Mal Riley and his Quest to Destroy the New York Yankees: A Rebooted Tale

The first time you ever saw a baseball, it was when your older brother was playing for a little league team when you were five. It was a really strange thing to watch your brother at the plate, standing tall, yet crouched over, his face filled with determination to hit a sphere of leather.

There was something magical about watching it, in a mesmerizing way, watching the pitcher think, the coaches yell about positioning, preparing for the bunt, and your brother quietly watching the pitch for something that could get him on base.

The Pitch came, and your brother swung:

[]And Sent the Ball Flying: Your brother stood at the plate, his stance confident, his bat poised with the precision of a hunter. The pitcher wound up, the ball streaking toward the plate with an unstoppable velocity until it wasn't. CRACK! The bat connected, sending the ball soaring into the sky with a sound that rang in your ears like the echo of a dream. Your brother's grin stretched from ear to ear, wide and mischievous, a Cheshire grin that you couldn't help but mirror. You shielded your eyes against the sun's harsh glare, searching for the ball, but it had disappeared into the heavens. Cheers erupted all around you as the crowd sprang to its feet. Your heart raced with a joy so pure it felt like it might burst. Rounding the bases with an effortless stride, your brother tipped his cap to the roaring fans before he quietly went back to the dugout, to the cheers of his teammate.

That was a home run—a dinger—a moment of perfection etched into your memory. In that instant, the world felt boundless, and you knew you would chase that feeling forever.

(Gain Trait: The Boy Who Chased the Ding)
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[]The Ball Went to the Gap
Your brother tightened his grip on the bat, his face a mask of quiet resolve. The pitcher's arm moved like a blur, but your brother was ready. The bat met the ball with a satisfying thwack, sending it skimming through the infield and slicing neatly into the gap between the outfielders. The crowd let out a collective murmur of anticipation as he took off toward first base. He reached it effortlessly, his pace unhurried, as if he already knew the outcome. The clapping from the stands was polite, less frenzied than the roar of a home run, but no less sincere. From the dugout, his teammates whooped and hollered, their smiles as wide as the horizon.

You watched him stand on the base, a look of pure determination etched on his face. The crowd might not have been as loud, but they knew the truth: a baserunner like your brother was dangerous. He wasn't just a hitter... he was a threat. Probably the greatest threat that any pitcher could face. Because nothing they could do could prevent him from getting on base.

(Gain Trait: The Boy Who Could Hit the Ball)
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[]The 90-Yard Dash
The crack of the bat wasn't as sharp, more of a low, solid thud. Your brother didn't wait to see where the ball was going. He dropped the bat and ran, his legs pumping furiously, his form as natural as the wind itself. The ball skittered along the infield, a frantic scramble of gloves and dirt in its wake, but your brother was already a blur.

He reached first base with a fraction of a second to spare, his foot slapping the bag as the fielder's throw sailed just wide. The crowd gasped, then erupted in cheers as he turned his attention to second base. He didn't hesitate, taking off like a streak of lightning. The second baseman lunged, but your brother slid under the tag, kicking up a cloud of dust as he clutched the base with one hand.

He stood, brushing himself off with a grin that said, Is that all you've got? The stands were alive with applause, and you couldn't take your eyes off him. He wasn't just fast—he was unstoppable. He wasn't just running like the wind, he was the wind.

(Gain Trait: The Boy Who Ran the Bases)
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[]The Pitch
The bat slipped from your brother's hands after his third swing, his face a mix of frustration and focus. He walked back to the dugout, head held high, as the crowd groaned sympathetically. But less than a minute later, he was on the mound, a new fire blazing in his eyes.

His windup was deliberate, his movements smooth and practiced. The first pitch streaked across the plate—a perfect strike. The batter barely had time to react. Your brother grinned, his eyes alight with determination, and wound up again. Strike two. Strike three. Batter out.

The next two hitters fared no better. Each pitch was precise, and every movement was controlled. Nine pitches. Three outs. The inning was over in a blink, leaving the opposing team stunned and the crowd in awe. Your brother walked off the mound like a king, his teammates crowding around him with slaps on the back and shouts of admiration.

He wasn't just playing the game—he owned it.

(Gain Trait: The Boy Who Controlled the Game)
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All while wearing a Yankees hat on his head, one of the only times he was allowed to wear one.

