⏱ ~4 min reading
Luka had a neighbor, Mr. Stepan, from the third apartment on the same floor. Mr. Stepan was not very old, but already with gray hair on his temples. He had a son who lived somewhere far away, and when his son came to visit, they played football on the playground near the house.
When his son didn't come, Mr. Stepan had the ball lying in the hallway.
On Saturday, Luke knocked:
— Mr. Stepan, can I borrow a ball for the weekend? The boys and I are going to play.
Mr. Stepan smiled:
"Take it, Luka. Just return it on Sunday evening - your son will arrive on Monday.".
"I'll give it back! I promise.".
The ball was beautiful. Dark white, with black hexagons, with a subtle smell of new leather—more precisely, synthetic, but pleasant. Luka held it with both hands, like a treasure.
The boys played all Saturday. Luka shot from the left - he was practicing to do it better. Nazar stood on the goal - two backpacks placed like posts. Sashko was the striker.
At one point, Luka hit hard. The ball flew through the net, over the fence, and ended up in the yard of a neighboring house, where an old plum tree with sharp branches grew.
Luka jumped over the fence. He found the ball under the plum tree. The branch caught the barrel - the ball left a small scratch, barely noticeable. And also - the ball seemed to puff up a little slower when you pushed it.
Luka sniffed it. He touched it. The ball was definitely not as elastic as it was in the morning.
The guys finished the game. Luka came home with the ball under his arm. He put it in the hallway. He looked again - he was definitely giving in. Not much. Maybe if Mr. Stepan hadn't noticed - it wouldn't be a big deal.
«"What if he notices?"»
Luka was sitting in a chair. He was looking at the ball. He was squeezing it lightly - just right. Compared to what he was doing in the morning... he was swollen.
«"You can return it as is. Simple. I'll say: here, I'll return it. Mr. Stepan may not notice. And if he does, I'll say: I didn't know, you bastard."»
Luka thought, thought. He imagined Mr. Stepan. He imagined his son - when he arrives, he will grab the ball, feel it - but there is no ball. Not the same one that was there in the morning.
Luka got up and went to his dad.
"Dad. Do we have a pump?"
— What pump?
— Who throws balls. Our Mr. Stepan's.
Dad looked at his son. He nodded.
— Yes. In the closet. The one for the bicycle, with a thin needle for balls. And what?
"I deflated the ball a little. Because of a branch. I want to pump it up like it was.".
Dad didn't say anything extra. He just went into the closet, got out a pump—an old one, but it worked. He showed me how to insert the needle—where there's a tiny hole with a rubber band. How to push.
Luka was pumping. He was sitting in the kitchen, on a stool, holding the ball with his knees. Dad was sitting next to him, drinking coffee and reading something on his phone — silently, without comment.
Luka checked the elasticity. He pressed. He pumped more.
When the ball was exactly as it had been in the morning—hard, springy, with a good bounce off the floor—Luka stopped. He wiped the place where the scratch had been with a rag—the sleeve of his T-shirt. The scratch itself remained—a small one—but the ball was the same ball.
On Sunday evening, Luka knocked on Mr. Stepan's door. He took the ball in his hands. On the threshold he said:
— Mr. Stepan. I'll return the ball. Only there's a scratch on it - a branch on a plum. And it's a little swollen, I pumped it up. Check it, please.
Mr. Stepan took the ball. Tossed it. Pressed it. Looked at the scratch. Then at Luka.
"It's okay, son. The ball is alive. A scratch is nothing, it already has many of those.".
"I just wanted you to know.".
Mr. Stepan smiled. It's warm, the way older people smile when younger people surprise them a little.
"You know, Luka, I'm glad you said it. I probably wouldn't have noticed. But you said it. It's important.".
— As it was, so I return.
Luka went home. The entrance smelled of damp plaster - renovations on the fourth floor. Luka felt warm in his chest. Because he returned the borrowed thing not only intact, but also honestly. A ball is a ball. And a word is a word. Both must be protected.
💡 Return what you borrow in the same condition.