Jim and Blair aren't mine--I'm just drafting them for my team for a little while.

This was written for Annie's birthday. And, as always, thank you fellow TSL'ers!

This is the first in a series of sports snippets that will lead to a deeper relationship between Jim and Blair. Each story will revolve around some type of sport, and will involve sweaty men and male bonding. <G>

//Check Check Check him out//
//Check that little pitcher out.//
//Is he high? Is he low?//
//Is he fast? Is he slow?//
//Check Check Check him out.//
//Is he in or is he out?//
//CHECK THAT LITTLE PITCHER OUT!//

"Right here, Sandburg. Right across the base," Jim Ellison hollered to his partner as he squatted behind a flattened Coke can, his leather glove held open at chest level. His ball cap was turned backward with the bill covering his nape, and his gray T-shirt showed sweat stains beneath his arms and at the center of his chest.

Blair Sandburg took a deep breath, wound up and threw the softball with a snapping underhand motion. The ball flew toward Jim, and then curved at the last moment, just like the majority of Blair's previous pitches. The detective lunged upward and leaned far to his right, barely catching the ball with a muffled thwump a moment before dropping to the dusty ground, chest first.

The detective scowled and pushed himself upright, clapping his glove against his dusty shirt and shorts.

Blair ran over to join him, his face a picture of misery. "I should've kept my mouth shut when the guys were looking for a pitcher."

Jim's irritation fled at his partner's obvious distress. "Look, Chief, I know this is kind of going above and beyond, but we really need you. The championship game is tomorrow against Narcotics. We finally have a chance to bring the trophy to Major Crime." He sighed and brushed at his dirt-streaked forehead, at a spot just beneath his reversed cap. "Or we did until Joel pulled the muscle in his shoulder yesterday."

"There's got to be someone else who can pitch," Blair said, fingering the softball's seams. "It's been nearly ten years since I played."

"You're a natural, Sandburg," Jim reassured. His expression lost some of its enthusiasm. "You'd be really good if you could just send the ball over the base instead of to the outside."

Blair's heartbeat spiked, and he laughed nervously. "Yeah, well, maybe I need new glasses."

Jim frowned. "What is it, Chief?"

"What's what?" Sandburg's eyes held the classic feigned innocence he used when trying to avoid the subject.

"You tell me." Jim crossed his arms, trying to ignore the dust that rose and tickled his sensitive nose.

Blair turned away from him and strode to the nearby picnic table where two bottles of water stood. He unscrewed one and took a long pull.

Jim joined him, hiking himself up onto the picnic table and propping his feet on the plank seat. He drank half of the other bottle of water before setting it back down beside him. He remained quiet, waiting for his partner to speak. This was where his covert ops and stake-out training really paid off--he could be patient when he needed to be. And often times, he needed patience with his normally talkative roommate who clammed up when the subject got too personal.

Blair plopped down on the table beside him, their shoulders brushing. His T-shirt was also damp with perspiration and his baggy sweatpants hung low on his narrow hips. He jerked off his cap and ran a hand over his damp hair.

The odors of Blair-sweat and herbal shampoo wafted over Jim and the older man breathed deeply of the familiar scents. It eased the nervousness in his gut as he waited for his guide to speak.

"This may come as a shock, but I used to be pretty good at sports," Blair began.

Jim shook his head slowly. "That doesn't surprise me. You may not be tall, but you're muscular and your coordination is amazing." He smiled. "It has to be, the way you juggle all your responsibilities."

Blair stared at him, his mouth gaping. "I always thought you figured I was just some science nerd."

"Well, yeah, you are, but you're a jock-y science nerd." Jim tousled his hair.

Blair ducked away, his cheeks flushing. "Thanks, man, that means a lot coming from Mister All-Around Jock himself."

"Hey, I'm not just some brainless brawn here."

Blair poked the closest Ellison bicep. "Pretty brawny there." He sobered. "I know you did really well in school. A 3.88 high school GPA and a 3.75 college average."

Jim's eyebrows shot upward, and he chuckled. "Why am I not surprised you know that?"

Blair grinned and turned his baseball cap around and around in his busy hands. "I guess all the mystery is gone, huh?"

Jim laid his hand on Blair's wrist, halting his nervous motions. "Somehow I doubt you'll ever stop surprising me, Chief."

The dark blue eyes that met Jim's were filled with warmth and amusement. After a few moments, Blair sent his attention back to his cap.

"My last year in high school, I was on the fast pitch softball team," Blair began. "The coach said I was a natural, too. We went to state that year. We were in the quarter finals when--" He squeezed his eyes shut. "It was the top of the seventh and we were behind by one run. I had to keep them from getting any more hits."

A tremor passed through his sturdy body, and Jim rested a hand on his shoulder. "Take your time, Chief," he said gently.

