Chapter 12 — The Gifted Bat

Chapter 12 — The Gifted Bat

(2014, Autumn)

The small wooden bat sat on the edge of Adrian's mattress like a treasure plucked out of someone else's life and dropped gently into his. The smooth, worn surface was nicked here and there, but the handle felt strong beneath his fingers. His father had said it wasn't perfect. But to Adrian, it was.

It was his.

The weight of it was different from the flimsy plastic bat Tomasz used during their backyard drills. This one felt real. Serious. Like something that belonged in one of the games on TV—the games his father would watch in the evenings after work, with plates of steaming cabbage rolls balanced on his knees.

Adrian traced his thumb along the faded initials carved near the knob: MW.

Marek Wójcik.

It didn't take a genius to know this bat carried more than just pine and varnish. It carried the echo of childhoods past, the weight of missed dreams, and now… something new. Something for him.

He could still remember the look on his father's face as he'd unwrapped it earlier that day. Marek hadn't tried to make a speech or turn it into a lesson. He'd just smiled, sheepish and proud, like handing over a secret you're not supposed to tell anyone. It was the kind of look Adrian wanted to remember forever.

—

The following morning, Adrian was already awake before sunrise, standing barefoot on the cool tile floor of their apartment's tiny kitchen. He swung the bat gently in the cramped space, careful not to hit the cabinets, repeating the motion Tomasz had shown him: balance, twist from the hips, follow through.

The wooden bat felt heavier, awkward at first. His wrists wobbled a little as he tried to control it, but he kept going.

"Left foot forward," he muttered, remembering Tomasz's words.

"Not bad," came a voice from the doorway.

Adrian turned. Marek stood there in his undershirt, eyes still heavy with sleep, but smiling all the same. The soft light of dawn crept around him through the narrow window. He reached for his mug of tea but didn't take a sip.

"You're up early," Marek said, ruffling Adrian's hair.

Adrian nodded, determined. "Gotta get better."

"Better than who?" Marek teased lightly.

Adrian thought for a second. "Better than… me. From yesterday."

Marek's grin widened. "Good answer."

—

By the afternoon, Adrian was out in the apartment courtyard again, swinging the bat under the watchful gaze of Tomasz. The man crouched lazily by the old fence, spitting a stray sunflower seed toward the gutter.

The dull thwack of wood meeting a soft tennis ball echoed off the brick walls around them.

"That bat's a little heavy for you," Tomasz said.

Adrian shrugged. "I'll grow into it."

Tomasz gave a low chuckle. "That's not a bad answer either."

It wasn't about today's swings or even tomorrow's. It was about the weight of possibility, of tomorrows stacked up one after another like blocks ready to be built into something bigger.

Tomasz didn't say much more that day, but when he left, Adrian could swear the old coach was hiding a smirk behind his half-buttoned flannel shirt.

—

That evening, the family gathered around the cramped dining table for dinner. The smells of pierogi frying with onions filled the room, rich and warm.

Elżbieta sat across from Adrian, her worn fingers neatly folding napkins while Marek told an exaggerated story about how he'd once hit a ball over a neighbor's fence and broken a window as a boy. Adrian listened wide-eyed, even though he already knew the story. It never got old.

Afterward, Marek leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach. "And now—" he glanced at Adrian with a grin, "—we've got someone else who's going to start sending baseballs into people's gardens."

Adrian perked up immediately, straightening in his seat. His father's confidence lit something deep inside him, a glow that felt bigger than the apartment walls around them.

Elżbieta gave Marek a flat look over the rim of her glass. "Let's not teach him to break windows just yet."

"I'll aim higher," Adrian promised, holding his fork like a bat and swinging an invisible ball over their heads.

Marek laughed. "That's my boy."

Dinner ended with the usual quiet scraping of plates and Marek starting to hum one of his old songs from his factory days. Adrian gathered the dishes like he was supposed to, his mind half on the routine chores and half out in a stadium he could only see in his dreams.

—

Later that night, Adrian crawled into bed with the bat again, the way some kids might hold their favorite toy car or plush animal. It wasn't even that comfortable, but that didn't matter. The solid weight of the wood pressed reassuringly against his side, grounding him.

