Just a little McGee oneshot that popped into my head, and I had to get it out. Don't own NCIS by any means.
He's grown over the summer, thought Ms. Gloria Dewine as she watched Timothy McGee carefully putting his books in his locker. He was still scrawny compared to most of the kids, but she figured that was to be expected of a sixteen-year-old senior in high school.
She had seen him occasionally over the summer, mostly as he ducked in and out of classrooms, sometimes participating in the classes, sometimes helping, and sometimes fixing computers or helping a teacher organize their classroom. The young man was almost constantly seen jogging down the hallways of the school.
Tim was now getting close to six feet tall, almost four inches taller then he'd been when she had said goodbye to him at the end of last year. His shoulders had broadened too, and he was beginning to look a lot more like his father then he ever had. His brown hair was still slicked back in its usual fashion, but one side of his bangs had gotten loose and hung down in front of his eyes. Some one called out a greeting to him and he turned, his trademark grin in place as he tipped his hand at them and turned back to his locker.
She was smiling as she watched him pull out a binder and notebook from his locker, plus the latest book he was reading. Ms. Dewine was about to head back into her classroom when she saw trouble. Trouble in the form of three blond haired senior boys wearing letter jackets and smug grins.
"Hey, McGee! How was your summer?" asked the tallest, flinging an arm around the shorter boys shoulders.
"Was it super-duper?" asked the one who looked like a linebacker, leaning against the locker next to Tim's.
"Spend it all at the playground? Or maybe the toy store?" asked the third, skinnier then the others, his jacket hanging off his shoulders almost.
"Hey, Mike, James, Tyler. My summer was just fine," Tim responded, trying to duck out from under Mike's arm subtly. The older boy just tightened his hold, and Tim's green eyes took on an almost fearful look, and Ms. Dewine took this as her cue to step in.
"Tim, I was just looking for you. I need help finding my book, and you're exceptionally good at finding things," she said, and the other three took off as soon as she said this. Tim looked grateful as he headed into her classroom.
She waited a second, watching the tall young man head into her classroom, and she couldn't help but think that this was going to be quite a year for young Timothy McGee.
--
Fall came and went, the halls filled with posters for the football and volleyball teams. She knew that as a teacher it was her duty to go to the games, and over the years she had come to enjoy seeing her students in something other then academic pursuits. Also, she went to keep an eye on Tim.
He sat at the top row, away from the screaming student section once the band was done, sweaty from performing in the heavy uniforms, and she was sure, reviewing every moment of the performance in his mind. Tim would just sit there, yet she could tell that he would have made an excellent football player had he been a little bigger.
He always knew where the ball was; never fell for play fakes or anything of the sort. Always was able to pinpoint the perfect play in the perfect situation. He always wore school colors, and always cheered, but she knew that he was more interested in the technical aspects of the games rather then the wins or losses.
But soon fall passed into blustery winter, and basketball season began.
--
Coach Marcus Miller had quite the unusual style when it came to trying out for his basketball team. One at a time, at an appointed time, just him, the kid, a basketball and a hoop. That was all he needed.
And now, watching his last appointment shoot jump shots from the designated spots, he couldn't believe his eyes. Scrawny little Tim McGee, barely sixteen and already a senior, who had never impressed him as an athlete in his gym classes, was blowing him away.
A lefty, which already won him points in Miller's book because you could never have too many lefties, he had a natural, arching shot that most of his starting varsity had yet to comprehend. He could handle the ball fairly well, with both his hands, and Coach Miller was pretty sure that a kid who was a brilliant as McGee was rumored to be would know his way around a court.
His size was an issue though, and the fact that it was clear to Miller that he beat himself up over every little mistake was making him wonder if the kid could actually play high school ball.
And then came the final drill. Miller had made it up himself, and was quite proud of it. The player swatted the ball out of one hand, then went after. Usually the guys gave it half hearted taps and chased after it, scooping it up and looking bored. But McGee went after it with everything, diving and sliding.
Miller put a note next to McGee's name before asking, "Why'd you decide to come out this year?"
McGee took another shot that rattled the rim a few times before falling through before answering, "I like playing basketball."
Miller huffed out a laugh before he called for the ball and told McGee he could go, that the names would be posted in the next week. Changing shoes quickly and pulling on his sweatpants and coat, Tim waved goodbye before disappearing out the door.
--
That first day of practice, McGee took more crap then Coach thought one person could stand. But he kept going, kept dribbling circles around people, kept making shots, kept playing real defense like Miller had never really seen in all his years of coaching boys basketball.
He seemed to see holes before they opened, seemed to start his passes before his teammates were even open, got ready to shoot before he'd even stopped dribbling. McGee definitely had a gift, if not athletically, then in brilliance and tenacity. The kid was on the floor after every loose ball, fought for every jump ball, ran every sprint without complaint, came early and stayed late to shoot free throws. He was any coach's dream. And yet, he had flaws like every player.
He wasn't the best dribbler with his right hand, but he was better then most of the guys with their left. His shot had perfect form nearly every time, but he didn't adjust on the fly very well at times. He often beat himself up about the simplest things, and that brought his game down. Plus, the kid was just plain scrawny, his practice jersey hanging off his shoulder, constantly hitting the ground from the bigger players bullying him around.
Miller put him on the JV, and the kid starred, putting up double-digit numbers, and no one, besides his parents and sister, was more proud of this then one Ms. Gloria Dewine. She had always come to basketball games, they had always been her favorites, but now she came as almost a family member, with Tim out there on the court directing the team.
