Published: September 20, 2026 at 11:54 PM
TAMPA FL — W.P. Rader aka Captain Booty — BuccaneersFan.com
Game-Day Highlights
"Another entry from the slightly rum-soaked logbook of W.P. Rader aka Captain Booty"
POST-GAME Highlights & A Rock Hall Eviction, a Suspicious Red Sail, and 132 Minutes of Lightning—Only for Cleveland to Leave Our Pirate Soaked, Bewildered, and Still Without a Win, Arrr… before we discuss football, I wish to clarify three matters.
The incident at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame was a misunderstanding. That velvet rope looked remarkably like spare rigging. And when somebody shouted “Free Bird,” nobody specifically told me they weren’t addressing the parrot.
“Nevertheless, I have been asked not to return”
Possibly ever.
Such was the condition of your faithful correspondent upon reaching Cleveland: one boot missing, dignity unaccounted for, and a compass that had ceased identifying north but remained remarkably dependable at locating a tavern.
After Cincinnati, I had sailed north through a quantity of Ohio corn that no respectable nautical chart should permit. I arrived seeking refuge, musical inspiration, and perhaps a quiet establishment willing to accept a slightly dented doubloon.
What I found was more trouble.
Cleveland Would Like a Word with My Parrot
My visit to the Rock Hall began respectfully enough.
I admired the instruments. I appreciated the history. I submitted what I considered a compelling argument that the Buccaneers’ cannons deserved recognition for outstanding contributions to percussion.
Things deteriorated when I attempted to assemble a sea shanty ensemble beside an exhibit and informed a gentleman with a radio that his building would benefit enormously from a crow’s nest.
“I’m merely improving the acoustics,” I explained.
“You’re standing on the furniture,” he replied.
A narrow interpretation of the circumstances.
Shortly afterward, I found myself outside, hat crooked, parrot offended, and hearing a sound I had hoped never to hear again.
BARKING!
The hounds had caught my trail.
Whether they followed the rum, the Cincinnati despair, or the sausage I had unwisely stored in my coat remains a matter for the inquiry.
Now, I had heard much about Cleveland’s Dawg Pound, and it occurred to me that a pound ought to have a gate. A gate ought to have a latch. And a pirate with sufficient rope and insufficient judgment ought to be able to close it.
My attempt involved two folding chairs, a length of stolen, borrowed, rigging, and a very confident speech.
I successfully contained myself.
The hounds remained outside, watching with the patient expressions of creatures enjoying dinner theater.
Three frantic minutes later, I abandoned the operation, reclaimed most of my coat, and made for Tampa, after a quick rum run in the FLATS.
“HOME!” I cried. “Our own harbor! Our own cannons! Our own people!”
The Parrot Looked Doubtful
In hindsight, the bird had read the situation considerably better than I had.
Home, Sweet Home and Something Smelled Wrong
By the time I reached the tailgates around Raymond James Stadium, my faith had begun to recover.
Ahhh, the perfume of a home opener.
Barbecue smoke curling above the tents. Meat sizzling on grills. Music drifting between trucks. Flags snapping overhead. Rum making its discreet journey into cups whose owners would describe the contents as “a little something tropical.”
Ye Krewe of Pewter Pirates were gathering. Old friends were embracing. Strangers were discussing the offensive line with the intimacy normally reserved for family disputes.
Everywhere, that wonderful opening day conviction:
I accepted all three propositions immediately, along with something wrapped in bacon.
For a glorious moment, the world made sense again.
Then the breeze shifted.
I lowered my cup.
SOMETHING WAS WRONG!
Not the barbecue. The barbecue was performing magnificently.
Not the rum, though I conducted a second inspection in the interest of public confidence.
This was another smell entirely. A damp, ancient, vaguely maritime disturbance. Something between a forgotten bait bucket and a sea monster’s travel laundry.
“Low tide?” suggested a fellow buccaneer CAPTAIN SCOTT.
“Nay,” I told him. “I know brackish water. Brackish water and I have history. This smells like something that owes brackish water an apology.”
Still, the stadium beckoned.
The cannons awaited.
And surely nothing unfortunate could follow me all the way from Ohio.
