Chapter 5 → The First Loss
(2013)
The early spring afternoon smelled like damp earth and blooming lilacs, mixing with the faint scent of grilled meat from a neighbor's open kitchen window. The apartment courtyard was alive with noise—shouts from other kids, bicycle wheels clicking, the hollow thud of soccer balls against fences. But for Adrian, none of that mattered right now.
Only Janek mattered.
They had lined up side by side, just beyond the cracked stone pathway, each with a worn, soft plastic baseball clutched in their tiny hands.
Janek was bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was about to sprint in a race. "Okay. Furthest throw wins. Ready?"
Adrian nodded, jaw tight, fists clenched so hard the ball's plastic squeaked.
"One… two… three!"
Janek's ball sailed through the air like a comet, wobbling but surprisingly far for someone his age. It hit the ground with a satisfying plop, rolling to a stop near the empty sandbox.
Adrian bit his lip, drew his arm back, and let his ball fly with everything he had. The moment it left his hand, though, he knew. The angle was wrong. His fingers slipped just enough that the ball veered off, bouncing unevenly across the grass, stopping at least three meters short of Janek's mark.
Silence.
Janek burst out laughing—not cruelly, but with that innocent, careless glee only kids could manage. "You tried! But I win! Again!"
Adrian's cheeks burned hot. His hands curled into fists, dirt trapped in the tiny creases of his skin. His lip trembled—not from pain this time, but from something new. Something heavier.
Losing.
It wasn't like falling and scraping his knee. This was worse, because no bruise could cover the tightness in his throat or the way his chest felt like it was folding in on itself.
He kicked at a loose pebble, sending it skittering across the cracked concrete.
Marek had been watching from the stoop, arms folded, one leg propped casually on the step. He saw the whole thing, the throw, the laugh, the slump in Adrian's shoulders.
He stood now and approached slowly.
"Adrian."
Adrian didn't look at him. His small fists trembled.
Marek crouched down beside him, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. "Did you throw as far as you could?"
Adrian nodded stiffly, blinking fast.
"Are you angry because you lost," Marek continued gently, "or because you thought you'd win?"
That question made Adrian's head jerk up. He blinked at his father, confused.
"It's not the same," Marek explained, voice calm. "Getting mad because you didn't win means you expected to win. That's not how this works, kiddo. You only win after you put in the work to earn it."
Adrian's lip curled, but he didn't say anything.
Janek was busy kicking dust in the far corner of the courtyard, already distracted, already moving on. But not Adrian. His stomach churned with a feeling he didn't know how to explain, only that it felt like failing. Like being smaller than someone else.
Marek stood again, offering his hand.
"Come with me," he said. "Let me show you something."
They didn't go far—just across the small patch of worn grass to a rusted fence at the back of the lot, where Marek leaned against one of the posts and pointed to the sky.
"When I was your age," he said, "I used to think that winning was about being born better than the other kids. Faster. Stronger. Smarter." He gave Adrian a sideways glance. "It's not."
Adrian sniffed. "Then what is it?"
"Work. Over and over. Losing now just means you're starting at the beginning. Everyone does. Losing today doesn't mean losing forever."
Adrian's frown deepened, but something in his father's voice—something solid, certain—settled his breathing.
Marek crouched again, holding his own hand out flat. "Let me see your grip."
Adrian handed over the soft ball, still warm from his palm.
Marek rolled it between his fingers. "We'll work on it together. I'll teach you. You don't have to be the best now. But if you want to get better—you can."
For the first time since the loss, Adrian met his father's gaze fully. His lip stopped trembling. He nodded, fierce again.
"Okay."
That night, after dinner, Adrian sat by the living room window with the ball resting in his lap, staring out at the courtyard below.
The light from the hall behind him flickered slightly, and Marek passed by once, ruffling his son's hair before continuing on toward the kitchen. There was no teasing. No jokes.
Just quiet understanding.
Elżbieta watched from the sofa, knitting needles paused in mid-motion.
In Adrian's chest, the ache of losing was still there. But it was different now. Not just sharp and raw—it had been reshaped into something smaller. Manageable.
Tomorrow, they'd practice.
Tomorrow, he'd throw further.
And tomorrow, he would win.
➡️ End of Chapter 5 → "The First Loss"