Chapter 11 – Trouble at School

Chapter 11 – Trouble at School

Warsaw, 2014

The scuffle started with a ball.

It was nothing more than a battered foam ball rolling between two small groups of kids during recess. Adrian had been kicking it lightly against the brick wall behind the swings, content to play alone. That's when the bigger boys showed up.

"Hey! That's ours!" one of them barked, stepping forward.

Adrian blinked. "It's just a ball."

But the other boy—Bartek—wasn't listening. Bartek was bigger, older by a year, already developing that lanky awkwardness that came before a growth spurt. The kind of boy who liked pushing smaller kids around, mostly because it made him feel like he mattered.

"Give it," Bartek said again, stepping into Adrian's space now.

Adrian's small fingers tightened around the foam ball. He didn't mean to start a fight. He really didn't. But something inside him flared up—hot and stubborn and sharp.

He didn't back down.

Bartek shoved him first. Hard enough to make Adrian stumble, but not hard enough to fall. Adrian's lip curled, fists clenching.

One push became two. Then three. It wasn't really a fight, not yet. More like frustration boiling over on both sides, miscommunication and something deeper underneath—competition, unsaid challenges.

Finally, Adrian shoved back. Hard.

It sent Bartek sprawling into the dirt.

The yard teacher saw the tail end of it, the worst part—the younger boy standing over the older one, fists balled, eyes narrowed, breathing sharp and angry. From the teacher's angle, it looked like Adrian had started it.

Whistle. Shouts. Trouble.

By the time the bell rang for the end of recess, Adrian sat in the small chair outside the head teacher's office, one scuffed shoe tapping rhythmically against the tile.

The ball sat on the floor by his feet like a silent traitor.

—

Elżbieta came as soon as the school called.

She arrived with her hair still damp from washing, coat slightly askew, breath sharp from the walk. The secretary gave her that careful, judgmental smile parents know too well.

Inside the office, Adrian sat rigid in the chair. His knees bounced, not from fear—just from the kind of bottled energy that couldn't sit still for long. He glanced up as his mother walked in, cheeks flushed, but he didn't look away.

"I'm sorry, Mama," he murmured.

Elżbieta's heart softened, even as she sat down next to him.

The teacher folded her hands neatly on the desk, watching them both with that practiced look of gentle patience teachers always seemed to wear when scolding children. "It wasn't all his fault," she admitted. "But Adrian… you can't shove the other children. Even when you're angry. Even if they shove you first."

Adrian's lips pressed together. He wasn't trying to be mean. He just… hated losing. Hated being pushed aside, treated like he was small or weak.

Elżbieta nodded slowly, brushing Adrian's messy hair aside with her hand. "He understands. Don't you, kochanie?"

Adrian nodded stiffly.

The teacher smiled gently. "He's sharp. Bright. Strong. But it's that same fire that's going to get him in trouble if it's not guided."

Elżbieta's fingers tensed slightly against her skirt. She hated hearing the words trouble and her son in the same sentence. "Guided?"

"That man who helps out sometimes at the local center—Tomasz Grabowski? He works with kids like Adrian. The ones who need somewhere to put that energy before it turns into fights."

Adrian perked up. He didn't know why exactly—but that name—Tomasz—sounded like a door opening, even though he didn't yet know what was behind it.

"I'll speak with my husband," Elżbieta promised softly, glancing down at Adrian with a tired smile. "Thank you."

—

That evening, Adrian sat in the narrow hallway of their small apartment, absently rolling a tennis ball back and forth beneath his palm. The echoes of the school scuffle still burned in his memory, more frustrating than painful now.

Marek came home just as the sky was turning dark, boots tracking faint streaks of summer dust across the worn linoleum. He crouched down slowly, eyeing his son's posture.

"Got into it with another kid, huh?"

Adrian glanced away, nodding once.

"Wanna tell me why?"

Adrian's small voice was stubborn, almost sulky. "He tried to take the ball."

Marek ruffled his hair, exhaling. "You know, sometimes the ball's not worth it."

Adrian's jaw clenched. "It wasn't just about the ball."

Marek studied his son carefully. There it was—the first flash of something he knew too well: pride, mixed with frustration, mixed with a hunger to prove something. It wasn't just playground mischief. It was something deeper. Competitive instinct.

