Chapter 16 → “The First Drills”

Chapter 16 → "The First Drills"

June 2016 | Mokotów Field, Warsaw

The first thing Adrian noticed about Wolves practice was that it wasn't fun.

It wasn't supposed to be, Tomasz had warned him. And now, standing stiffly on the edge of the practice diamond, Adrian finally understood what that meant.

Gone were the lazy afternoons of throwing tennis balls against cracked bricks, of Julia chasing wild grounders through the grass. This was sharp. Organized. Rough.

Whistles. Shouted instructions. The sting of cleats cutting through dirt.

Adrian clutched his old bat tighter, shoulders tense as he watched the early warmups.

I don't belong here.

That thought looped around his head as he watched the older boys warming up—one group fielding sharp ground balls off a coach's bat, another running catching drills on the sidelines.

The Wolves Juniors were not some ragtag group of neighborhood kids. They wore matching gray shirts with the navy-blue wolf logo across the chest. Some of them even had proper gear. Real cleats. Batting gloves.

Adrian's shoes were hand-me-downs, the laces mismatched, the soles worn thin at the heel. His shirt was plain white, clinging damply to his back under the sun.

He'd been here five minutes and already felt like a ghost.

"Oi! New kid!"

The voice hit him like a fastball. Adrian flinched and turned, almost tripping over his own feet.

A boy about his age was jogging over from the dugout, short black hair sticking out from under his cap, brown eyes sharp with mischief. His stocky build made him look slightly older, but the grin on his face was pure trouble.

The boy popped a wad of gum between his teeth and chewed like it was his job. "You the one Coach Tomasz was talkin' about?"

Adrian opened his mouth, but only managed a nod.

"Good." The boy held out a hand. "Mateusz. Catcher. Best on the team. You're standing on my dugout, by the way."

Adrian blinked, staring at the outstretched hand, unsure if it was serious or part of a joke. "I—uh—I'm Adrian."

"Cool." Mateusz shook his hand with a strong, quick grip, still chewing furiously. "Don't worry, I won't bite. Yet."

Adrian couldn't help but crack a smile. "You always chew gum like that?"

"Always." Mateusz blew a small, imperfect bubble that immediately popped on his lips. "Makes me focus. Plus, it tastes like bananas. Want some?"

"No, thanks," Adrian said quickly, trying not to laugh.

"Suit yourself. Come on. Coach is gonna start soon."

Before Adrian could follow, another voice broke in, quieter but sharper.

"That the new one?"

A skinny boy with pale blond hair was standing near second base, glove tucked under one arm. His wiry frame made him look fragile at first glance, but the way he stood—feet set, eyes narrowed—gave him a dangerous sort of focus.

"Yeah," Mateusz called, not bothering to turn. "Coach's project."

The blond boy's gaze flicked to Adrian. He didn't say anything else. Just gave a sharp, measured nod before going back to lightly tossing his glove in the air, catching it with soft, snapping precision.

Mateusz followed Adrian's stare. "That's Igor. Shortstop. He counts ground balls like other kids count candy."

"Counts?"

"Yeah. Every practice. Says it keeps his brain sharp." Mateusz rolled his eyes with exaggerated flair. "Guy's weird, but good. Real good."

Adrian swallowed. Weird or not, he didn't miss the competitive flash in Igor's eyes. The look wasn't welcoming. It was measuring. Testing.

"Relax, newbie," Mateusz said, nudging Adrian with his elbow. "First time's always rough."

Adrian wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse.

The drills started soon after.

Coach Tomasz didn't waste time with pep talks or introductions. He blew his whistle once, barked a few words—"Warm-up throws. Ten each. Grounders next."—and that was that.

The kids paired off. Mateusz grabbed Adrian's arm before anyone else could and dragged him to a patch of infield dirt.

"Don't drop 'em, rookie," he said with a grin, already pulling on his worn catcher's mitt.

Adrian forced himself to nod, wiping sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.

The first throws were… fine. The second ones weren't.

Adrian's arm, so reliable on cracked concrete, felt heavy here. The dirt was too soft under his feet. His sneakers slipped. His grip felt all wrong. By the fifth throw, one of his tosses sailed too high and Mateusz had to jump, barely snagging it before it flew past him.

"Relax!" Mateusz laughed. "You throw like someone told you there's a wasp in your shirt."

Adrian winced. "Sorry."

"Don't say sorry," Mateusz said quickly. "Say better next time."

"Better next time," Adrian muttered, cheeks burning.

But the next one hit Mateusz's glove perfectly. And that got a nod.

"See? Told you."

Then came the grounders. One of the assistant coaches—an older teenager with shaggy hair—took a bat and began slapping ground balls toward small groups of infielders.

Igor was in the first group. Every ball that came his way—whether soft, sharp, or tricky—he fielded clean. His hands were quick, low, efficient. There were no wasted movements. After each one, he murmured under his breath—thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six…

Mateusz caught Adrian staring again. "Don't let him get in your head. He's been playing since forever."

"I can't field like that."

"Not yet," Mateusz corrected. "Coach said you've got good feet. That's the start."

When it was Adrian's turn, his nerves betrayed him again. The first grounder took a bad hop and smacked him on the shin. The second bounced clean—but his glove was too high, and the ball skipped under it into the outfield.

Embarrassment flooded his chest. The sharp sting of failure.

Igor watched without a word. Just counting softly. Forty-one.

Mateusz nudged him again. "Better next time."

Better next time.

After practice, Adrian sat on the edge of the dugout, dragging his fingers through the dirt, feeling more bruised than accomplished. His arm was sore. His hands stung. His pride hurt most of all.

Was this what "real baseball" felt like?

"Don't look like that."

Adrian glanced up. Mateusz had plopped down beside him, pulling off his glove and flexing his fingers dramatically. "First days suck. Ask anyone."

Adrian didn't answer. His eyes were drifting toward Igor again, who was methodically brushing dirt off his pants before walking toward the equipment bags.

Mateusz followed his gaze. "Don't worry about him. You'll get him back."

"I wasn't—"

"Sure you weren't." Mateusz smirked. "Listen, rookie. You're gonna be fine. Want to know the trick?"

"What?"

Mateusz blew another crooked bubble. "Don't quit."

The bubble popped loudly.

"And don't drop my throws next time."

This time, Adrian actually laughed, even if it was a little weak.

As they got up, Adrian caught Tomasz watching from near the batting cage. The old coach didn't smile or wave—but he gave that small, sharp nod again.

It wasn't praise. It was a challenge.

Tomorrow was another day.

Better next time.

End of Chapter 16