After a moment, Blair continued. "I wound up, intending to throw my fastest pitch, which had already broken the state record. I screwed up. The ball hit the batter's elbow. Broke his arm in three places."

Blair's heartbeat hammered so loudly Jim figured he would be able to hear it even without sentinel senses.

"There was talk before that happened that he had a good shot at making it to the pros." Blair rubbed his eyes and Jim could smell his sorrow and grief. "Instead he ended up with five pins in his arm and only played ball for fun after that."

Jim clenched his jaw, wishing he could give his friend some words of wisdom and encouragement, but the spoken language wasn't his forte. So he only squeezed the sturdy shoulder, hoping Blair would understand.

"He didn't blame me," Blair continued, his voice husky with smoldering anguish. "He even invited me to his wedding. They have a couple kids now."

"He sounds like a pretty stand-up guy," Jim offered quietly.

"Yeah, he is. We still exchange Christmas cards." Blair swallowed hard. "I never played again, until today."

They sat in silence, listening to the squirrels chatter in the nearby trees and a crow cawing from his perch on a streetlamp. The sound of children laughing drew Jim's attention and he focused his vision on their game of tag for a minute.

"You don't have to do this, Chief. I'll tell Simon that you've got something going on tomorrow and can't make it," Jim finally said. He shifted uncomfortably. "It's the least I can do after we railroaded you into taking Joel's position."

Blair shook his head and a few curly tendrils escaped his tie. "I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed playing. It's almost like I never stopped." He sighed and drew his shoulders back. "I can do this, Jim. I may not be as good as Joel, but I want to try."

Jim nodded. "It's your decision, Blair. I'll understand if you decide not to play."

Blair snorted. "And let Rafe pitch? He's a great guy and all, but I thought you wanted a shot at winning."

"I do, but not if you're going to be miserable."

"I won't be. I just wish I had more time to practice. What time's the game tomorrow?"

"Two o'clock," Jim replied. He took a deep breath and checked the angle of the setting sun. "We'd better head home."

The two men jumped off the table and grabbed their respective water bottles.

"Did you win?" Jim suddenly asked.

"What?"

"The championship?"

Blair shook his head and his gaze grew distant. "No. Even though no one said anything, I know they blamed me."

The sentinel could tell Blair blamed himself more than anyone else could have, plus he had to live with the guilt of crippling the opposing team's batter. He grasped Blair's elbow, halting him, and turned him around to face him. "Softball is a team sport, Chief. One person doesn't win or lose a game, no matter what anyone says."

They stood motionless, gazes locked, until a dog's bark startled them. Walking side by side, Jim and Blair left the park.

##

Megan stepped into the batter's box in the top of the seventh--and final--inning. Although she hadn't grown up playing softball, she possessed an innate ability to catch and throw, as well as swing the bat. Wearing a batter's helmet and glove, she looked like a seasoned veteran. The first pitch was outside. The second, Megan swung and missed.

"C'mon Megan, hit the ball!" Rafe shouted from their bench.

"Megan, Megan you're the one!" Blair chanted. "Hit that ball and run run run!"

Jim tilted his head and chuckled. "Connor's got a few choice places where she'd like to hit that ball."

Megan socked a base hit and stopped on first amidst the cheers of her teammates. H went next and popped out, the ball being caught by the third baseman. Then Jim stepped into the batter's box and took a couple practice swings.

Just before the first pitch was thrown, a female voice from the other side called out, "Jim's got a homerun on his mind and whoa, he's lookin' fine!"

Jim swung at a high ball and missed. He scowled, though his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Blair glared at Allyson Johnson, a leggy redhead from Narcotics. He remembered her coming onto Jim in Records one day. Blair had dragged him out before she could get her talons in his sentinel.

Another high ball, but this time Jim watched it go by and got a "Ball one!" from the ump, a retired patrolman.

Blair grinned and shouted, "Big bad Jimbo, rip one down the middle! Boogy 'round the bases and slide into their laces."

Jim glanced at him, smiled wryly and rolled his eyes.

The next pitch was perfect and big bad Jimbo ripped one down the middle and over the fence. Megan and Jim jogged around the bases, coming over home plate to high fives, back slaps, and loud cheering. Blair grabbed Jim and hugged him. Jim hugged him back. Then the two men joined their teammates. Major Crime led Narcotics 4 to 3.

Blair was up next and hit a triple, but Rafe struck out. With two outs and a man--Blair--on third, Simon stepped into the batter's box. He went down with a short hop to the second baseman who tossed the ball to first, beating the captain to the base.

Three outs, and Narcotics now had their last chance.

Jim met Blair at the pitcher's mound and handed him his glove. "That was a nice hit, Chief."

Blair pulled his glove on his left hand, then removed his cap and pulled his forearm across his sweat-dampened forehead. "Thanks, but this is it. If I can hold them, we'll have that trophy."

