Chapter 1 – The First Cry
January 3rd, 2010 — Warsaw, Poland
Snow fell gently on the windows of the obstetrics ward at Szpital Bielański, blanketing the city in a white hush. Streetlights flickered in the cold night, casting amber reflections against the frost-covered glass. Inside, the room pulsed with a different rhythm—a heartbeat monitor beeping in time with each push, each cry, each breathless second.
"Elżbieta, one more push! He's almost here!"
Marek Wójcik stood beside his wife, clutching her hand, damp with sweat and tremors. His other hand gripped the bedrail, knuckles white. Elżbieta was silent now, teeth clenched, her forehead furrowed in agony and determination. Her nails dug into his palm as the final scream tore out of her.
Then—
A cry.
Sharp. Loud. Alive.
The midwife lifted the wriggling, red-faced infant and announced, "You have a boy!"
The delivery room erupted in movement. Nurses moved swiftly, wiping him down, checking vitals, wrapping him in a soft blue blanket. Elżbieta collapsed into the bed, chest heaving, tears sliding down her cheeks—not of pain, but of something far greater.
Marek could hardly breathe. His feet moved before his thoughts caught up, drawn like a magnet to the swaddled child. "Can I…?"
The nurse smiled and gently passed him the bundle. Marek held his son close, eyes wide, almost disbelieving. The baby squirmed, his tiny fingers curling instinctively. Marek's thumb brushed over the boy's cheek, where a faint dimple already threatened to form.
"He's got your eyes," Elżbieta whispered.
"And your fire," Marek murmured, eyes misty. "Strong lungs."
The boy cried again, louder this time, as if announcing himself to the world.
Adrian Wójcik had arrived.
A few hours later, the hospital room had quieted. Elżbieta slept soundly, her hand resting protectively on her son's leg in the bassinet nearby. Marek sat in the corner, holding a paper cup of lukewarm coffee, a blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape. He looked exhausted, but awake—wired with something deeper than caffeine.
The hospital TV mounted in the corner was still on. Some American baseball game had come on—replay of a World Series game from last fall. Marek watched, not quite understanding every detail, but drawn in by the emotion.
He glanced down at Adrian, now sleeping against his chest in a snug wrap.
A batter stepped up to the plate onscreen—bottom of the ninth, two outs, tying run on second. The crowd was roaring in some distant city.
"This… this is the moment," Marek whispered, almost to himself.
The crack of the bat echoed through the room. The ball soared into left field. The stadium erupted. The runner slid home.
A walk-off.
Marek exhaled slowly, pressing his lips to the top of Adrian's head. "One day," he whispered, voice heavy with something ancient and new, "you'll play, too."
The next morning brought visitors. Marek's parents—Piotr and Halina—arrived first, bundled in thick winter coats, faces red from the cold. They beamed at the sight of their grandson, Halina tearing up instantly.
"He looks just like Marek did as a baby," she said, reaching in with trembling hands.
"Except this one won't break the TV with a plastic bat," Piotr muttered with a grin.
Then came Elżbieta's parents—Tadeusz and Grażyna. More quiet, more restrained, but the pride in Tadeusz's eyes was unmistakable as he cradled his first grandchild.
The room filled with warmth despite the outside chill. Laughter echoed as stories were exchanged—of Marek's boyhood, of Elżbieta's strength, of dreams and futures and all the tiny ways a family weaves itself tighter with a single new thread.
That night, as snow piled against Warsaw's quiet rooftops, Marek lay awake in the cot next to Elżbieta's hospital bed. He kept glancing at the bassinet. Adrian stirred now and then, wrinkling his nose, smacking his lips in his sleep. His tiny hands gripped nothing and everything all at once.
Marek's thoughts wandered. To the backyard at their Mokotów flat. To plastic balls and toy bats. To scraped knees and triumphant cheers. To bleachers filled with parents. To scouts in the distance.
To a son who might go farther than Marek ever did.
He remembered his own injury—the one that shattered his dreams before they ever left the dirt fields outside Łódź. A shoulder that never healed. A scholarship that never came. He'd buried that part of himself for years. But now?
Now, it stirred again.
He whispered into the still night, barely audible even to himself: "We'll do it right this time."
Two days later, they left the hospital. The sun had broken through for a brief moment, shining against the icy streets. Adrian blinked against the light, bundled tightly in a blue wool blanket.
The world was big. Noisy. Bright.
He didn't cry this time.
Just stared, wide-eyed, as the city welcomed him.
