Dystopic political fiction

A baseball prodigy in an

Tommy Miller stepped up to the plate, tapped the dirt on his shoes and looked toward the mound. The young man preparing to pitch already showed apprehension to throw, knowing Tommy's style well. A few muttered whispers and glances exchanged between the fielders and the players in the dug-out alike.

The first pitch came low and in the dirt. Tommy lowered his bat after the catcher scooped it up and threw it back, then he once again resumed his ready stance. Second pitch outside, ball two. Tommy sighed but held his stance. Finally the third pitch came in slow and steady but enough so over the plate that Tommy caught a huge piece of it. A few scattered sighs went out among the players on the field as most knew the end result.

The ball soared well over the right field fence and into the trees beyond. The right fielder let out the only significant sound, an elongated "awwww crud", mainly because it was now his duty to go chase down yet another of Tommy's home run balls.

Tommy dropped his bat and casually ran the bases holding his head high, trying not to notice the soured faces of the players on the field. Also trying not to notice the lack of cheers from his own 'bench'. As he crossed home his team-mates merely shook their heads at him or tried not to catch his gaze at all. He simply walked himself to his regular place on the edge of the dugout bench. Tommy didn't make many friends on the team. He made the rest of them 'look bad'.

-

Throughout this familiar exercise, the coach stood on the sidelines, but this time he was speaking with the dean of the school. Tommy did not watch them specifically but knew they were likely talking about his performance on the team.

Wally Timmons was now at the plate swinging wildly at dirt pitches. Unlike Tommy's skillful yet silent turn at the bat, Wally's futile attempts were met with cheers and shouts of encouragement from the players in the dugout and on the diamond alike.

But Tommy wasn't watching the game either, he was going over the hit in his head. "Was that further than the one I hit yesterday?" he thought to himself. "And it went more right then I would have liked." "But that was about the only way I could connect with such a weak pitch..." He ran it over in his head wishing he had a real pitch at which to swing - to present him a challenge.

It wasn't long after that when Tommy was brought out of his thoughts by the coach standing over him. "Tommy.... Tom! . . . Dean Mayers wishes to speak with you."

Tommy simply looked up with a small smirk - he had half expected as much - placed his hitting helmet down on the bench and arose to follow the summons.

-

The school secretary had been expecting him and pointed him right into the office. The dean himself had just returned and was still standing behind his desk as Tommy walked in. "Have a seat Mr. Miller," stated Mayers gesturing to a large, opulent chair.

Tommy did as told trying not to be too smug. With as much disdain as he had for the nature of this particular institution, he was still raised to respect his elders and anyone in a position of authority. Mayers just paced a bit tapping his chin and looking up in the air before eventually choosing to speak.

"You know Mr. Miller, Tommy... may I call you Tommy?" The boy showed a small nod. "You are quite an exceptional boy." He paced a few more steps before resuming. "As I am sure you are aware, we here at this learning institution ... how to put this ... we don't really like to encourage 'exceptionalism'." He paused again, Tommy assumed to give the words more impact.

"As a general rule, we don't discourage it either mind you. But rather, we like to encourage everyone to participate equally and to feel equally...," he again paused as though searching for a word. "To feel equally 'able' to perform with their fellows." Mayers looked directly at Tommy now to gauge his reaction. Tommy just looked ahead trying to appear attentive, still trying not to be too smug.