Published: October 28, 2026 at 07:20 PM
TAMPA FL — W.P. Rader aka Captain Booty — BuccaneersFan.com
Week 8 Pre-Game Report
Captain Booty survives a victory celebration, discovers what is actually on a ballot, and prepares for another race too close for comfort..
Atlanta Falcons - Dirty Birds (3-4) at Tampa Bay Buccaneers (2-5)
Sunday, November 01, 2026 • 1:00 PM ET
Raymond James Stadium • Tampa, Florida
A VICTORY HANGOVER WITH A BALANCED TREASURY
Captain Booty awoke to the sound of cannons.
“MAKE ’EM STOP!” he groaned, pulling his hat over his eyes. “We already conquered Carolina!”
Parrot looked down from the chair beside him.
“That’s your spoon touching the coffee cup.”
The Captain considered this troubling intelligence. After Tampa Bay’s glorious 43–13 raid on the Panthers, he had celebrated every Buccaneers point with such enthusiasm that his recovery required its own depth chart.
His voice was questionable. His balance was doubtful. His appetite had been cleared for limited participation.
The roof fund, however, was in magnificent condition.
Forty-three doubloons sat beside a hand-drawn plan for a retractable covering over Raymond James Stadium. His Booty treasure bag lay open. His belt lay nearby, having formally requested reinforcements.
“Count ’em again,” Parrot whispered.
“Forty-three.”
“One more recount.”
“Captain, counting them again does not generate additional revenue.”
That was when Captain Rader delivered the next assignment: get ashore, make a difference, and cast a vote.
Booty slowly raised his head.
“A vote? As in deciding the future?”
“Exactly.”
The Captain glanced at his stadium roof drawing.
For the first time all morning, both eyes opened.
The polling port of Homosassa
Their course carried them to the Homosassa Public Library near Crystal River, in the mermaid country of the Captain’s imagination. Booty arrived with Parrot on his shoulder, a freshly straightened sash, and the confidence of a man who believed democracy was about to provide air conditioned football.
The poll workers greeted him warmly.
What followed entered the ship’s log under “Captain Booty Participates in Civilization.” Parrot requested a separate witness statement.
“Welcome, sir,” said a friendly poll worker. “Is this your service animal?”
“Aye?” said Booty, looking from the worker to the bird.
“What work or task has the parrot been trained to perform?”
Booty stood a little taller.
“This Parrot be me lifeline. He does everything to maintain me course.”
Parrot quietly added, “With mixed results.”
The worker smiled and directed them toward check in. Booty leaned toward his feathered companion.
“You’re me service animal?”
“More like your compass.”
“Then why do we keep ending up at taverns?”
“You ask for directions. You don’t follow them.”
At the registration table, another welcoming worker asked for his identification and signature.
Booty proudly produced his pirate’s loyalty oath.
“Sworn allegiance to the Krewe, the ship, and the responsible protection of all unattended treasure.”
“Your photo ID, sir.”
Parrot nudged his ear.
“The document we received last week. The one with your picture.”
Booty found it, examined the photograph, and frowned.
“That fellow looks exhausted.”
“That fellow celebrated orty-three points.”
With his information located, Booty was asked to sign the pad. He drew a magnificent X and sat back with the satisfaction of a man who had just autographed a national treasure.
Then came a request to verify his signature.
The Captain searched his pockets. Out came a roof sketch, a crumpled tavern receipt, and a cracker Parrot immediately claimed as unpaid wages.
Nothing useful.
Then his hand brushed the treasure bag strapped to his hip.
Jingle.
Booty’s eyes lit up. He placed the bag on the counter and pointed triumphantly to the large X on its side.
“There! Me signature! Same X. Same captain. Slightly heavier bag.”
“Substantially weaker belt,” observed Parrot.
The poll worker received this demonstration with the patience of someone whose morning had taken an unexpected nautical turn. Once the proper check-in was finished, Booty received his ballot and directions to the voting booth.
He gathered up his doubloons with great care.
“Public service,” he whispered to Parrot, “be full of helpful people.”
“Yes. Try making their jobs easier.”
The missing Department of Shade
Inside the booth, Booty unfolded the two-sided ballot like a treasure map.
“This is it,” he whispered. “The retractable roof.”
He read the first side.
He turned it over.
He turned it back.
Then he held it farther away, as though the stadium proposal might become visible at a different distance.
“What be this?”
“Your official ballot.”
“Where do I vote for the new Raymond James Stadium covering?”
“You don’t.”
“The NFL Hall of Fame nominations?”
“No.”
“Player of the Year?”
“Also no.”
Booty lowered his voice to the level reserved for serious shipboard emergencies.
