Published: September 27, 2026 at 09:30 PM
TAMPA FL — W.P. Rader aka Captain Booty — BuccaneersFan.com
Game-Day Highlights
"Another entry from the increasingly rum-stained logbook of W.P. Rader aka Captain Booty"
Our Pirate Wins the Tailgate, Survives a Viking Invasion, and Begins Making Deeply Questionable Preparations for Green Bay, Arrr… Week 3 Final: Vikings 23, Buccaneers 16 | Tampa Bay: 0–3
Arrr… I arrived for Week Three with both boots, a freshly straightened hat, and a solemn promise to approach the afternoon with dignity.
The boots did not match.
The hat was concealing structural damage.
And dignity departed shortly after somebody handed me a plate of ribs.
Nevertheless, this represented progress.
After Cincinnati, the Cleveland hounds, my unfortunate disagreement with the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, and a home opener that required both a football ticket and an understanding of flood insurance, I had simplified my expectations.
Good friends.
Good food.
One Buccaneer victory.
Apparently, the third item required an application nobody had submitted.
But before we discuss the purple invasion, the disappearing touchdown, and my urgent proposal to replace certain offensive holding techniques with supervised rowing lessons, let us recognize where Tampa Bay was absolutely winning.
Outside the stadium.
The Best Connections Begin with “Pull Up a Chair”
There are places where introductions involve a reception desk, a printed badge, and somebody asking whether you registered for the networking session.
Then there is a Buccaneers tailgate.
“Who are you here with?”
“Would you like something off the grill?”
“Pull up a chair.”
"Let's Splice the Mainbrace"
Four questions, and suddenly you have joined a community, inherited an opinion about the offensive line, and been entrusted with somebody’s closely guarded barbecue sauce.
Now that is an efficient membership program.
Around our little harbor, grills smoked, flags flew, and conversations traveled effortlessly between tents and hatchbacks. Old friends appeared with familiar smiles. New faces arrived looking slightly uncertain and left knowing where to find us next time.
That is the treasure people miss when they think game day begins at kickoff.
A tailgate is where a stranger becomes the person you save a seat for.
Where you discover the fellow beside you also plays music, the woman across the table runs a local business, and somebody’s cousin is precisely the photographer another friend has been trying to find.
No forced sales pitch. No awkward conference-room icebreaker.
Just people connecting over something they love, with considerably better catering.
Naturally, Professor Jam attended to the musical atmosphere.
The unofficial playlist featured three emotional categories: confidence, unreasonable confidence, and songs reserved for situations in which confidence requires jumper cables.
My parrot requested something quieter.
I reminded him that he had spent last Sunday shouting “WEATHER DELAY” directly into my ear.
His request was denied.
For the record, our designated driver held the keys. I held a paper plate and "Nipperkin". Command responsibilities had been assigned according to ability.
And yes, we welcomed visiting supporters.
A purple jersey does not prevent a person from appreciating good barbecue. Before kickoff, we can share food, compare travel stories, exchange contact information, and argue amiably about whose team is about to disappoint whom.
One Viking wandered into our orbit and accepted a friendly greeting.
I welcomed him aboard.
I did not realize he had brought enough reinforcements to establish a regional government.
We Offered Hospitality. They Apparently Heard “Take the Harbor.”
Inside Raymond James Stadium, I stopped.
Purple.
Gold.
More purple.
An alarming additional quantity of gold.
From this pirate’s increasingly suspicious perch, it looked as though Minnesota supporters occupied half the seats. That was an eyeball estimate from a man with barbecue sauce on his spectacles, not a ticket office census but the impression was overwhelming.
And the noise?
It did not sound as though we were securely docked at home.
It sounded as though somebody had towed our stadium north while we were discussing potato salad.
“Are we in the correct harbor?” I asked the parrot.
He surveyed the stands.
“Check the lease.”
Last week, we had hounds.
This week, actual seafaring opposition.
I had specifically requested opponents with less experience boarding ships.
Instead, the Vikings arrived dressed for conquest, while our own crew was still trying to locate the instruction manual for September.