Why Is There Orange in My Harbor?
I entered the seating bowl and stopped so abruptly the parrot nearly overtook me.
Orange.
Orange everywhere I looked.“FLASHBACK DAY?” I shouted. “Did I miss the captain’s orders? Was I supposed to wear the other jersey?”
Then I looked closer.
Those weren’t all friendly shades of Buccaneer nostalgia.
The hounds had followed me home.
Cleveland supporters had established themselves throughout the stands like an invading force with excellent access to ticketing.
Thousands of orange-clad passengers had apparently booked passage into our harbor without offering to row so much as a dinghy.
I recognized the situation immediately.
This was not a homecoming.
This was a boarding action.
Before I could organize a response, the sky above us turned red.
A great cloth spread overhead, rolling across the crowd in a magnificent wave of scarlet. Hands went up. Voices rose. For a moment, we stood beneath a mighty sail, united in Buccaneer glory.
Then I inhaled.
Sweet mother of mildew.
THAT WAS THE SMELL.
To this old sailor’s nose, the cloth seemed to have spent the offseason folded inside Davy Jones’s locker beneath a squid that had neglected its personal affairs.
It was glorious.
It was patriotic in the broadest pirate sense.
It also smelled as though a kraken had used it to dry off.
I stood proudly beneath it anyway.
Loyalty sometimes requires sacrifice.
On this occasion, it required shallow breathing.
Our Cannoneer Had Arrived. The Rest of the Boarding Party Was Delayed.
Once football commenced, there were reasons to believe the afternoon might yet improve.
Chase McLaughlin, for instance, appeared entirely prepared to conduct business.
His first field goal traveled 59 yards.
Fifty-nine.
I have undertaken voyages shorter than that kick and required provisions halfway through.
He followed with a successful strike from 45 yards, and I began considering whether we should issue him a tricorn and place him in charge of all stadium artillery. Those were the first two of four successful field goals he would deliver on the afternoon.
The difficulty was that we kept asking the cannoneer to finish jobs the boarding party couldn’t.
Bucky Irving supplied a splendid 38-yard run in the first quarter, only for that possession to end with another kick rather than a touchdown. Elsewhere, a Mayfield pass intended for Ted Hurst was intercepted by Myles Harden, handing Cleveland a chance on our side of the field.
After the previous week’s ball-security horrors, I reacted to the interception by instinctively clutching everything I owned.
My cup.
My hat.
A stranger’s nachos.
The stranger objected. I explained that I was practicing possession fundamentals.
Fortunately, the defense spent much of the first half behaving like men who understood the importance of keeping unwelcome animals outside the fence.
At halftime, Cleveland had managed only 59 yards of offense, three first downs, and not a single successful third-down conversion in six attempts. Yet Tampa Bay’s advantage was just 9–6.
Nine to six.
Our defenders had practically nailed the enemy to the dock, and we had rewarded their efforts with a lead small enough to misplace in a coat pocket.
“That,” I informed the parrot, “is not enough treasure.”
He took a bite of something that had once belonged to the nacho gentleman.
For once, we agreed.
A Touchdown! An Actual, Proper Touchdown!
Then came the opening possession of the second half.
And for one beautiful stretch of football, the Buccaneers remembered how to be Buccaneers.
Chris Godwin opened proceedings with a 24-yard catch-and-run. Irving found room. Baker Mayfield supplied effort everywhere it was required, including a block and, later, a desperate third and nine scramble featuring a stiff arm that suggested he had personally grown tired of negotiating.
At the end of the 65-yard voyage, Mayfield found Emeka Egbuka for a five-yard touchdown.
Egbuka had slipped and caught the ball while lying on the turf.
A horizontal reception.
At last, a technique with which your correspondent possessed practical experience.
I have done some of my most determined work from a horizontal position, although usually while searching beneath furniture for my remaining boot.
SIXTEEN TO SIX.
A ten-point lead.
The cannons sounded. The crowd roared. I stood as tall as a man can stand when one ankle is operating under different equipment specifications.
“WE NEVER DOUBTED YE!” I bellowed.
Several nearby witnesses could have contradicted that statement.
