Baker in Florida is a whole different vibe. From Sports Memery:

""Texas and Florida have a lot of similarities," Baker told reporters.

"Some people don’t like fearing for their lives on a simple 7-Eleven run for a single 32-ounce can of Busch Light. Personally, that’s part of the magic.

In Florida, a man with an unwashed ass driving a dent-riddled Ram 1500, 37 dings from 37 separate collisions, will ride your ass on I-4 because you’re not riding the guy’s ass in front of you hard enough.

The back of his truck is a fever dream of yellow snake decals, skulls, and political rants, all directed at whoever’s unlucky enough to be behind him. It’s a perfect ecosystem of rage and insecurity, one that keeps the fragile ecosystem of I-4 chaos alive.

Every car in that convoy to hell they call I-4 is piloted by someone terrified, armed, and one brake tap away from turning the worst highway in America into a smoking parking lot.

That Ram driver btw? Online, he portrays himself as a warrior. Loyal but dangerous. In reality, he’s neither of those things. He’s just scared. Scared of everything. And the only way he feels safe is if everyone around him is scared too.

From the outside, it sounds miserable. But live here long enough and it starts to make sense. Every hurricane season, people around Tampa wait to see if the next storm will wipe out everything they love... And the dark part is... Deep down, a part of them almost hopes it does.

I get it. It’s not supposed to sound appealing. But I love the Mad Max movies, and every time I grab a Pub Sub here, I feel like I’m living in that universe. It’s beautiful chaos. It’s home."

Another banger from Sports Memery:

"Yeah, tonight was rough, sure," Baker Mayfield said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"But I’ve had darker days. I once watched a man with the skin texture of an old leather briefcase complete 12 separate transactions in front of me at a Circle K in Pinellas Park, Florida. I just wanted a Gatorade. That’s all. One Gatorade. Instead, I bore witness to a man conducting business like he was running a Fortune 500 company out of a gas station."

He paused, staring blankly, pain in his eyes.

"But it gets worse," he continued quietly. "Outside, the same man stops me and says he needs bus fare to Tallahassee to see his sick father. Which was suspicious, since he looked old enough to be my father’s father. But I gave him twenty bucks anyway. Felt like the right thing to do."

Baker sighed.

"A few seconds later, I’m back inside. Grab my one red Gatorade. That’s all I ever get at a gas station, either gas, or one drink. If you have more things to take care of at a Circle K, your life’s a mess. Anyway, as I head to the counter, that same man slides in front of me again, like he’d respawned. He’s holding a carton of milk, a bag of Takis, an undershirt from the terrifying wall of undershirts that only appear in sketchy neighborhoods, a bottle of butane, a roll of Tums, a single loose Busch Light, and a hat that says Florida Proud."

Baker shook his head slowly, still processing it.

"It took me maybe sixteen seconds to grab my drink, and yet somehow he had assembled all these items and beaten me to the punch. Then he asked for a very specific pack of cigarettes that the cashier couldn’t find, had to go in the back. When she returned, he bought 37 different scratch-offs, all individually chosen, like he was diversifying his portfolio. Then he slid over a pre filled lottery sheet, got a phone call mid-transaction, paused everything to argue with someone named ‘Skreet,’ then sent a MoneyGram to Boost Mobile. I didn’t even know that was possible at a gas station."

He laughed once, without humor.

"Finally, the cashier rings him up, and the man hands over this massive wad of cash including my $20. I realize, standing there, that this guy might actually be wealthier than me. He probably lives in Treasure Island. Then the cashier asks for ID. When he pulls it out, I nearly pass out... he was born in the 80's. The 80's, man."

Baker leaned back and exhaled.

"And after all that, he had her scan every unscratched scratch off for winners. The ones that hit? He used the winnings to buy more.

So yeah... Detroit was bad. But I’ve seen worse. I’ve been to Pinellas Park, Florida. I'll be fine."