"I shrugged as he flipped open the sheet of heavy paper and pushed his mouth into a thin line, glancing at me over his glasses."He would rather we let...you go. He says you might be a detriment to our program. That is the word he uses." He held the letter toward me, leaned forward over a yard of polished mahogany and pointed at a word. His cuff links appeared to be small gold coins. "Right there, detriment." All I could see was the MLB letterhead and a scrawled signature. I wondered if he signed. Finally, Mike and I realized we had a common enemy, Snook, Redfish, and Trout. We realized that we must catch the occasional Flounder, and might be drafted into cast netting for Mullet. He was the penultimate fisherman, and had grown up in St. Pete. I had lived across the Bay, in Tampa for seven years, and had become a pretty good fisherman in my own right. Even though he was ten years younger, we became the ultimate Fishing Buddies, and confidants. Neither would dare to war on all the Deep. More

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