Still, I refused to surrender my optimism.
“We won the tailgate,” I announced. “Now we simply carry that momentum inside.”
The parrot looked at the field.
“Did anyone tell the football team?”
Ten Points Down Before the Rum Settled
Minnesota began with a 40-yard drive, helped along by Justin Jefferson’s 22-yard reception. Will Reichard finished it with a 54-yard field goal.
Three points.
Unwelcome, but survivable.
I have paid larger penalties for misunderstanding hotel minibars.
Then our opening possession ended after an incompletion intended for Jalen McMillan, who was hurt on the play a worrying sight before the afternoon had properly begun.
The ensuing punt produced an entirely different kind of distress.
Myles Price returned it 86 yards for a touchdown.
Eighty-six yards.
That is not merely a return. That is a visiting delegation being escorted through customs, offered refreshments, and provided directions to the treasure room.
Minnesota led 10–0.
I looked at the parrot.
He looked at my Nipperkin.
Neither of us possessed the necessary answer.
Then, mercifully, the Buccaneers responded.
Five plays. Eighty yards.
Baker Mayfield found Ted Hurst III for a 40-yard touchdown, and suddenly the cannons had something worthwhile to discuss.
10–7.
There it was! Movement! Purpose! A successful voyage that did not conclude with somebody explaining why we had to retreat ten yards!
I raised my Nipperkin.
The crowd around us found its voice.
For a moment, the purple looked less like an invading empire and more like a regrettable decorating choice.
The Defense Finds Its Boarding Hooks
There were Buccaneers doing their jobs, and a pirate ought to record their efforts rather than throw the entire crew overboard with his temper.
David Walker squared up Demond Claiborne for a tackle for loss. Zyon McCollum stayed attached to Tai Felton on a third-down route, helping force a punt.
Alex Anzalone brought down Murray on another third down.
Walker later collected a sack of his own, dropping Murray for a nine-yard loss when the quarterback tried to extend the play.
For stretches, the defense looked ready to repel the longboats.
I appreciated this enormously.
My own previous attempt to contain Cleveland’s hounds had ended with me trapped between folding chairs. It was reassuring to see professionals employing better equipment.
The offense offered another promising passage when Cade Otton gained 37 yards and Emeka Egbuka added 13.
But the journey ended with Chase McLaughlin kicking a 28-yard field goal.
10–10.
A tie.
Not the treasure chest, but at least we were no longer paying interest on the deficit.
Then Murray found Jordan Addison for a 41-yard touchdown, with Addison establishing position inside Jacob Parrish.
Minnesota’s 73-yard scoring drive restored a seven-point advantage.
17–10.
I sat down.
My optimism remained standing for a moment, apparently unaware that its chair had been removed.
The Defense Delivers Treasure. The Offense Requests Smaller Change.
Midway through the third quarter, Vita Vea got a hand on Murray’s pass.
Up went the football.
Into the waiting possession of A’Shawn Robinson it came.
An interception, with the Buccaneers taking over at the 22-yard line.
Now, there are opportunities.
And then there are opportunities delivered to your doorstep wearing a ribbon.
Our defense had practically carried the treasure chest onto the porch, knocked politely, and left a note reading:
PLEASE CONVERT INTO SEVEN POINTS.
We converted it into three.
McLaughlin’s 38-yard field goal narrowed the score to 17–13.
I applauded the kick, because the man had done what was asked of him.
Then I looked toward the offense with the expression of a pirate who had ordered a feast and received a very professionally arranged bread basket.
Chase cannot keep being the entire catering department.
At some point, somebody must bring out the main course.
A Touchdown! A Celebration! A Small Yellow Bankruptcy Notice!
Then Chris Godwin Jr. reached the end zone.
I sprang upward.
The "Nipperkin" rose.
My voice returned to a frequency last heard when the Rock Hall gentleman told me to get off the furniture.
“THERE IT IS!” I shouted. “WE HAVE REMEMBERED THE LOCATION OF THE—”
FLAG.
Holding.
