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

Part 3: Some Kind of Magic:

-[X]Tucson, Arizona
-[X]Your Older Brother: Gram is someone who is still learning like you, but what he lacks in experience, he makes up for in experimentation, in energy, and just some all-out ideas that a more entrenched and established baseball mind like your father, would never allow you to do. (Gain Trait: Two Sons)
-[X] Bat Switch, Throw Right
-[X]Contact Hitting: You need to do something really important, and that is hitting the baseball… with a consistent basis. It might not be flattering, but it is… useful.
-[X]Train with Gram: He's doing some training over the winter break, and now you want to join him, hopefully, he's not so annoyed at you joining him.
-[X]Do Homework: Mr. Berns has assigned some very small amounts of homework for the winter break, you might as well get it done now before… other things get in the way, like Christmas.
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Arizona was, like all things in life, a tale of two extremes. The summers were blistering, the air dry and unrelenting, a furnace under an endless blue sky. Winters, though, were their own brand of harshness—cold, sharp, and lonely, with winds that howled through the desolate landscape. One of the oldest cities in the state carried the weight of its history, from the Native Pueblo tribes who first called it home to the Spanish explorers, Mexican settlers, and finally, the Americans who carved their own stories into the land.

It was a place as unforgiving as it was beautiful. For outsiders, it was cruel, its elements conspiring to push them away. But for those who belonged, it was a sanctuary, a rugged embrace, a home woven into their bones.

The morning was like most mornings in the desert—chilly but not unbearable, a reminder that the sun's wrath would soon return. You stood in the cool dawn air, watching your brother, Gram, grin as he adjusted the bucket of baseballs beside him. Two well-worn bats leaned against the bucket, their wood marked with countless hits, misses, and memories. They were the same bats he had gotten when he first played baseball when he was 6… and they survived everything, from rain, to shine, to so much more.

"So, you're going to play baseball," Gram said, his tone half-statement, half-challenge.

"Yeah," you replied with a shrug, trying to sound casual. "I already know how to throw, G. You don't need to teach me the basics."

"And that's the problem," Gram said, tossing a ball into the air and catching it effortlessly with his glove. His movements were fluid, and instinctive, like he was born with a ball in his hand. "You know the basics, but you haven't mastered them."

He tossed the ball again, higher this time, his eyes tracking it against the pale morning sky. "Do that," he said simply.

"What?"

"Throw the ball in the air and catch it, in your glove." he replied.

"That's it?" you asked, baffled.

"Yep." He gestured toward the bucket. "Then we'll get started."

"But what are we doing when we get started?"

Gram smirked. "You'll find out. First, pick up the ball and throw it in the air."

Still confused, you walked to the bucket and grabbed a baseball. The leather felt cool and smooth against your palm. You hesitated, glancing back at Gram, who nodded with encouragement. Taking a breath, you threw the ball into the air.

The wind stirred suddenly, an icy breeze cutting through the desert's quiet stillness. A chill raced down your spine, unexpected and unnerving. You instinctively ducked, shielding your head as the gust intensified.

"Hey!" you shouted as another ball—this one hurled by Gram—whizzed past, sailing just over your head. The suddenness broke your concentration, and your ball landed with a dull thud in the dirt.

"What the heck, G?!" you demanded, spinning to face him. Was he trying to mess with you—or worse, hurt you?

But Gram only grinned, his expression calm, almost smug. "You felt it, didn't you?"

"Felt what?"

"The wind," he said, nodding as if that explained everything. "The shift, the chill—it caught you off guard, didn't it? You thought something was wrong, and felt like something was coming, but you couldn't explain it."

"Well, yeah, but—"

"That's the point," Gram interrupted, his voice steady but tinged with something serious. "You can't lose sight of the ball, no matter what's happening around you. Not the wind, not the noise, not even if your back's turned or you're expecting something else. The best players—they know how to feel where the ball is, even when they can't see it."

You frowned, shaking your head. "That doesn't make any sense."

"It will," Gram said, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Give it time." He clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and decisive in the quiet air. "Now, come on. We have to get through warm-ups so we can get to the real meat of today. We need to work on your hitting."

The wind settled as quickly as it had risen, leaving you standing there, the ball back in your hand, the weight of Gram's words lingering. Somewhere deep down, you knew this was more than a lesson about baseball.

And you weren't sure if you were ready to understand it yet.

