Once upon a time, in a galaxy far far away, there was a moss-strewn bridge. The bridge was really quite nice and charming, except for the stains of blood and piles of guts upon it. For a troll lived under that bridge, accosting every innocent traveler who attempted to cross it. The troll had arms like mighty tree trunks and brains like shriveled acorns, and his name was Manny Hater.

One day, as the last rays of darkness faded into the horizon, and the troll rose from his pile of bleached bones to check NYYfans.com, a figure appeared in the distance. The troll’s eyesight was not very good, since he spent his non-accosting time insulting people on online forums, but he saw a doubloon with a crimson B on the head of the traveler.
“Could it be?” thought the troll. “Could one of the fabled Boston brothers be approaching? Never before have I tasted such succulent excellence.”

As the figure came into view, Manny Hater recognized him. It was none other than Brother Pedroia, the tiniest of the brothers. As the troll looked over the young man, Pedroia flexed his stick-figure arms and shouted “Hey Troll, what do you think of these guns?”

The troll stared at Pedroia’s arms, at his grinning face, then at his arms again, and Manny Hater’s brain (which was, after all, easily taxed by such boldfaced bravado) froze. After several minutes of further abuse, Pedroia darted past him, merrily shouting “97 coming in, 197 going out.”

After several hours in the warm embrace of ignorance, the troll’s frail mind recovered. He vowed to himself to eat the next personage to appear before him. It was midday by now, and the cascading noon sunlight illuminated a crimson B in the distance. Manny Hater readied his roundest, heaviest stone, with which to bash in the brains of the coming Boston Brother.

Manny Hater watched in amazement as the brother approached him. With a carefree smile and a mountain of dreadlocks, Manny Ramirez approached, wooden bat in hand. “Hark and halt, fell villain, for I mean to eat ye,” called the troll. “Don’t worry, be happy” rejoined the placid Ramirez.

With all his tremendous strength, the mighty troll hurled the boulder at Ramirez. One cacophonous clash and tremulous second later, Ramirez stood there unharmed, admiring the arc of the great stone as it sailed through the air over the river. The slugger casually dropped his bat, and calmly walked in a circle around the troll, reaching out to high-five him along the way. Such a majestic expression of the beauty of baseball was this that the troll, who of course never actually watched the sport, was dumbfounded, and he did not notice as Ramirez ducked under the bridge to make a phone call.

Psychologically the troll was in a lost place, having been twice bested by two hated foes. Drifting in and out of consciousness, his mind wended its way to its core, its foundation. He beheld the mighty heroes that had inspired him in his solemn quest to guard the bridge: Jeter, the humble; Giambi, the graceful; A-Rod, the faithful. Recalling their sacrosanct majesty, he regained awareness.

The intervening hours had brought gloom, as afternoon melted into dusk, and dusk sauteed into evening. Vast, dark clouds had swallowed up the once cerulean sky, and sheets of rain fell like poorly-installed skyscraper glass. Lightning cut its swatch across the troubled heavens, while thunder rumbled across the bridge, shaking its foundations. Through this chaos, Manny Hater saw the outline of something vast, a mighty specter making its way through the storm, inexorably approaching him and his bridge.

Gathering his stoutest weapons, and mustering his courage, the troll made ready to face this new invader. In several strides, it was upon him – a towering form. Manny Hater looked up, up at rock hard sinews, up at muscles practically overflowing out of the skin, up to two mighty boulders. At the very limit of his vision, he perceived a flash of red. Just then, a bolt of lightning flashed by, illuminating in unmistakeable clarity, a crimson B. The troll raised his weapons and shouted the foulest of curses, railing against the mighty third brother, who bore the weight of the entire Boston team on his cargo container-sized legs. Yet Varitek the Colossus did not heed this torrent by his toes.

Manny Hater looked up in horror as a towering foot rose up, and his life flashed before his eyes as the foot came down (it was quite boring). Varitek ignored the trollmarks on his engorged feet, and continued on to Fenway Park, where he called a no-hitter.

And everyone lived happily ever after. The End.