Chapter 4 → The Playground Game
(2013)
By the time Adrian was three, the apartment's soft foam toys and worn living room rug weren't enough anymore. He wanted more space, more noise, more running. More everything.
And Marek knew exactly where to take him.
The playground near their apartment block wasn't much. A chipped concrete path looped around a patch of worn grass, leading to a rusty old slide, two faded swings, and a sandpit more mud than sand. But for kids in the neighborhood, it was the center of the world. The meeting place. The arena.
And Adrian wanted in.
It was a chilly afternoon, the kind where jackets were needed but gloves felt too warm. The sky overhead hung gray and thick, but the playground echoed with the sounds of shouting, laughter, and the metallic screech of swings pushed too hard.
Adrian stood at the edge of the play area, gripping a soft rubber ball in both hands. It was scuffed from use but still firm. Still his. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyes darting across the playground as older kids sprinted past in tangled groups of coats and sneakers.
He glanced up at his father.
Marek crouched beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Go on," he said gently. "Throw it. Roll it. Play."
Adrian nodded, more seriously than any three-year-old ought to, and took a step forward into the whirlwind of play.
It didn't take long for another boy to notice the ball.
"Cześć!" a voice called. Friendly, but sharp around the edges, like someone used to being the first to start a game. A boy a little older, probably four or maybe five, with a mop of brown hair flattened under a slightly too-small winter cap. His cheeks were red from running in the cold, and his sneakers were untied.
"I'm Janek," the boy announced with the easy authority of someone who had declared his name many, many times before.
Adrian just stared at him, gripping his ball.
"Wanna play?" Janek grinned, already crouching into a catcher's stance without waiting for an answer. "Roll it!"
For a second, Adrian froze, unsure. Marek gave him a soft nudge on the back.
Adrian dropped to his knees in the grass and gently rolled the ball forward.
It veered slightly left, bouncing once, then slowing in the patchy grass before finally coming to a stop near Janek's sneakers.
Janek didn't miss a beat. He scooped it up with both hands, turning it over like a professional examining a brand-new glove. "Not bad," he said approvingly. "Now my turn."
Before Adrian could even sit up properly, the ball came zipping back, faster, straighter, skipping neatly over the uneven patches of grass to land perfectly against Adrian's knees.
Adrian blinked.
Something shifted.
Not quite frustration. Not quite jealousy. But something close. Something sharp.
For the next half hour, the game grew more serious than either of them admitted.
Roll. Catch. Roll. Catch. Faster. Harder. Each boy adjusting, shifting positions, eyes narrowing, cheeks flushed with effort.
More kids wandered past but didn't join. They could tell that something was happening here—something just between these two boys.
Adrian leaned forward more with every roll, adjusting the angle of his small wrist, copying the way Janek used both hands to guide the ball straight. His tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.
Janek wasn't teaching him. That wasn't the kind of kid he was. But Adrian was learning anyway, fast, bit by bit, watching the angles, the way Janek braced his feet, the weight behind his throws.
Finally, one of Adrian's rolls curved perfectly, landing square against Janek's outstretched hands.
"Nice," Janek muttered, almost surprised.
That's when it happened.
The next roll—whether from excitement or clumsy overconfidence—went wild.
Adrian leaned too far forward, his tiny legs tangled beneath him, and his hands shot out to catch himself far too late.
He hit the ground hard.
Gravel scraped against the exposed skin of his knee through his pants, and dirt bit into his palms. The sharp sting of fresh pain radiated upward.
Marek took two quick steps forward, but stopped when he saw Adrian's face.
No crying. Not yet.
Adrian just sat there, breathing hard, lip trembling. His hands were red and raw, tiny pebbles pressed into his palms. He blinked several times, hard and fast, like he was fighting back something too big for his tiny body to process.
Elżbieta, watching from a bench nearby with a picture book still open in her lap, rose halfway, concerned.
But Marek raised a calming hand without looking back.
They both waited.
Adrian's small chest rose and fell rapidly. Then, with a sharp sniffle, he clenched his fists, even though it made the pain worse, and pushed himself up off the ground with a shaky grunt.
Marek's throat tightened.
The boy didn't ask for help. Didn't look to his parents. Didn't even glance down at the swelling bruise under his pant leg. Instead, he turned toward Janek, face flushed from the fall, but jaw set.
And without a word, he picked up the ball.
"Still want to play?" Janek asked, half-smirking.
Adrian nodded once. Fiercely.
Janek grinned and crouched down again, clapping his hands once. "Okay then. Throw it!"
They didn't say much after that, but the tone had changed.
Adrian's throws came quicker, more direct. His focus narrowed. He adjusted how he squatted, trying to brace better so he wouldn't fall again. When one of Janek's rolls came in too hot and skipped past, Adrian chased it down with a growl of determination.
Marek and Elżbieta sat together now, quietly watching. Marek's hand found hers and squeezed.
"He's already starting to care," Marek said softly.
Elżbieta tilted her head. "About winning?"
Marek shook his head. "About getting better."
By the time the sun had dipped below the neighboring rooftops and the playground emptied out, Adrian's knees were stained, his palms raw, and his hair wild with static from the wind. Janek had to be called three times by his mother before he finally left, waving lazily as he jogged toward the bus stop.
Adrian watched him go without saying a word.
As they packed up, Marek crouched to tie Adrian's shoe—he'd undone the laces at some point without noticing—and asked, "Do you want to come back tomorrow?"
Adrian gave the smallest nod.
His legs wobbled with every step on the walk home, but he refused to be carried.
That night, in the apartment, after bath time and a careful cleaning of his bruised knee, Adrian sat on his bed with the ball clutched in his lap.
The television played something faint in the background, but Marek wasn't watching. He stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching the boy trace his fingers around the scuffed rubber.
"Was that your first fall playing with others?" Marek asked quietly.
Adrian didn't respond immediately. Then: "It hurt."
Marek nodded. "It will again."
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. "But it'll stop hurting faster each time you get back up."
Adrian looked up at him. His voice was soft, uncertain: "Did you fall too?"
Marek smiled a little. "I did. A lot."
"Did it get easier?"
"No," he said truthfully. "But it got… worth it."
They sat there for a while in silence.
Then Adrian lay down slowly, cradling the ball beside him like a stuffed animal, blinking at the ceiling.
Just before sleep pulled him under, he whispered:
"Next time, I won't fall."
Down the hall, Marek stood at the kitchen window, staring out at the night-shrouded city below. Cars passed. Tram bells echoed faintly from the distance. Streetlights shimmered against the glass.
He thought of the boy in the dirt.
The fire in his eyes.
The refusal to cry.
The throw he made after the pain.
He thought of how it started—not with a swing or a win—but with a scraped knee and a decision:
Get up. Try again.
And somewhere deep inside, Marek Wójcik smiled.
➡️ End of Chapter 4 — "The Playground Game"