Later that week — Home, Mokotów District
The apartment smelled faintly of fresh paint and something sweet. A small corner had been transformed into Adrian's space—crib, toys, baseball-patterned blanket courtesy of Halina.
Marek stood over the crib, watching Adrian sleep. His chest rose and fell like a clock. His small hand twitched.
Elżbieta leaned against the doorframe, her hair slightly disheveled, dark circles under her eyes from days without true rest. And yet, when she looked at her husband, there was only softness there. Exhaustion blended with something older and steadier: devotion.
"You're staring again," she murmured with a tired smile.
Marek didn't turn. His thumb gently traced one of the wooden bars of the crib. "I can't help it."
Silence hovered for a moment, broken only by Adrian's tiny, occasional sighs as he shifted in his sleep.
"He's perfect," Marek finally said, his voice rough but certain. "Absolutely perfect."
Elżbieta padded softly across the room and slid her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek between his shoulder blades. "He's small."
Marek chuckled under his breath. "For now."
The words carried weight. For now. The beginning of something—not just a new life, but a future he could almost see if he closed his eyes hard enough. Not vague or abstract like before, but something sharp, distinct. A bat in small hands. Dirt scuffed beneath cleats. Grass stains on worn uniforms. Cheers.
He saw it already.
"I used to think," Marek whispered, barely audible now, "that when I was younger… that I'd be the one to go all the way. That maybe it'd be me."
Elżbieta gently tightened her grip around him, resting her ear against his heartbeat.
"But now," Marek continued, "I think I was just waiting for him."
Elżbieta breathed deeply, steadying herself before she spoke. "No broken dreams this time, Marek."
"Not broken," he said quietly. "Rebuilt."
They stood like that, together, as if drawing strength from one another, as Adrian let out another soft, half-conscious sigh from the crib.
Marek finally broke the silence. "Do you think… he'll love it?"
"What?"
"Baseball."
Elżbieta smiled into his back. "He'll love whatever you love, Marek. Kids don't know what they love yet. They follow the smiles of their parents."
Marek swallowed hard. "Then I'll smile every time I hand him a ball."
The next morning, soft light filtered through the lace curtains, throwing pale yellow squares across the nursery wall. In the living room, the low hum of the radio played faintly—an old Polish jazz station Marek liked in the mornings.
Adrian was awake now, blinking, fists occasionally punching the air in slow, clumsy circles. Marek gently lifted him from the crib and sat with him on the worn sofa in the living room.
The city beyond their windows hummed with distant trams and early morning footsteps on icy sidewalks.
"Look at that," Marek said softly, pointing out the window toward the horizon. "That's Warsaw, little one. And it's all yours."
Adrian blinked up at him with unfocused eyes, as if trying to process the words, or perhaps simply recognizing the familiar comfort of the voice that had spoken to him from the other side of skin and water not so long ago.
Marek's heart twisted—not in pain, but in awe.
"Maybe you'll play for this city one day," he said softly, rocking back and forth. "Maybe they'll shout your name."
And then—almost by instinct—he carefully slid his pinky into Adrian's tiny fist.
Grip.
Not strong. Not practiced. But intentional. Adrian's fingers curled tightly around his father's hand.
Marek exhaled sharply. "See that? You've already got a grip."
The tears stung before he could stop them.
By evening, the small apartment was full of voices again. Both sets of grandparents had returned, along with a few close friends bearing gifts—soft blankets, tiny socks, and, from Piotr, a small plastic ball with cartoonish baseball stitching drawn on it in red marker.
"For when he's ready," Piotr said with a wink, sliding it onto the shelf above the crib. "But soon, eh?"
"Soon," Marek echoed, holding Adrian close again.
Everyone laughed softly, knowing they were half-joking—but Marek wasn't.
Later that night, when all the visitors were gone and the city was a quilt of shadows and orange sodium streetlights, Marek stood at the window alone.
He held Adrian one last time before placing him in the crib. The boy was asleep now, mouth slightly open, one hand sprawled over his chest, the other resting gently by his ear like he'd fallen asleep in the middle of a secret.
Snow continued to fall outside. The rooftops were blurred beneath its steady descent.
Marek's breath fogged the window.
One hand on the glass.
One hand on his heart.
He spoke quietly, not needing anyone else to hear:
"We'll do it right this time."
The city, indifferent to the promises made in one tiny apartment, continued to breathe beneath the snowfall. Cars passed, children laughed somewhere far off, and the old tram rolled along toward the station at Pole Mokotowskie.
Inside the Wójcik home, something new had begun.
Not just life.
Legacy.
End of Chapter 1 → "The First Cry"