What’s the NFL equivalent of baking a cake but forgetting the frosting? Tampa’s brass balanced their draft like a Moneyball montage, snagging Emeka Egbuka to turbocharge Baker Mayfield’s aerial circus and plucking Benjamin Morrison (CB, No. 21) to shore up a secondary that occasionally bled like a Saw sequel. ‘Numbers don’t lie, but sometimes they leave folks scratching their heads,’ quipped a Bucs fan on X, moments after Tampa Bay unveiled rookie jersey numbers faster than a Tyreek Hill end-zone celebration. But one thing shocked all.

While the Bucs’ social team flexed fresh threads for the newbies, Egbuka—the Ohio State speedster drafted 19th overall—lingered in contractual limbo, unsigned and unnumbered. But as minicamp loomed, Egbuka’s absence hummed louder than a Florida thunderstorm.

“Bucs announce they’ve signed four of their six draft picks,” tweeted insider Greg Auman, adding, “Only their top two picks remain unsigned.” Translation: Egbuka and Morrison were MIA, their jerseys hanging in the closet like unwrapped gifts. Four draft picks—cornerback Jacob Parrish, edge rusher David Walker, DL Elijah Roberts, and WR Tez Johnson —inked deals ahead of rookie minicamp, slipping into digits that’ll soon flood the Pro Shop.

For Egbuka, this isn’t just about ink on paper. No. 9 isn’t just a digit in Tampa—it’s a legacy. From Tom Brady’s brief flirtation with it in 2020 to Russell Gage’s underrated swagger, that number carries weight. Now, it’s reserved for a kid who dropped 2,868 college yards and 26 TDs, rewriting Ohio State’s record books.

“He’s the human cheat code,” one Buckeyes alum tweeted after Egbuka torched Oregon for 121 yards in the ’24 Natty. But until he signs, No. 9 is just a placeholder—a jersey without a soul.

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Meanwhile, the signed rookies are already turning heads. Parrish, the third-round CB with a 4.35 40-time, rocks No. 25—a nod to Ronde Barber’s iconic playmaking. Walker, the FCS sack king (31 career QB takedowns), snagged No. 51, channeling Derrick Brooks’s relentless energy. And Tez Johnson? The 5’10” seventh-rounder rocking No. 83 is giving major Antonio Brown-in-his-prime vibes (minus the drama), and Roberts at No. 95.

These numbers aren’t just fabric; they’re prophecies. Yet, the locker room feels incomplete. ‘You can’t replace a first-round spark plug with a TBD,’ grumbled a local radio host. The Bucs’ culture thrives on swagger, a cocktail of Brady’s perfectionism and Mayfield’s “hold my beer” audacity. Last year’s surprise playoff run proved they’re more than a post-Brady hangover.

Now, with Egbuka’s YAC prowess and Morrison’s lockdown potential, this draft class could be the nitro boost. But as The Wire’s Stringer Bell once growled, ‘You want it to be one way… but it’s the other way.’ Until Egbuka signs, Tampa’s offense is a sports car idling in the garage.

“Rookie minicamp starts Friday morning. Numbers must all get sorted out, but my guess is they announce them Friday morning,” Greg Auman reminded fans, teasing jersey number reveals. But behind the scenes, it’s a chess match. Egbuka’s camp knows his value: 81 catches, 1,011 yards, and 10 TDs in his final college season. He’s not just a receiver; he’s a narrative—the missing piece to Mayfield’s redemption arc. The Bucs, however, are playing hardball, wary of cap gymnastics in a post-Tommy T world. It’s a dance as delicate as a toe-tap sideline catch.

Morrison’s situation is quieter but no less critical. The second-round CB, rocking No. 21, is expected to battle for snaps in Todd Bowles’ blitz-happy scheme. His college resume—4 INTs, 9 PDs in 2023—hints at shutdown potential. But unsigned rookies can’t grind at camp, and in the NFL, reps are currency. Every missed practice is a deposit into the “rookie wall” fund.

So, where does this leave the Bucs? Optimistic, but antsy. Egbuka’s talent is undeniable—a 6’1”, 205-pound route savant who turns slants into symphonies. His absence is a subplot thicker than a Florida orange. Yet, Tampa’s front office has been here before. Remember the 2020 Gronk saga? Patience paid off. Rookie holdouts are like sunscreen in July—annoying but necessary.

The clock’s ticking. Training camp looms. And somewhere in Tampa, a No. 9 jersey waits—empty but eager. When Egbuka finally signs, it won’t just be a contract. It’ll be a promise. A vow to light up Raymond James Stadium like a July 4th fireworks show. Until then? The Bucs’ 2025 season dangles in the balance, half-written like a halftime playbook. Tick-tock, Tampa. The flock’s watching.