Jim took a step closer to Blair, so they were only inches apart. "You're not in high school, Chief, and this isn't the state championship. We're a team. We win or lose as a team. Besides," he tapped the end of Blair's sunburned nose, "It's only a game."

Blair smiled in gratitude. "Thanks, Jim. I'll try to remember that. Are you keeping it dialed down?"

The detective nodded. "Yep, except for sight."

"Be careful you don't zone, man."

"Yes, Mother."

Blair slapped his back with his gloved hand and heard Jim's answering chuckle as he took his place at shortstop. H, playing catcher, tossed Blair the softball and he threw a couple practice pitches.

The ump called the first batter into the box. Blair watched H's signals, but shook his head at the first two, then nodded at the third. He wound up and let loose a screamer across the plate. Gilson, a backslapping detective, swung...and missed.

"Strike one!" the ump hollered.

Another strike, then a ball, and finally the third strike. Gilson tossed down his bat and stomped out of the batters box. Blair adjusted his cap to hide his smirk, then turned to glance at Jim and found a mirroring expression. Gilson had not endeared himself to his peers with his smarmy ways and political aspirations.

"One down," Blair whispered, and saw Jim's encouraging smile when the sentinel heard his quiet words.

Annie Reardon, a vivacious, athletic woman with blonde hair and blue eyes, stepped up to home plate. Blair knew better than to underestimate her abilities--she'd already gotten one hit off him already. His first pitch was a ball. The second a foul down the first base line. Then her bat connected with the third pitch, sending the ball between Jim and Megan, who was in left field. Jim reached it before the inspector and scooped it up, throwing it to Simon at first base. Annie beat the tag.

Blair caught the tossed ball from Simon, then tucked it beneath his arm. He leaned over and picked up the bag of powder, rolled it in his right hand, then dropped it back onto the mound.

"C'mon, Sandburg, don't get all weird here. There's one down. You can do it," Blair muttered to himself.

He tossed the softball into his glove. A familiar figure came up beside him.

"You're not getting weird. You're doing fine, Chief. Better than fine," Jim murmured. He massaged Blair's shoulder. "Win or lose, I'm taking you out to that new guru restaurant after the game."

Blair smiled wryly into twinkling blue eyes. "It's Swahili."

Jim shrugged but the tilt of his lips revealed his teasing. "Whatever. Don't worry, Chief. Like I said, it's only a game."

"Yeah, yeah, just like the Super Bowl is only a game."

Jim laughed and swatted his ponytail. "Relax, Chief. Have fun."

Then Blair watched Jim jog back to his position and found himself admiring his friend's easy lope and the flexing of muscles in his long legs. Blair shook his head and turned back to face the batters box.

The third batter, Mark Ronny, had a bit of a paunch but was one of Narcotics' best hitters. With the fourth pitch, Mark sent the ball far into center field, where Rafe caught it. But Annie made it to second base.

Two outs and a runner on second. All Blair needed was to strike out the next batter.

Shay Jensen stepped up to the plate. Jensen was blessed with Hollywood good looks and an athletic ability almost equal to Jim's--as far as Blair was concerned, nobody could be as physically talented as his best friend.

"C'mon, Blair, right across the plate," Shay shouted good-naturedly.

"Riiiight," Blair called back, grinning.

Blair wound up and threw a windmill pitch. He watched in horror as Shay barely managed to miss getting hit by the inside ball, and his mind flashed back to the high school championship game. The grad student's heart thundered in his chest and he was barely cognizant of a firm grasp on his arm and a gentle voice close to his ear.

"It's okay, Chief. You didn't hit him. Everything's fine," Jim was saying in a low, soothing voice.

Blair took a deep, shuddering breath. "Damn it! It happened again."

"No, it didn't," Jim said firmly. "You didn't hit him. Jensen's fine. In fact, he's looking this way and seems worried about you."

Blair raised his head to meet Shay's questioning gaze. "I'm okay," he hollered to him and the other players who were watching anxiously.

"Are you really, Chief?" Jim asked, his brow creased with concern.

"I don't know, " he replied honestly. "I-I don't know if I can finish the game."

Simon joined them on the mound, just in time to hear Blair's last sentence. "There's only one out left, Sandburg."

Jim cast Simon an annoyed look, although it wasn't fair to blame the captain--Simon didn't know about Blair's past.

"We can bring Rafe in to clean up," Jim offered.

"Rafe? Are you crazy? We'll lose for sure. Sandburg, can't you finish?" Simon pleaded.

Blair considered first Simon, then Jim. He took a deep breath. "I'll do it."

Jim's grip tightened. "You don't have to do this, Chief. Nobody will think less of you if you don't."

Blair held Jim's compassion-filled blue eyes. "I will."

Simon darted puzzled looks between Jim and Blair. "Is there something going on here that I should know about?"