Reward Unlocked: Sixth Sense

Stat Unlocked: Sixth Sense

The greatest ballplayers possess a gift that defies explanation—a near-supernatural ability to predict the ball's movement. It's not just about watching its arc or judging its spin; it's a feeling, an instinct. They know where the ball is and where it's going to be, even when logic says they shouldn't. It's the split-second awareness that lets a batter step into a pitch perfectly, or a fielder dive for an impossible catch before the ball even seems to drop. It's what turns a good player into a legend. Maybe it's intuition. Maybe it's magic. Either way, it's yours to wield. (You now possess Sixth Sense: The uncanny ability to track the ball's trajectory and anticipate its next move, no matter the conditions or distractions.)

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-[X]Contact Hitting: You need to do something really important, and that is hitting the baseball… with a consistent basis. It might not be flattering, but it is… useful. Rolled:D100 => 92 Stat gained:D10 => 10
Gram's advice was as straightforward as it was profound: "Hit the ball where you want it to go."

"How?" you asked, tilting your head.

"Timing," Gram replied, a gleam of patience and certainty in his eyes. "Swing early, and it'll go left. Swing late, and it'll head to right. Perfect timing sends it to center field."

You blinked. "That seems simple enough."

"Simple?" Gram raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Then prove it."

He picked up a ball from the bucket, his stance relaxed but purposeful. "Where are you going to hit it?"

You gripped the bat tighter, your heart beating with a mix of excitement and determination. You pointed toward the right field, a confident smile breaking across your face. "Right field!"

The ball came sailing toward you, a clean, easy pitch. You stepped into your swing, focused, your body aligning with the rhythm Gram had described. The bat connected with a satisfying crack, and you watched as the ball flew exactly where you had called it—right field.

Gram's grin widened. "Good. Again."

He tossed another ball, this one with a little more speed. "Left field this time."

You adjusted your timing, swinging earlier, and sent the ball arcing toward left field.

"Not bad!" Gram shouted, his enthusiasm fueling your own. "Now, center!"

The next pitch came, and you focused all your energy on the perfect moment to swing. Crack! The ball soared straight to center field, landing just where you aimed.

By the time Gram called for a break, your arms were burning, and sweat trickled down your forehead, but the thrill of mastering his lesson outweighed the fatigue.

Reward: +10 to Contact Hitting
You can't help but think Gram is onto something. His knack for teaching the subtle art of controlling your swing is unlocking a new layer of precision in your game. It's not just about hitting the ball—it's about hitting it exactly where you want.

Who would have thought that timing could be such a powerful advantage?

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-[X]Train with Gram: He's doing some training over the winter break, and now you want to join him, hopefully, he's not so annoyed at you joining him. Rolled:D100 => 77
Stat Gained: D8 => 5 (Running speed) Stat points gained:D10 => 7
Gram grinned as you followed him back onto the baseball field. He carried his glove and a bucket of balls, his energy seemingly endless despite the long hours already spent under the desert sun. He waved over to Dad, who stood by the first-base bag, his arms crossed but his face relaxed.

"Alright, Mal," Gram said, dropping the bucket with a satisfying thud. "Simple task. You're going to play catcher and try to throw me out at first base."

You frowned, gripping your glove. "But what if I hit you with the ball?"

Gram laughed, shaking his head. "Don't worry about that. Just throw it to Dad, okay?"

You nodded but couldn't help asking, "When do I get to run the bases?"

Gram's smirk deepened. "Soon. I just need to get my work in first. You know how it is—I've got to prep for my season. Big brother duties come first."

"Okay," you said, trying to hide your impatience.

The drill began. Gram took off sprinting, and you crouched, catching the ball before firing it toward Dad at first base. Gram always seemed to be just a step ahead, sliding safely into second as Dad called him safe. Again and again, Gram ran, and you threw.

An hour passed. Then two.

Your arm ached from throwing, and sweat-soaked through your shirt. Gram, despite his boundless energy, was starting to drag too. His jog back to the plate between sprints became slower, his breath heavier. Dad, however, wasn't winded. He was something else entirely—irritated.

However, it was not at the lack of effort. It was something more.

"Alright, G," Dad finally said, his tone sharp. "Let Mal have a turn."

You perked up, eager but weary. "Can't we eat first? I'm starving."

Gram shook his head, his determination unwavering. "Nope. We've got daylight left before the rain comes. If you're serious about this, Mal, hunger can wait. You've got to want it."