“The addition of a new rum?”
“Captain, you’ve mistaken a ballot for a shopping list.”
He searched one last time.
“Then where be the Department of Shade vote?”
Parrot’s voice softened.
“Read it properly. These choices matter to all people who live here, not just Buccaneers. Make your own decisions. The roof fund will still be waiting when we get home.”
And so the Captain did. He took his time, made his choices, and completed his civic duty without securing a single building permit and still wondering how someone manages Mosquitos.
Then came the reward.
I VOTED.
Booty stared at the sticker as though he had been awarded command of an entire fleet.
“LOOK, PARROT! I VOTED!”
Several friendly smiles followed. Booty affixed the sticker to his coat and puffed out his chest.
“Does this make me an admiral?”
“It says You Voted. It does not say you were elected.”
By the time they reached the door, the Captain was ready to encourage the whole Krewe to participate.
“Make your choices, me hearties. Thank the good folks helping ye. Do your duty!”
Parrot nodded approvingly.
Then Booty added, “And somebody find out who handles stadium renovation funding.”
Back aboard the campaign for the NFC South
At the chart table, Parrot cleared away the roof drawings and unfolded a far more immediate problem: Atlanta.
The 2–5 Buccaneers were coming home with renewed life. The 3–4 Falcons were arriving with momentum of their own. Carolina still held the division lead at 3–3, leaving Tampa Bay 1.5 games back and very much within boarding distance.
“We’re still in the race?” Booty asked.
“We are. Which makes Sunday a particularly bad time to admire last week’s work.”
The Carolina victory was Tampa Bay’s first divisional game of the season. Five more remained, beginning with these Dirty Birds. Each offered a chance to climb while dragging a direct rival down a rung.
There was historical bookkeeping to settle, too. The win in Carolina tied that rivalry at 26 victories apiece. Atlanta led its series with Tampa Bay 33–32. A Buccaneers victory Sunday would square that ledger at 33–33.
Booty studied the figures.
“I do enjoy balancing the books.”
Parrot looked at the tavern receipts poking from his pocket.
“You enjoy winning. Let’s begin there.”
The ground campaign meets the opposition
Booty announced his football platform in one word.
“RUN.”
“Their platform,” replied Parrot, “is stopping that.”
The Buccaneers had trampled Carolina for 258 rushing yards, their second performance of at least 240 yards in three weeks. That sort of production changes a game: it keeps an offense on schedule, gives the defense a breather, and leaves the opposing sideline watching valuable minutes disappear.
But Atlanta’s front would have something to say about another victory parade.
Tampa Bay averaged 146.4 rushing yards per game, third in the NFL. The Falcons surrendered just 88.9, the league’s fourth-lowest figure. That 57.5-yard gap was where two confident units would collide.
“Our ground campaign has excellent support,” Booty declared.
“Then the offensive line needs to keep opening doors.”
Turn the chart around and the same argument awaited Atlanta. The Falcons generated 139.9 rushing yards per game. Tampa Bay allowed only 77.3. That difference was even larger: 62.6 yards.
Neither defense had agreed to honor the other offense’s season average.
For the Bucs, the job was to block cleanly, avoid penalties that turn manageable downs into long-yardage chores, and stay patient if the early runs produced modest gains. On defense, it meant closing lanes and finishing tackles before Atlanta’s runners could turn a small opening into a campaign rally.
Booty tapped the chart.
“Win the ground. Control the clock. Collect the treasure.”
“And protect the football,” said Parrot. “Your platform has a habit of forgetting that plank.”
The Dirty Birds have their own victory stickers
Atlanta was coming off an impressive win over the previously unbeaten San Francisco 49ers. Michael Penix threw three touchdown passes without an interception, while the Falcons’ defense intercepted Brock Purdy twice.
Booty lowered his tankard.
“They beat the undefeated?”
“That is usually how a team stops being undefeated.”
The point landed. Tampa Bay could take confidence from Carolina, but Atlanta had just earned its own reason to swagger.
Fortunately, the Buccaneers’ pass rush had begun making persuasive arguments. Ten sacks over the last two games suggested the cannons were finally firing together. Another five-sack afternoon would tie the franchise record for consecutive games with at least five.
There was an opening on the scouting sheet: Atlanta ranked 23rd in sacks allowed per pass play, at 7.96 percent.
There was also a warning beside it: Penix was not sacked against San Francisco.
“So we cannot simply mail him a notice and expect him to fall over?” Booty asked.
“Correct. Someone has to get there.”
Pressure would need to arrive with discipline. Rush past the quarterback or leave an easy throwing lane, and the Falcons could make aggression expensive. Make Penix hold the ball, squeeze the pocket, and force hurried decisions, and the Bucs could change the entire afternoon.