And Tim was having fun. The teasing hadn't stopped, for despite the fact that he was an athlete now, he was still the too young genius. So the bullying didn't stop in the slightest, but the hours he spent on the court helped.
And then one cold December Thursday practice, it happened. Tyler Gismasson had been complaining most of practice, and Coach Miller snapped. He put Tyler on the varsity second team and called Tim over from the JV court.
"Play the point, McGee," he said, tossing him the ball and wondering what he was going to do. Tim looked nervous, but nodded any way and took up his spot at half court. Twirling his finger in the air, he pushed the ball against the floor and they started, still shocked about what had happened but knowing that they better get started lest they wanted something similar to happen to them.
McGee embarrassed Tyler in every sense of the word, and Miller told him he'd be starting the next night against Resoning. And that moment changed the senior year of Tim McGee.
He scored fifteen against the Falcons, and held their star to four, two of which had been on a charge that should have been called. He even managed to pull down four rebounds because he refused to let his size hold him back too much.
By his fourth game with the varsity, McGee had earned a reputation for never quitting and always putting big numbers on the scoreboard. Then McGee solidified his name in school history when they played Great River, Gorting's biggest rival.
It was a hard fought game, and hard fought games were where little brilliant gym rats like McGee shone brightest. He would score 37 points, breaking the school record for single game points by 9. He held his man to three points, off a long, lucky shot after a bad switch by a teammate. They would find out later that he had played the second half with at least one broken rib, if not two more, after he'd been slammed into the bleachers by a frustrated Great River's player who was twice his size while diving for a ball.
But he had refused to give up, and he sunk a shot from the foul line over a double team in which one of the men had eight inches on him. And this pattern would continue for the rest of the year, until they lost in the semi-finals of the state tournament.
Coach Marcus Miller had been coaching for nearly 20 years when Timothy McGee had put in an appearance, but he was never more proud to present a varsity letter to anyone, or see anyone wear a varsity letter jacket.
--
McGee had known this was a bad idea. Had known what was coming to him. But it had been too cold today just to go without a coat, and he hadn't been able to find anything else, so he'd pulled on the old jacket and headed for work.
And the first thing he heard was Tony's voice, "Wow, McGeek, what pawn shop did you get that out of?"
"It's mine, from high school," said McGee, sitting at his desk and taking the jacket off quickly.
"Right, you, a letterman, that's really funny," said Tony, and McGee knew he had been asking for it.
"It's got my name on it," he said, showing the script McGee that was opposite the big blue G.
"Could have been your dad's or your grandpa's," said Tony, and McGee showed him the year on the sleeve.
"You actually expect me to believe you were a letterman in high school?" said Tony, nearly falling out of his chair as he came over to examine the jacket.
"Here," said Tim, pulling up the website for Gorting High School in Gorting, Ohio, clicking on the basketball link, then the records link. Looking where McGee pointed, Tony's eyes widened at what it read: Points in a Single Game- Timothy McGee, 37.
"I started point guard my senior year when I was sixteen. Scored those points in a game against our biggest rival. Had at least one broken rib for almost three quarters," said McGee, and Tony just stared at him until Gibbs came in, telling them to gear up. But Tony's reaction had gotten Tim thinking.
--
He hadn't been in this gym in a long time. It still looked the same, with wooden bleachers and a dark blue G in the center with a black lightning through it. Two new banners had been hung, both basketball championships, and a few pictures had been added to the wall of honor that hung along the back wall behind the home stands. If McGee squinted he could make out his own picture and plaque up there under the basketball section.
"Hello?" asked a voice behind him, and McGee turned to see a white haired man standing by the door.
"Coach Miller?' asked Tim, and the man nodded slowly, "It's Tim McGee," he said, and the man's face broke into a wide smile.
"Well, long time, no see, Ace. Where'd you end up?" asked his old coach, and Tim smiled.
"I'm working in DC. At NCIS, Navel Criminal Investigation Services" he said, and the man smiled.
"Ahh, I always knew you'd go far, kid. So what brings you back here to little old Gorting?" asked the coach.
"Well, a couple days ago, I wore my letter jacket into work and one of my coworkers couldn't believe that it was actually mine. And I realized that I never really thanked you for giving me a chance to surprise people like that. A chance to step out of my shell a bit," said Tim, and the old coach's booming laugh filled the empty gym.
"You were a special one, Ace, real special. You never once let anything get you down. Once you stepped out on to that court, you were like royalty."
The old coach and the younger old player stood in the old gym and remembered the old days.
"I should be going. It's getting late and I'm sure you need to be getting home," Tim said, looking over at the man he still considered his coach.
"You should stay for a while. I've got my McGee tryout coming up," said Miller, and continued at Tim's confused look, "Everybody always calls the Friday 9:30 slot the McGee slot, for the kid whose good enough to convince himself to try out, but too shy to sign up for any slot but the last one, giving himself plenty of chances to back out. Like you," he said, and McGee chuckled.
"Guess it couldn't hurt to help you out a little," said McGee, and he took a seat next to the man on the first row of the bleachers as a skinny kid with long blond hair and quivering green eyes slipped in through the doors, and Coach Miller tossed him the ball. As the kid began to work, McGee smiled, watching him work his way up down the court like he himself had all those years ago.
Maybe he could ask Coach if he could shoot around a little after the kid left.
Just a little look into McGee's past that popped into my head and wouldn't go away. I just kept seeing him in a letter jacket and Tony bugging him about it, so I had to write it. Hope you liked it!