When the game was over, they had won, and you went home, but your brother always hid the hat and uniform… to hide it from your father, to prevent him from screaming, to get rid of them, or worse, destroy them.

But things never got better.

Your father used to love baseball. It was simply loved, of playing together, but instead, he despised one thing more than anything else that was a piller to America's greatest pastime.

The New York Yankees!

It was a complicated story that always seemed to change whenever he had to tell it. But it was a simple tale anyway…
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What caused your father to hate the New York Yankees So much:

[]A Missed Opportunity
Before you and your brothers were even a thought, your father stood on the threshold of greatness. His name buzzed through minor league circles, his stats whispered with awe by scouts. Then came that day—a call to the Majors for a single game, a chance born of desperation when a star player was sidelined, and because everyone else they wanted were sick, injured or just plain unavalible.

It was New York City, Yankee Stadium, the heart of the baseball world. The lights blazed, the crowd roared, and your father took to the plate like he belonged. Five at-bats. Four home runs. One double. It was the kind of performance that made headlines, the kind that legends are built on. His team clinched a playoff berth that night, carried on his back.

But greatness comes with a price. Whispers spread after the game—grudges among players he had overshadowed, murmurs of resentment from coaches who hadn't scouted him, and most dangerously, the ire of Yankees ownership. He didn't fit the mold, they said. Too brash, too unpolished, too much.

When injuries came knocking, they didn't just sideline him—they ended him. He was cut, cast out, his Major League dreams evaporating like summer rain. He never let go of the bitterness, and he never stopped blaming the Yankees. To him, they weren't just a team—they were the enemy.

(Gain Trait: The Chip That Never Left)
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[]A Haunting Memory
Your father often spoke of the road not taken, of what could have been. He had a future in baseball mapped out, starting with a spot in the minors fresh out of college. But life has a cruel sense of humor.

It was a snowy December night, the holidays just around the corner. He was driving home, eager to share his dreams with his family, when it happened. A drunk driver swerved into his lane, headlights blinding, impact shattering. He survived, barely, but his body never fully healed. His hands trembled constantly after that night, a cruel twist of fate for someone whose life revolved around precision and control.

The driver, they said, was just another reckless fool—but your father swore he saw the man's Yankees cap lying in the wreckage. It became a talisman of his anger, his grief, and his bitterness. Years later, when the driver turned out to be a man who rose through the Yankees' ranks to the front office, it only cemented the narrative in your father's mind.

He was lucky to be alive, people said. But he never saw it that way. To him, that night took everything, leaving only ghosts and a grudge that time could never bury.

(Gain Trait: A Bitter Tale)
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[]A Regional Hatred
Your father's disdain for the Yankees wasn't born of personal tragedy or career sabotage—it was woven into the very fabric of his upbringing. Raised in the heart of Boston, he grew up steeped in the fierce rivalry between the Red Sox and the Yankees. It wasn't just a baseball feud; it was a way of life, a creed. The Curse of the Bambino, the heartbreaks, the near-misses, it was all etched into his soul.

When he left Boston to start a new life with your mother, he carried that rivalry with him. The love of the Red Sox was something sacred, something that no distance could diminish. The Yankees, in his eyes, represented everything wrong with the world: arrogance, excess, a monopoly on victory.

He refused to let that disdain waver with age or distance, even in the small things of his life. Yankee caps were banned from the house. Games featuring the Yankees were met with grumbling commentary or the flick of the remote to something else. And he swore to his dying breath that none of his children would ever root for, play for, or even acknowledge the Yankees as anything but a blight on the game.

To him, loyalty to the Red Sox wasn't just a preference, it was his god given duty. And he made sure you carried that fire, too.

(Gain Trait: A Red Sox Hatred)
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AN: So... A few years back i tried to write a baseball quest. It was a personal quest that was filled with my love of the game, and the dream of making it a long and interesting salvo.

That failed, primarily because back in that day, I was not a really good writer. Still am not a good one either... But hey, we all learn and we all try to make things fun and exciting.

This time, I am going to try again. This time, i have made it so much more awesome, and I have had some help.

So I hope you will enjoy this quest, and please, I want to see what the sports gods will do to hate Clevland.

and the Mariners.

And just everyone.