Parrot scratched a note into the margin.
“The only negative campaigning I want Sunday is negative yardage.”
Nineteen objections and one very large Pitts problem
Out on the boundaries, Zyon McCollum and Jacob Parrish had combined for "19 passes defensed. Parrish led the NFL with 11, allowing a 73.5 passer rating when targeted. McCollum’s corresponding figure was an even stingier 58.5.
“Nineteen rejected proposals,” Booty said appreciatively.
Those coverage plays mattered beyond the stat sheet. Make a quarterback hesitate, and the rush gets another beat to arrive. The back end and the front needed to keep helping each other.
Then Parrot turned to the next page.
It contained two words, underlined three times.
KYLE PITTS.
Booty’s smile vanished.
In eight career games against Tampa Bay, Pitts had collected 629 receiving yards and six touchdowns. No opponent had surrendered more receiving yardage to him, and those six scores were double his highest total against anyone else.
He also had four touchdowns in Atlanta’s last three games.
Then there was last year’s visit to Raymond James: 11 catches, 166 yards, three touchdowns, and a 29–28 Falcons victory that still deserved to be kept in a locked drawer.
Booty pushed the page away.
“I move that we table this discussion.”
"He has four touchdowns in three games. We are discussing it.”
The Bucs needed to know where Pitts was before the snap, communicate when he moved, and make him earn contested catches. The outside corners’ strong work could not solve every matchup inside. Whatever coverage Tampa Bay called, somebody had to carry the assignment through the entire play.
Parrot tapped the underlined name.
“Whatever else happens Sunday, that man cannot run unopposed.”
Every yard counts in a close race
Special teams rarely inspired a speech from Captain Booty, unless someone had kicked his tankard. This week, Parrot insisted on one more set of numbers.
Opponents’ average starting position after Buccaneers kickoffs was the 28.2-yard line, third best in the NFL for Tampa Bay. The Bucs had ranked 30th in that category last season.
Against Carolina, they put eight kickoffs into the landing zone and allowed no return longer than 28 yards.
“So we make ’em begin their march farther from the treasury?”
“Exactly.”
In a rivalry this close, that work could matter enormously. Make Atlanta travel the long route. Tackle securely. Avoid the penalty or loose ball that supplies a shortcut.
The last six Bucs–Falcons games had all been decided by six points or fewer, with an average victory margin of just 3.7 points.
Last season alone supplied two warnings: Tampa Bay’s dramatic 23–20 comeback in Atlanta, followed by the Falcons’ even more painful 29–28 escape in Tampa.
Booty stared at the ledger.
“I would like a landslide.”
“I would like a lead we still own when the clock says zero.”
There lay the assignment. Build on Carolina’s performance, protect possessions, and keep executing when the fourth quarter starts making everyone nervous. A promising first half will not settle this race. Neither will a loud crowd without the plays to match it.
The Bucs needed sixty minutes of attention, especially if the afternoon came down to one drive, one coverage call, or one tackle in space.
“No early victory speech?” Booty asked.
Parrot gave him the look reserved for a man who had lived through enough disappearing leads to know better.
“Keep the speech in your pocket.”
Civic duty complete — division duty awaits
By the time the briefing ended, Captain Booty’s headache had eased, his treasury was secured, and his I VOTED sticker remained proudly attached to his coat.
The ballot had offered no stadium roof, no Hall of Fame selections, and no emergency referendum on rum. Yet he had come away pleased. The people had been kind. He had made his choices. He had done his part.
Now the Krewe had another gathering ahead.
Sunday at Raymond James, the visiting Dirty Birds would arrive carrying confidence, a dangerous tight end, and a one-game advantage in the rivalry ledger. The Buccaneers would bring a revived rushing attack, a surging pass rush, and a chance to give last week’s victory a worthy sequel.
Booty fastened his reinforced belt and lifted the treasure bag.
“Forty-three doubloons from Carolina,” he said. “Room for another deposit.”
“Provided you leave the roof money alone.”
“Civic duty complete,” the Captain announced. “Now for division duty!”
“Sixty full minutes of it,” said Parrot.
So raise the flags, Ye Krewe of Pewter Pirates. Bring the noise. Welcome our Buccaneers home, and make those Dirty Birds work for every inch of Tampa turf.
he Captain has cast his ballot.
Now he wants the Bucs to make their mark.
FIRE THE CANNONS! BRING ON THE BOOTY!
KEEP THE POINTS COMING—THE ROOF AIN’T PAID FOR YET!
Parrot glanced at the sticker one last time.
“And no, Captain. That is still not a building permit.”
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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