Blair managed a smile. "No, sir. Everything's just fine."

Simon shrugged helplessly, but said, "All right. Let's do it." He ran back to first base.

Jim tapped Blair's cheek affectionately. "Okay, Chief. You heard the man."

Then the sentinel was gone, and Blair was alone on the mound. He could do this. He could. He had to. There was a lot more riding on this than a game's victory or loss.

H gave him a signal and Blair nodded. He sent the ball across the corner of the plate.

"Strike one!" the ump shouted.

Blair went for a curveball with the next and Shay tipped it off his bat. The ball flew up, and came down in the fifty or so spectators behind them. A young boy caught the ball in his glove and the ump let him keep it.

With one ball and two strikes, Blair's next pitch was high and outside.

"Ball two!"

A trickle of sweat rolled down the side of Blair's face and he used his sleeve to wipe it away. He wound up and pitched again. Another ball.

H tossed back the softball to Blair. With a full count--three balls and two strikes--the next pitch was crucial. H gave him some signals, but Blair shook his head at each one. H shrugged and gave him the go-ahead to do his own thing. Blair would try another fast pitch. He doubted if Shay could touch it. With a silent prayer, he pitched.

"Strike three!"

Shay was staring at the ball in H's glove, as if wondering how it had gotten there.

"Game's over," the ump hollered. "Major Crime takes the trophy."

Then chaos struck. Everybody surged toward Blair and the anthropologist found himself hefted onto two sets of sturdy shoulders--Jim and Simon's. The whole team gathered around them, and even Joel was there, giving him a wide grin and a thumbs-up. Blair smiled until his facial muscles ached.

Five minutes later, the trophy was presented to Major Crime.

"You done good, Sandburg," Simon said, slapping Blair's shoulder, which was becoming sore from all the other congratulatory slaps.

The two men stood gazing at the shiny trophy and Blair glanced at Simon to see the captain's face glowing like he'd just become a father. He laughed and slapped Simon's shoulder. Turnabout was fair play.

Blair searched for Jim and saw Allyson Johnson with him. She was standing close and whispering in his ear. It appeared Allyson wanted to give Jim his own private celebration. Blair sighed. It had been a long time since Jim had a date. And Allyson was beautiful and obviously willing. Who was he to put a damper on Jim's love life?

Blair forced himself to smile brightly as he neared them. "Hey, Jim. Hi Allyson."

"Hello, Blair," Allyson said feigned ebullience. "I hope you didn't ride over with Jim because he's not going home right away."

"Nah, that's fine. I can catch a ride with Simon. Go on, Jim. Enjoy." Blair turned away, hoping to catch Simon before he left with the trophy in his paternal embrace.

"Chief, hold up," Jim called.

Blair swallowed hard, plastered another smile in place, and turned to meet Jim's cool blue eyes. "Yeah?"

"Allyson must not have heard me. I told her I couldn't go with her because I'd promised you a celebration at the restaurant of your choice," Jim stated. Ice coated his tone, but it wasn't directed at Blair.

"But, Jim--" Allyson began, her full lips flexing into a practiced pout.

"So long, Allyson." Jim grabbed his glove and bottle of water from the bench, and joined Blair.

"We can do it some other time, Jim," Blair protested weakly.

"No, we can't." Jim led him away from the fuming woman. He ducked closer to his partner. "Besides, you just saved me from a fate worse than death."

"What?"

"A date with Allyson." Jim shuddered exaggeratedly.

"I thought you liked her."

Jim snorted. "I'd rather stick my hand in a cage with an angry rattlesnake or two."

His friend wasn't interested in Allyson. Why was Blair so relieved?

"Home to shower and change, then on to that guru place," Jim announced.

"Swahili, Jim," Blair corrected with patent patience.

"Whatever." Jim threw his arm around Blair's shoulders. "I'm really proud of you, Chief."

"I didn't win the game alone, Jim. The team did it."

Jim squeezed his shoulders and chuckled. "That's right, and your contribution was very much appreciated." He grew serious. "I'm proud of you for working past your fear."

"It wasn't any big deal," Blair said, looking down.

They stopped by the truck and Jim raised Blair's chin with his thumb and forefinger. "It was a big deal, Chief, and I won't have you belittling your accomplishment." He paused and his face filled with affection. "I'm proud to have you as my friend."

Blair's throat felt tight and full. "Thanks, Jim. I'm, uh, proud to have you as a friend, too. More than you'll ever know."

Jim smiled gently. "I doubt that, Chief." His smile blossomed into a grin which lit up his blue eyes. "They do have real food at this guru place, don't they?"

Laughing and rolling his eyes in fond exasperation, Blair hopped into the truck to join his best friend.

End Check That Little Pitcher Out by Romslinger: romslinger@yahoo.com

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