Touchdown erased.
I remained standing, arms suspended, wearing the expression of a man whose winning lottery ticket had just been identified as a grocery receipt.
The parrot leaned toward me.
“Put the joy back.”
I lowered my arms.
Very slowly.
There are few experiences in football more exhausting than celebrating a touchdown and then being informed that your happiness was provisional.
You have already hugged somebody.
You have already spilled something.
You cannot simply reclaim the beverage and issue a formal emotional reversal.
Yet there we were.
Again.
Someone tell the offense: if ye want to hold something, GRAB AN OAR. WE’RE GOING BACKWARD.
Holding an oar produces forward motion when properly supervised.
Holding the wrong piece of an opponent’s uniform produces a referee announcement and another donation to the opposition’s field position.
By the end of the afternoon, Tampa Bay had committed eight penalties for 81 yards.
Not all were holding calls, but collectively they made an excellent case for installing a reverse alarm on the offense.
And Yet, Somehow, We Couldn’t Find a Flag When We Wanted One
Which brings us to the facemask controversy.
The disputed non-call had Buccaneers supporters furious, with Scott Novak’s officiating crew becoming the focus of considerable frustration.
From our corner of the stands, the question was simple:
Where was the flag?
The complaints in your average football crowd can vary greatly in sophistication.
Mine had temporarily narrowed to volume.
“FINE THE REFS!” I bellowed.
The parrot produced an imaginary invoice.
“For what amount?”
“Whatever covers my emotional repairs!”
He looked me over.
“We’ll need a larger number.”
The maddening part was the contrast: a touchdown disappears beneath yellow laundry, while a facemask incident that has Bucs fans demanding a call produces no such relief.
I was prepared to offer a lengthy maritime lecture about consistency.
Nobody requested it.
Several people received it anyway.
But even through the fog of frustration, one uncomfortable truth remained visible.
We can question the officiating without pretending our own mistakes vanished.
The disputed call did not erase six sacks.
It did not explain away every stalled possession.
And it did not turn our eight penalties into somebody else’s responsibility.
I wanted better officiating.
I also wanted our offense to stop issuing complimentary assistance to the visitors.
A pirate may have two complaints at once. Particularly when neither requires additional balance.
One Point Away Is a Cruel Place to Live
With about nine minutes remaining, McLaughlin delivered again.
A 54-yard field goal.
Vikings 17. Buccaneers 16.
One point.
A single point.
The sort of gap that persuades a sensible person to believe.
Unfortunately, I had arrived with no sensible person assigned to supervise my football expectations.
“ONE STOP!” I shouted. “ONE DRIVE!”
It sounded so manageable.
The defense needed to hold the door.
The offense needed to walk through it.
Instead, Reichard kicked a 56-yard field goal with just over three minutes remaining.
20–16.
Now we needed a touchdown.
Not another respectable field goal. Not an encouraging excursion. Not a touchdown accompanied by a small yellow legal objection.
An actual touchdown that remained ours after everybody finished checking.
Late in the fourth quarter, however, the afternoon took a more serious turn.
Mayfield left the field clutching his hand, and Jalon Daniels finished the game.
That quieted me.
There is a difference between complaining about a football result and watching a player leave hurt.
No pirate diagnosis from me. No guessing about severity. Just concern for Baker, concern for McMillan after his earlier injury, and hope for favorable news.
Reichard added a 43-yard field goal inside the final minute.
23–16.
And that was our afternoon.
Another visiting crew had entered the harbor, helped itself to the result, and departed while we stood around discussing what almost happened.
The Captain’s Ledger Does Not Improve with Rum
Mayfield finished 17 of 34 for 217 yards, one touchdown, and one interception.
He was sacked six times.
Six.
I have owned folding beach chairs that offered more sustained protection from collapse.
That is a complaint about the result of the protection, not a claim that every sack belongs to one man or one mistake. Whatever the individual causes, the quarterback spent far too much of the afternoon under siege.
Bucky Irving carried 15 times for 46 yards.