The shadows on the ceiling made shapes of baseball fields and fences under the faint glow of the streetlamp outside. Somewhere out there were real diamonds, real teams, real games. Somewhere, he knew, the future was waiting.

His fingers tightened around the handle of the bat.

This wasn't just a game anymore. Not to him.

Before drifting into sleep, Adrian whispered softly, only loud enough for himself and the bat to hear: "I'm going to be good. I'm going to be better than anyone."

And in that tiny bedroom, with threadbare blankets and old posters curling at the edges, the dream began to feel just a little more real.

—

The next day brought sunshine and the buzzing hum of summer creeping toward the city's edges. School was almost out, and the streets felt different—alive with potential.

Adrian found himself out in the open lot behind the apartments, the wooden bat gripped loosely in his hands. He swung it slowly, warming up, pretending Tomasz was standing nearby giving quiet corrections. Left foot forward. Elbows up. Twist the hips.

"I could swing faster with that," a voice called suddenly.

Adrian turned. Julia stood nearby with her hands on her hips, a wild grin spread across her face.

"I can swing faster than you," Adrian shot back, stepping forward.

Julia bounced up onto the balls of her feet. "Prove it."

Before either could say another word, a small group of neighborhood kids came tumbling around the corner, kicking a dented old soccer ball and laughing loudly. Among them was Janek, his eyes locking on the wooden bat in Adrian's hand.

Janek smirked. "Oh, look. It's prince baseball with his fancy stick."

A flush of heat rose in Adrian's cheeks, but he didn't back down. He gripped the bat tighter and stood his ground. Julia glanced between the two of them, then stepped closer to Adrian's side, folding her arms.

"You're just jealous," she said plainly.

"Of that?" Janek scoffed. "That's not even a real bat."

Adrian felt his jaw tighten. He wanted to snap back, to throw something clever at Janek, but instead he just lifted the bat, held it steady, and swung with a sharp crack through the empty air.

Thwiff.

The sound of air cutting around the swing echoed louder than any insult could have.

Janek blinked, surprised by the sharpness of the swing, before covering it with another smirk. "Whatever. Soccer's better anyway."

He jogged off after the others, but not before giving Adrian one last, measuring look over his shoulder.

Julia broke into a grin. "That was awesome."

Adrian let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He lowered the bat, a quiet satisfaction curling beneath his ribs.

Not yet. But soon.

Soon, they'd all be playing his game.

—

"That night, before bed, Adrian rested the bat gently on his lap. Marek entered the room just as Adrian was smoothing his hand over the carved initials near the knob.

'Careful with that thing,' Marek said softly. 'It's not magic. It won't do the work for you.'"

Adrian looked up, frowning slightly. "But… it feels like it is."

Marek chuckled as he crossed the small room, crouching in front of his son. His knees creaked a little as he went down, and he rested his elbows on them. "It's just wood, Adrian. Same as any old broom handle. It's not the bat that hits the ball."

Adrian tilted his head. "Then what?"

Marek tapped gently on Adrian's chest. "You. Your eyes. Your feet. Your heart."

The words hung in the quiet of the little bedroom, interrupted only by the occasional passing car outside or the faint hum of the refrigerator in the other room. Marek ruffled Adrian's hair lightly. "Remember that."

Adrian nodded slowly, fingers tightening around the grip. The initials MW—Marek Wójcik—pressed faintly against his palm, like a secret seal of approval.

Marek stood with a grunt and headed toward the door, but paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Swing that thing for the right reasons, Adrian. Not to win arguments. Not to look cool."

Adrian blinked. "Then why?"

Marek smiled, warm and steady. "Because you love the game. That's the only reason that matters."

With that, he left the door open a crack, letting a warm glow from the hallway spill into the small bedroom. Adrian sat there for a long time, running his hand slowly along the smooth grain of the bat.

He didn't know all the reasons yet. But he did know one thing, down in his bones:

He loved the feeling of swinging.

He loved the snap of the bat through the air.

And more than anything else… he loved the idea of getting better.

With a yawn, he curled under his blanket, the bat resting across his lap like a knight might sleep with his sword. His eyes drifted closed to the distant hum of summer life beyond the window.

Tomorrow would come soon. And with it—new games, new challenges, and new rivals.

The journey was only just beginning.

—

End of Chapter 12