Chapter 15 → “Coach Tomasz’s Invitation”

Chapter 15 → "Coach Tomasz's Invitation"

June 2015 | Warsaw

The park felt different when you were alone.

No shouting. No arguing. Just the sound of sneakers crunching on broken glass and dirt, the occasional bird fluttering past, and the distant hum of traffic from the main road. Adrian liked it better this way. No Janek. No crowds. Just work.

And today was work.

The sky was streaked with the soft pinks and oranges of a summer evening as Adrian crouched near the far fence, an old tennis ball in his hand. He'd spent the last hour tossing it against the bricks, catching it, tossing it again. Sometimes it bounced funny, ricocheting off uneven cracks. Sometimes he missed. Sometimes his fingers stung when the ball hit just wrong.

But sometimes—sometimes—it hit his palm just right. And those moments, rare as they were, felt better than winning.

One catch at a time.

Throw. Bounce. Catch.

Throw. Bounce. Catch.

Again. Again.

His arms burned. His legs ached from constant bending and sprinting after wild throws. Sweat trickled down his forehead, curling behind his ears, but he didn't care.

This was how it was supposed to feel, wasn't it? Bad. Hard. Ugly.

But each catch made the sting of that missed ball against Janek's team feel smaller. Not gone. Not yet. But smaller.

He didn't even hear the footsteps behind him until a voice broke the silence.

"Working hard out here."

Adrian flinched, spinning around so quickly he almost tripped over his own feet. For a second, he thought it might be Janek come to laugh at him again.

But it wasn't a kid's voice. It was lower, rougher. Familiar.

Coach Tomasz stood there on the edge of the dirt, hands on his hips, baseball cap slightly askew like it always was, clipboard tucked under one arm. He looked completely out of place here, like a proper pitcher's mound had somehow wandered into the broken remains of the neighborhood park.

Adrian opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Why was he here?

Coach Tomasz glanced at the tennis ball in Adrian's hand. "Interesting tool," he said, a corner of his mouth twitching. "Old trick, though. My father used to throw cricket balls at me. Wanted me to have good reflexes. Bruised the hell out of my hands."

Adrian's face flushed. He tightened his grip on the tennis ball, suddenly feeling embarrassed by the cracked concrete and weedy patches around them. "I was just—practicing," he mumbled, eyes on the ground.

"I can see that," Tomasz replied, walking closer. His cleats crunched softly on the dirt. "Been watching you for a bit, actually."

Adrian's stomach twisted. Watching me? How long had he been standing there? Did he see the drops? The misses? Probably all of it, Adrian thought bitterly. Perfect.

But instead of laughing—or worse, giving some polite adult smile—Coach Tomasz just crouched down and picked up the battered wooden bat Adrian had left leaning against the fence.

He ran his fingers over the grip. "Yours?"

Adrian nodded.

"Nice work here." Tomasz pointed to the sanded grip where the wood was worn smooth. "Somebody's been putting hours into this."

"My dad fixed it," Adrian said softly. "And... I guess I've been using it a lot."

Tomasz stood again, twirling the bat in his hand once before handing it back. "Looks like you care about this."

Adrian nodded again, but this time his jaw tightened slightly. "I missed a catch last week. Lost the game. Janek—he—"

"Janek," Tomasz said with a grunt, recognizing the name. "Good player. Loudmouth, though."

That almost got a smile from Adrian, but not quite. The shame was still fresh, thick in his throat.

"I want to get better," Adrian blurted suddenly. "Not just, like... fun. Not just park games. Really better."

Tomasz studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp under the brim of his cap. "Is that so."

Adrian met his gaze. "Yeah."

Silence hung between them like a held breath.

Then, slowly, Tomasz smiled—not the big, open grin like some coaches used to give at school, but a small, knowing one, like they both understood something nobody else did.

"You know," he said quietly, "I'm starting up structured practices with the Wolves Juniors next week. Different from this." He gestured around at the cracked pavement, the broken fences, the sagging swings.

"Real drills. Real coaching. A real field, even. You interested?"

Adrian blinked. Did he just...?

"I—I can come?" His heart kicked up, beating wild and hot in his chest. "I'm not... I mean, I don't know if I'm good enough."

"That's not what I asked," Tomasz said simply. "I asked if you're interested."

Adrian's grip tightened around the bat. "Yes. I am."

"Good," Tomasz said, stepping back. "Then we'll see if that swing of yours is as good as your footwork."

Adrian flushed again. Did he see the wild throws? The ones that missed by meters?

But Tomasz just laughed softly to himself, adjusting the brim of his cap. "Be at Mokotów Field on Saturday morning. Eight sharp. And bring that bat."

"Saturday," Adrian repeated quickly. "Eight. I'll be there."

"Good," Tomasz said again. "And Adrian—"

Adrian straightened as if standing at attention. "Yeah?"

Tomasz tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with a spark of challenge. "Don't expect it to be fun."

Adrian swallowed. "It's not supposed to be, right?"

That, finally, got a full grin out of the old coach.

"Right."

—

Adrian didn't walk home that night.

He ran.

—

By the time Saturday morning rolled around, the nerves were back.

Mokotów Field looked like another world compared to the cracked park he knew so well. Real dugouts, chalked lines, trimmed grass. There was even a chain-link fence in the outfield that didn't sag like it was trying to collapse under its own weight.

Kids were already there, stretching, tossing balls, warming up in small groups. They looked older. Bigger. Most wore matching Wolves shirts. Some had gear Adrian had only seen in pictures—real batting gloves, cleats, shin guards for catchers.

Adrian's stomach twisted again.

What was he doing here? He was the cracked-tennis-ball-against-a-wall kid. The missed-the-easy-catch-in-front-of-everyone kid.

But then—he spotted her.

Julia.

She sat cross-legged on a low wall near the first base line, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes scanning the field. When she saw him, she waved—not big, not loud. Just a flick of her fingers, like of course you're here. Like it was obvious.

That helped.

Tomasz spotted him too, standing by home plate like a general waiting for new recruits. He didn't call him over. He didn't make a scene.

But when their eyes met, the old coach gave him a sharp nod.

Welcome to the next level.

—

End of Chapter 15