Egbuka led our receiving effort with five catches for 62 yards, while Hurst supplied the 40-yard touchdown that briefly restored color to this pirate’s cheeks.
Defensively, Antoine Winfield Jr. led the team with six tackles. Anzalone recorded five tackles, a sack, and a tackle for loss, while Walker and Anthony Nelson also registered sacks.
There were plays worth applauding.
There were efforts worth recognizing.
But the final accounting remained stubborn.
One offensive touchdown. Eight penalties. Six sacks allowed. A third consecutive loss.
We were 0–3.
I turned the numbers upside down.
It did not help.
The parrot suggested turning the whole notebook over.
For several seconds, this was the strongest proposal available.
The Tailgate Did Not Lose
Leaving the stadium, I found myself thinking about the beginning of the day.
Not because I wished to avoid what happened on the field.
Because the beginning deserved to survive it.
The laughs beneath the tents were still real.
The friendships were still real.
The introductions, exchanged numbers, shared meals, and promises to meet again next Sunday did not become worthless when the scoreboard disappointed us.
There is no penalty that can erase the moment somebody made a newcomer feel welcome.
No sack that takes back a good conversation.
No visiting touchdown that changes the fact that, for a few hours, people stepped away from their everyday burdens and enjoyed belonging to something.
That is why we return.
Not because defeat is entertaining.
Certainly not because this pirate requires additional character development. I have enough character development to qualify for continuing education credits and serious counciling.
We return because the team matters to us and so do the people standing beside us.
The Buccaneers lost Sunday. The community we build around them did not.
Which is fortunate, because that community may need to supervise my next idea.
Operation: Some Assembly Required, Cheese Sold Separately
Next in the captain’s log:
Green Bay Packers at Tampa Bay Buccaneers
Sunday, October 4, 2026 — 1:00 p.m. ET
Raymond James Stadium
The Packers.
Of course.
After cats, hounds, and Vikings, our next visitors arrive wearing provisions on their heads.
At last, an opponent whose battle equipment can be paired with crackers.
The earlier kickoff calls for earlier organizing, breakfast friendly provisions, a properly prepared playlist, and enough time to greet Ye Krewe of Pewter Pirates before heading inside.
I intend to arrive with both boots again.
This is now a measurable improvement program.
The music will be ready. The introductions will continue. Old friends will have a place to gather, and new friends will have a reason to return.
Visiting Packers supporters will be welcome to exchange a handshake, share a laugh, and explain why headwear from the dairy aisle seemed like a sensible choice.
I shall listen respectfully.
Then I shall unveil the cheese trap.
The initial design involves a large wedge of cheddar beneath an overturned crate, supported by an oar and attached to a length of rope.
The parrot studied my drawing.
“Isn’t that how you trapped yourself in Cleveland?”
“That was a containment prototype.”
“You were in it.”
“Extensive field testing.”
He considered the new plan.
“What happens when the Packers fans reach the cheese?”
“We offer them chairs,” I replied. “Introduce them to the neighbors. Find out where they traveled from. Perhaps make a few friends.”
He blinked.
“That’s a tailgate.”
“Aye,” I said. “But this one has a tactical cheese component.”
As for the football, our requests are less complicated than my engineering.
Protect the quarterback. Finish drives. Keep the touchdowns we score. Stop supplying the enemy with free yardage.
And please, for one Sunday, let the postgame conversation include something other than the phrase we had our chances.
I folded the plans and tucked them into my coat.
The parrot settled onto my shoulder.
“Still coming back?” he asked. I looked toward our home stadium.Of course I was.
Disappointed is not departed.
Frustrated is not finished.
And a pirate does not abandon his crew simply because September has begun behaving like a personal vendetta.
We are 0–3 on the field. We remain undefeated at making room at the table.
Next Sunday, let’s try winning both.
GO BUCS. FIRE THE CANNONS. PASS THE CRACKERS.
And for the love of every sailor still aboard—hold the oar, not the jersey.
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.
# # #
#BUCSMOBILE | #CAPTAINBOOTY | #PROFESSORJAM
BuccaneersFan.com