JT Realmuto and The Rays

The back of my eyelids told me it was something around high noon (but then again, I lived in a perpetual state of distortion).

My dream got the best of me over the evening, in particular about this off season and how slow it has been. The old face of the franchise Evan Longoria moaned and groaned about how Bryce Harper and Manny Machado have not been awarded one billion dollar contracts. It's kinda sick to think that the poor fuckers who scoop me out of the gutters and throw me into the pen get paid significantly less than “the idols” who step into the batters' box. This is America. In the Bay area side of things, apparently the Rays had been on JT Realmuto. I took a sip of cheap whiskey I got up the street.

The asking price certainly would be high, Realmuto is still controllable for another two seasons and could certainly be signed an extension for a young dude behind the dish who can hit from the right side and can play call a game. Not bad for a team in need. Where do The Rays fit into this? They don't. They don't need him and certainly not to give up Jesus Sanchez for him. Absolutely not. If they did that, it'd be absolutely stupid on all accounts. The OF situation is always crowded but Jesus Sanchez is the future and want to build on the tall left handed batter and a young ripe guy for the future.

I put my pencil down and lit up my crack pipe. I opened the Tampa newspaper who covered all things Tampa Bay and read some words and immediately set down the paper. I tend to forget sometimes why I never bother with it. It was chilly outside so I took a stroll.

On the corner of Nebraska and Hillsborough my old pal Durbo was waiting for this bus.

“Sup boi?” he stammers.

“Hey,”

“You puffin on dat good stuff dawg?” he laughed.

“You know it,”

“How bout dem Rays this year, you think they gonna do it?” he chuckled some more.

“I guess,”

Durbo was a small stocky sort.

“You tryin to go downtown with me dawg? I gots to go to court,”

I didn't even question him.

“Sure,”

Durbo had gold teeth and we knew each other from our lavish times in a run down motel off Florida and Hillsborough where we partied to the break of down with some cheap cocaine and a bottle of unknown bourbon. The headache was immense and I woke up with a serious case of lice.

We jumped on bus 7 en route to downtown.

“You still writing about dem Rays dawg?” he asks.

Writing would be a far stretch to say...

“Sure,”

He laughed out loud.

“Man dawg, why you even botha? No one even gives a shit,” he snickered.

That was a valid point.

“Well, I care,”

He seemed perplexed by my answer.

“Does Longo still play for them?” he asked.

Not for a minute.

“No. Longo just likes to complain about not making more millions of dollars,”

This resonated well with Durbo.

“Man I tell ya,” he said.

Every time Durbo smiled, his teeth glow brighter than any Florida rays. We got off downtown and he went to court and I went to The Hub. The Hub is a timeless place in midst of a gentrifying downtown Tampa where smoke looms, the drinks poured stiff and people are realer than most.

ESPN was on TV and a picture of Realmuto was on there. The bartender was an avid Rays fan like me.

“What do you think is going to happen to him?” he asked.

Fuck if I knew.

“As long as he doesn't come here, I could see him go to Atlanta,”

I ordered a coke and whiskey.

“They'd have to give up a top ten prospect and some. I could see them asking for Sanchez, Solak and two pitchers they like,” he explained.

This is what I fear the most.

“You are probably right,”

I drank wee into the afternoon, blacked out and woke up in my bed...somehow/someway.