Fortunately, none had brought a notary.
For one glorious moment, Cincinnati seemed distant, Cleveland seemed manageable, and that enormous red cloth merely smelled unfortunate rather than prophetic.
I should have known better.
The Hounds Found the Gap
Cleveland answered with a field goal.
Sixteen to nine.
Not ideal, but manageable.
Then came the sort of play that makes a pirate stare silently into his cup, not because he expects an answer, but because he cannot bear to look anywhere else.
A facemask penalty kept Cleveland moving. On the next play, rookie receiver Denzel Boston caught a pass over the middle, escaped three would-be tacklers, and turned it into a 55-yard touchdown.
Just like that, the game was tied at 16–16.
Three would-be tacklers.
I know something about unsuccessful attempts to contain Cleveland creatures. I had, after all, recently imprisoned myself between two folding chairs.
But I had hoped the professionals would employ a more reliable system.
“WRAP HIM UP!” I shouted.
The parrot glanced at the rope still tangled around my belt.
An unnecessarily personal response.
The Bucs did regain the lead. A beautiful deep connection from Mayfield to Tez Johnson gained 49 yards and carried Tampa Bay to Cleveland’s 21. Once again, though, the promising voyage ended short of the treasure room. McLaughlin’s fourth field goal, another 31-yarder, made it 19–16 with ten minutes remaining.
I applauded the kick.
Then I sat down and had a difficult conversation with optimism.
“Four field goals,” I told it. “He can keep putting holes in their sails, but somebody has to board the blasted ship.”
Optimism declined to comment.
It had seen the orange sections getting louder.
Whiteheart, Black Clouds, and a Very Bad Feeling
Cleveland’s next drive covered 68 yards.
It was the kind of possession that ages a supporter in installments.
A manageable gain here. A third-down conversion there. A quarterback escaping pressure just long enough to find another receiver.
Each time the Bucs seemed near a stop, the Browns found another few yards.
Then tight end Blake Whiteheart slipped free to the left and took a short pass into the end zone for a 17-yard touchdown.
With 3:51 remaining, Cleveland led 23–19—its first lead of the afternoon.
Whiteheart.
A perfectly respectable name, although mine had turned a rather darker color.
He appeared to have considerably more personal space than anyone wearing the wrong uniform should receive in our end zone.
I looked toward the orange shirts.
They were celebrating.
I looked toward the scoreboard.
It was cooperating with them.
I looked toward my parrot.
He had wisely moved beyond conversational range.
But there was still time.
Kameron Johnson delivered a 49-yard kickoff return, giving the Bucs a much-needed boost. Tampa Bay moved into Cleveland territory, and an Irving run carried the action to the two-minute warning.
One final drive.
One touchdown.
One chance to send these hounds back north without the contents of our pantry.
Then Florida entered the discussion.
The Two-Minute Warning Required a Calendar
Lightning.
Not metaphorical lightning.
Not a dramatic description of an explosive offensive play.
Actual, get-yourself-to-shelter, the-sky-has-objections lightning.
The game stopped.
And remained stopped.
For 132 Minutes
Two hours and twelve minutes.
We had reached the two-minute warning and somehow been assigned a maritime layover.
During that interval, I reconsidered the season, my travel arrangements, the wisdom of keeping sausage in a coat, and whether the Cleveland Rock & Roll Hall of Fame might accept a written apology.
The parrot learned to say “weather delay.”
Then he learned to say it sarcastically.
Outside, the storm soaked the field. Inside my head, the final drive replayed in increasingly optimistic versions, each featuring excellent protection, a clean catch, and considerably fewer orange people enjoying themselves.
That is the peculiar cruelty of a long delay when your team still has a chance.
Hope refuses to leave.
It simply sits beside you, damp and hungry, asking every few minutes whether it is time yet.
Eventually, play resumed after a brief warmup. Bowles would not use the interruption as an excuse: Cleveland had endured the same delay and received the same ten minutes to prepare.
Fair enough, Captain.
The storm had inconvenienced both ships.
We still had to finish sailing ours.
Twenty Yards from Salvation
When the teams returned, the rain was ready too.
