Gil Grissom always enjoyed a conversation with a fellow intellectual. As involved as he was with his work, he didn't always have time for normal conversations that didn't involve corpses and crime scene evidence.
Grissom's latest case involved a dead hockey player. He himself had never gotten into hockey. He found it to be violent and totally unorthodox. Now that he thought about it, he found most sports to be like that.
He was currently getting ready to investigate the scene of the crime with his fellow CSI, Sara Sidle. He had no idea why, but sometimes he found himself struggling to find the right words when she was around.
Sighing slightly, he looked at the list of rules and regulations given to him by the manager of the ice rink. "Two minutes for elbowing, four minutes for high sticking, ten minutes for unsportsmanlike conduct." He read off.
"Boys will be boys," Sara replied, looking slightly amused. She stared at the rink in front of her, perhaps visualizing what work needed to be done.
"Yeah, sounds like these boys went to a fight and a hockey game broke out." Grissom said almost to himself, thinking again about the stupidity of the sport.
"You just don't like sports," Sara said, smiling.
"That's not true; I've been a baseball fan my whole life," Grissom said quickly, to defend himself.
"Baseball," Sara said with slight surprise, "well, that figures. All those stats…"
"It's a beautiful game," Grissom agreed, nodding his head. And it was a beautiful game. When he had been younger, Grissom had often been bullied and teased because of his fascination with bugs. Instead of eating them for a dare like the other boys his age, he had examined them under a magnifying glass (a gift from his aunt) and studied their movements and appearances.
One day, after being shoved into a locker by someone bigger than him, Grissom was freed by an upperclassman. Grissom must have looked upset, because the boy went out of his way to walk him home. Grissom noticed the boy was carrying a baseball bat and glove, and asked if he played.
"'Course I do," the boy answered, like he had just been asked an obvious question, "best game in the world. Do you play?"
Grissom replied honestly that he did not know how.
The boy stopped dead and looked at him like he'd just grown a second head. "Don't know how?! Well, you've got to learn right away! Come to the baseball field after school tomorrow, and I'll teach you all you need to know."
Grissom, completely surprised by the boy's kindness, agreed to the proposal.
"I'm Mark," the boy said, shaking Grissom's hand.
"Gil," he managed to squeak back before walking inside his apartment.
The next day after school, Grissom dutifully went to the baseball diamond and shifted his feet nervously on the dirt, waiting for his teacher to arrive. After ten minutes of waiting, Grissom began to fear that the whole thing was a cruel setup. His fear turned to relief when he saw Mark jogging towards him with two bats and gloves.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, handing Grissom a smaller bat and glove. "I had to find extras. You can keep those if you want. They might be big, but you'll grow into 'em."
Grissom looked at him with wide eyes. "I can keep these?"
Mark smiled. "Yup," he said. "Now, first, I'll teach you how to catch. Put that on your left hand," he ordered, pointing to Grissom's glove.
Grissom easily slipped the glove on. Mark had been right; the glove was far too big for his hand. "Like this?" he asked, holding up his hand.
Mark grinned at him. "Exactly. Now, to catch the ball…"
The boys practiced for three hours. In that time, Grissom had learned all the basic rules of baseball. The sun was setting as Mark walked him home again.
"Want to practice again tomorrow?" Grissom asked eagerly.
Mark shook his head. "Sorry, I can't. I have baseball practice for my actual team on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. How about Thursday?" Grissom's crestfallen face suddenly perked up. "Every Thursday?" he asked eagerly.
Mark laughed. "Fine," he said, ruffling Grissom's hair. "And Tuesday, too?" Grissom asked, practically bouncing on his heels.
"Fine, fine." Mark said with a wave of his hand, smirking. "See you Thursday then!" He walked away, and Grissom entered his apartment, grinning ear to ear.
Over the next several months, Grissom and Mark practiced every week, and Grissom became quite good at baseball. Occasionally, Grissom could outrun or outsmart Mark at a certain thing, and Mark would get a twinkle in his eye, like he was proud of his young pupil. The two became good friends, despite their age differences. Grissom could listen to Mark's complaints about life and match them with his rather brilliant insights about human nature. Grissom seemed to be an unusually sharp and intelligent kid.
As Grissom grew older, he grew out of his former shyness, and began to join Mark and the other neighborhood kids in their weekend games at the baseball field. By the time he was fifteen, he was one of the best players in the neighborhood.
The day Mark left for college, Grissom was so upset he nearly cried until Mark assured him that he'd write letters every week. Then Mark plopped his favorite blue baseball cap on Grissom's head, told him to use it to impress a girl one day, and walked off the field for the very last time.
True to his word, Mark sent Grissom a letter every week. Grissom found it interesting to hear about all the different college courses, and tried to give advice to Mark, who seemed to be starting to struggle in school. When the letters stopped coming, Grissom was concerned, but soon became distracted with other things. High school was a busy place, and he certainly had lots to do. He played baseball throughout his entire high school career, and graduated with the top grades in all his classes. He eventually misplaced Mark's old blue baseball cap, since the school colors were red and white.
One day, out of sheer chance, Grissom found the hat again. He was packing for college and reached up to the top shelf to get a box, when the cap fell out and hit him on the head. It was then that Grissom thought about Mark for the first time in almost a year. He found all the old letters Mark had written him, and quickly packed them in a box with the hat to be put away in his closet.
Grissom managed to track down Mark's parents on the telephone. When he asked what had become of his childhood friend, his parents sadly explained that Mark had died of cancer a year ago. Grissom hung up the phone and opened the box of letters. He searched for the latest date in the box and re-read the letter. When his eyes traveled to the top of the page, he began to cry. The letter had been written the day before his friend's death.
Grissom hadn't even noticed at the time the squiggly handwriting on the page.
Without even realizing what he was doing, Grissom packed the box of letters into one of his college boxes and put the baseball cap on his head. He read the letters even today.
"Since when are you interested in beauty?" Sara asked him flatly, snapping Grissom out of his flashback. Grissom had forgotten she was even there. She wore an unreadable expression that made him want to get inside her head and she what she was thinking.
"Since I met you." The words were out of his mouth before he even realized what he was saying. He stared down at his clipboard, too afraid to look at her. He quickly tried to cover up his blunder by carrying on with business. "So, we'll start at the opposite goal, work our way across the blue line to center ice." He said, a little too fast.
He quickly glanced at Sara, who was staring at him. There was an uncomfortable silence for a few long seconds that made Grissom unsure of whether she would question his words. "…sure." She finally replied.
He couldn't help but smile as he got up and walked away. There was something about Sara that made him lose his standard 'Grissom' look. In a way, he was frustrated that someone could penetrate his walls, but he secretly enjoyed moments like these, where he could talk to her one-on-one and see what happened. Mark had told him once that if he found a girl he really liked, he should use his charm to impress her. Grissom was unsure of whether or not he had charm, but he had other means of impressing a girl.
He touched the piece of blue fabric he always kept in his pocket and smiled. It reminded him of an old friend, someone who was always watching over him.
He turned his head upwards, but all he saw was the faded gray ceiling of an old hockey arena.
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