

Elżbieta stood in the doorway, arms folded gently, watching him.

"Proud of yourself?" she asked softly.

Adrian nodded. "I hit it."

"I know," she said with a smile. "Your father wouldn't shut up about it."

Adrian grinned sleepily and lay back on his pillow. "I'm gonna wear them forever."

She chuckled. "Not forever, little lion. But long enough."

Marek passed by behind her, giving Adrian a wink. "New shoes for new adventures, eh?"

Adrian blinked up at the ceiling, his mind buzzing with possibilities. Baseball. The playground. New games. New everything.

"Can I wear them to school?" he asked, eyes closing halfway.

Marek glanced at Elżbieta.

"First day deserves something special," she said after a pause.

Marek nodded. "Yeah, you can wear them. Make a good first impression."

Adrian smiled to himself, drifting toward sleep.

Soon it wouldn't just be backyard games. Soon there would be new places, new kids, and new challenges. His world was about to get bigger. And even though he didn't know what was coming yet, somehow the weight of those shoes made him feel ready.

Outside the window, the city hummed with its quiet, distant life.

Tomorrow, that life would start opening up to Adrian Wójcik.

—

➡ Next → Chapter 8: "First School Days" (2014)