The Bucs moved the chains. Irving fought for yardage. Hurst contributed a catch. The end zone remained close enough to imagine and maddeningly difficult to reach.
Somewhere inside that final struggle sat another costly holding penalty.
Ten yards.
At that stage of the afternoon, ten yards felt like being told the harbor had relocated.
Then came the opportunities that will haunt a pirate far longer than any respectable ghost should.
Mayfield put a ball on Hurst’s hands in the end zone. With rain pouring down and a defender close, the rookie couldn’t complete the catch.
There it was.
For a fraction of a second.
The ending we wanted.
Then it wasn’t.
On the final play, facing fourth-and-11, Mayfield looked for Egbuka in the end zone. The receiver had his defender behind him, but the pass traveled beyond his reach.
Incomplete.
No final cannon blast of salvation.
No triumphant escape.
No glorious announcement that the pirate’s disastrous Ohio expedition had finally ended in something other than embarrassment.
Browns 23. Buccaneers 19.
I stood there, wet to the foundations, staring at the field.
The hounds had followed me home.
And now they were leaving with our supper.
A Pirate’s Complaint—And a Pirate’s Obligation
Let us not pin the whole sorry voyage on one rookie trying to make a difficult catch in a downpour.
That would be convenient.
It would also let far too much else sail quietly past.
The Buccaneers spent the afternoon leaving touchdowns unclaimed, inviting trouble through penalties, and failing to finish enough tackles when Cleveland’s offense found its rhythm.
McLaughlin did everything asked of him.
But a kicker cannot be expected to turn every promising possession into a rescue mission.
There were defensive contributions worth keeping in the logbook. Tampa Bay allowed only 267 total yards, including 44 rushing yards at 1.9 per carry. Josiah Trotter led the team with 11 tackles despite missing time with a shoulder injury, and David Walker recorded his first career sack. Yet the missed tackles and offensive penalties remained part of the story.
Enough good work to make the defeat frustrating.
Enough mistakes to explain it.
That is a particularly unpleasant combination.
A sinking ship is at least clear about its intentions.
This one kept showing us the harbor.
Bowles supplied the plainest assessment:
“Nobody is coming to save us. We’ve got to fix ourselves and we’ve got to fix it in a hurry.”
I checked my remaining boot.
Apparently, pulling ourselves up by our boots would require some preliminary shopping.
The Buccaneers were 0–2 for the first time since 2014, with Carolina and New Orleans each a game ahead after winning on Sunday.
I studied that record for a while.
Zero wins.
Two losses.
Written down, it looked disappointingly like the contents of my emergency rum inventory.
But here is what the orange invaders, the Cincinnati cats, the Cleveland hounds, and the gentleman who confiscated my imaginary backstage pass should understand:
A DISAPPOINTED PITATE IS STILL A PIRATE..
Next on the Horizon: Actual Vikings
The Bucs remain home for Minnesota in Week Three, followed by Green Bay in Week Four.
Vikings.
After two weeks of being tormented by land animals, we finally get an opponent with some understanding of maritime operations.
This ought to comfort me.
It does not.
The last thing I need is another visiting crew that knows how to board a vessel.
Still, I shall be there.
Hat straightened.
Flag raised.
Confidence patched together with whatever rope remains from the Cleveland containment incident.
We have mistakes to correct, tackles to finish, and a red zone that needs to become a destination rather than a place where we briefly admire the scenery before summoning McLaughlin.
As I made my way out of the stadium, the breeze shifted once more.
Barbecue smoke lingered.
Rain dripped from the brim of my hat.
Somewhere behind me, a Cleveland supporter barked.
I did not turn around.
“Keep walking,” I told the parrot.
“Toward the tavern?”
“Nay,” I said, with what remained of my dignity. “Toward next Sunday.”
He considered this.
Then he leaned close.
“Bring both boots.”
GO BUCS. FIRE THE CANNONS.
And for the love of every sailor who has ever drawn breath—wash that blasted red sail.
Per the words of Forest Gump… “And That's All I Have To Say About That”.
Beyond Game Day
W.P. Rader - In Full Disclosure; I'm Ready To Rock & Roll From The BOW.
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