"Well," Marek finally said, "maybe it's time to teach you how to win the right way."

Adrian looked up, confused. "What's the right way?"

"Not with fists," Marek said, his smile tilting sideways, "but with work."

Adrian sat with that thought for a long time after dinner.

Two days later, Tomasz showed up again—not by accident this time. He waited by the fence near the school's old basketball hoop, one boot heel resting on the brick, arms folded.

Adrian stopped when he spotted him, gripping the plastic bat Tomasz had let him borrow the last time.

"Did I get in trouble… with you too?" Adrian asked quietly.

Tomasz gave a half-smile. "Trouble? Nah. Getting into trouble is easy. Getting better—that's the hard part."

Adrian's small fingers squeezed tighter around the plastic handle. He wanted to be better, even if he didn't fully understand what that meant yet. He just knew he didn't like losing. Didn't like the burning feeling in his chest after a fight or a mistake. It wasn't about being right. It was about winning the right way, the way his dad talked about when the baseball games were on TV.

"You wanna learn?" Tomasz asked, pushing off from the wall and standing straight.

Adrian nodded.

"Good. First lesson, right now. Let's go."

They walked out behind the school again, to that rough patch of dirt that served as an unofficial field. The weeds were taller this time, brushing at Adrian's socks. Tomasz grabbed a worn tennis ball from his pocket and tossed it lightly in his hand.

"Show me your swing again."

Adrian tried. He really did. But the bat wobbled at the end of his arc, and the follow-through felt clumsy. The plastic bat, too light in some ways, felt like it betrayed him. After two missed swings, frustration bubbled again in his throat.

Tomasz didn't yell. He didn't mock him. He just squatted down to Adrian's level, pointing to his feet.

"See this? This is where it starts. Not here—" he tapped Adrian's elbow, "—but here. Ground up."

Adrian's brow furrowed, but he adjusted his stance.

They worked until Adrian's arms felt like noodles and the dirt clung to his sneakers. But by the end, one of those tennis balls arced up high and far, clearing the edge of the school's garden wall. Tomasz grinned and shook his head like a man who had just seen something interesting in a pile of junk.

"That's more like it," he muttered. "We'll work on the rest."

Adrian could hardly breathe through the excitement beating under his ribs.

—

Later that night, Adrian sat cross-legged in the cramped living room, the worn couch pushed against the wall to make space for drying laundry. His father sat opposite him on the floor, fiddling with something wrapped in brown paper.

"Close your eyes," Marek said with a grin that Adrian didn't quite trust.

Adrian closed them anyway, bouncing slightly on his heels. He heard the rip of old wrapping, the clatter of something wood on wood.

"Okay. Open."

In Marek's hands was a short, slightly scuffed wooden bat. It was real. Solid. Heavy enough that Adrian's fingers couldn't wrap around it easily yet—but light enough to lift with effort.

"I used this when I was younger," Marek said softly. "It's not perfect anymore, but…" He turned it over, showing the faint initials burned near the handle. "I want you to have it."

Adrian's chest felt like it was about to burst. This wasn't just a bat. This was… proof. That his family believed in him. That this wasn't just a game anymore.

He took it carefully, reverently, cradling it against his knees like something sacred.

Elżbieta peeked in from the kitchen doorway, smiling faintly with tired eyes, watching both of them like they were the warmest thing in the entire apartment.

Marek leaned closer and whispered, "We'll get you a better one someday. But for now? Start with this. Let's see where it takes you."

Adrian nodded. Words felt too small for how big his heart was swelling right now.

—

That night, Adrian fell asleep clutching that wooden bat to his chest, the scent of old pine and dirt clinging to the grain. Even in sleep, his fingers curled tight around the handle, like he was afraid to lose it.

The rain pattered lightly outside the window, but inside, everything was warm and certain.

He didn't know it yet—but this was the first of many gifts. The first step on a path that neither Adrian nor his parents could fully see, but which had already begun winding forward like a narrow dirt trail cutting through wild fields.

Soon, that bat would swing in places far beyond their little apartment's walls.

And Adrian? He was ready to follow wherever it led.

—

End of Chapter 11