Dad nodded in agreement, though his voice softened. "Alright, Mal, here's the plan. You're running now. Run as fast as you can and try to beat Gram's throw. Think you can do that?"

You nodded, your heart pounding with a mix of nerves and excitement.

The first few attempts were rough. You sprinted as hard as you could, but Gram's throws were sharp and accurate. Nine times out of ten, the ball reached Dad before you did. Each time you lost, Dad clapped your shoulder, and Gram gave you a thumbs-up.

"Keep going, Mal," Gram encouraged. "You're getting closer!"

"Don't stop now," Dad added. "Push harder."

Your legs burned, and your breath came in sharp gasps. Each sprint felt longer, each throw harder to beat. But their encouragement kept you moving. With every failure, you gritted your teeth and tried again.

And finally, as the clouds gathered overhead, dimming the sunlight, you did it. You ran into first just as Dad caught the ball—half a second too late.

"You got it!" Gram exclaimed, clapping his hands as he jogged over to you. You lay there in the dirt, exhausted but triumphant.

"You did good, bro," Gram said, crouching to lift you onto his back. Your arms draped over his shoulders as he carried you toward the car. "I'm proud of you."

Dad walked beside you both, nodding with approval. "You didn't give up, Mal. That's what matters. Remember that."

Reward: +7 to Running Speed
Their encouragement lit a spark in you, and you pushed harder than you thought you could. Dad and Gram had a great time, and maybe now Dad sees you as someone who won't give up—even when the odds aren't in your favor.

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-[X]Do Homework: Mr. Berns has assigned some very small amounts of homework for the winter break, you might as well get it done now before… other things get in the way, like Christmas. Rolled:D100 => 89 Stat Gained:D10 => 10
You hated math. Always had. Numbers were your nemesis, a constant source of frustration and humiliation. No matter how hard you tried, equations, fractions, and variables all seemed to mock you with their endless complexity. Year after year, you struggled, barely scraping by.

It wasn't just about failing tests—it was the way math made you feel: small, incapable, like a kid who'd never quite measure up.

One evening, after another failed attempt at finishing your homework, Dad walked into the room. He glanced at the mess of papers, the eraser shavings scattered across the desk, and the defeated look on your face.

"What's wrong, kid?"

"I hate math," you muttered, slumping in your chair. "I suck at it. I'll never be good at it."

Dad crossed his arms, leaning against the doorway. "That's not true. You just haven't found a way to make it click."

"I've tried," you protested. "It's impossible."

Dad shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Think of it in baseball terms. Something you love. Something that makes sense to you. Then it'll all come together."

You frowned, skeptical but curious. "Baseball?"

"Yeah," he said, grabbing a pencil from your desk. "Look, imagine this problem here is a batting average. If a player has 50 hits in 200 at-bats, what's their average? You know how to figure that out, don't you?"

"Of course," you said, perking up. "That's .250."

"Exactly," Dad said. "Math isn't your problem, kid. It's the way you're looking at it. Stop seeing it as numbers on a page and start seeing it as something you care about. Baseball. Runs. Averages. Stats. Whatever works for you."

You stared at the page, his words echoing in your head. Slowly, you started rewriting the problems in ways that made sense to you—converting abstract equations into batting stats, fielding percentages, and game scenarios.

It wasn't easy, but something clicked. For the first time, the numbers stopped feeling like a foreign language and started making sense.

By the end of the night, you'd finished the assignment. Not just finished it—but understood it.

Dad ruffled your hair as he walked by. "Told you, kid. It's all about finding the right angle. Now, don't let that math beat you again."

Reward: +10 to Intelligence
Math isn't just numbers anymore; it's become another game to master. This new perspective opens doors to possibilities you never imagined. Unknown effect on the future, but one thing's for sure—you've unlocked a whole new part of yourself.

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December 25, 2006.

It was time for Presents!

Now you just needed to open them.

What did you get for Christmas?

[]A New Glove: A Brand new, never been used Baseball glove. Something to help you field.

[]a New Bat: A New Bat… made of Carbon fiber, so it's lighter and easier to use… but it might be not… allowed in the baseball little league.

[]A Brand new Hat: Hey, a new hat… one that actually fits you!

[]A New Video Game: It's… what the heck… it looks like Final Fantasy?... Which one is it… it's in a Roman numeral!?

[]Toy's!: Oh my goodness. Action Figures!

[]The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, Extended Edition: Holy Lord... The Lord of the Rings! AWESOME!

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