Welcome to Boom Been Finessed—a weekly Tampa Bay Buccaneers blog-show hosted by Sir Finesse of the High Score from the pirate ship at Raymond James Stadium. It’s football through swagger and absurdity—where the cannons speak first, and the box score explains itself later.
Dead men tell no tales—but I certainly do—this be Boom Been Finessed, an’ I be yer host—Sir Finesse o’ the High Score—speakin’ straight at ye from the deck o’ the pirate ship at Raymond James Stadium.
(Boom shifts on the high rail.)
That be Boom—cannonbird, feather an’ metal in one bad idea, posted up high above the cannon mouth like he owns the moment. He don’t do tricks; he does trouble—quiet till he ain’t, then smoke and chaos.
Now—offseason. Logbook I. No game ter lean on, no highlights ter babysit the moment—so the story has ter do the work. Myth, memory, doctrine… all the sunny ridiculous stuff that somehow lands truer when the scoreboard ain’t talkin’.
Bucco Bruce.
Aye. I be startin’ here on purpose.
Because some things in football be just equipment. Some things be just paint. Some things be just “branding,” an’ the corporate blandness merchants treat it like wallpaper—swap it out, tone it down, make it safe enough ter sell in an airport.
Bucco Bruce ain’t that.
Bucco Bruce be a face that teaches posture.
Feather up like arrogance with manners. Dagger clenched like a joke with consequences. An’ that expression—blimey—half smirk, half verdict, like he already heard the doubt formin’ in the back o’ yer head and decided it weren’t worth his time.
Most folk think a pirate has ter snarl ter be scary.
That be landlubber logic.
A real menace can grin.
A real menace can wink.
An’ Bucco Bruce? He winks like he be signin’ a contract ye didn’t read. Not a friendly wink. Not a “howdy neighbor” wink. A wink that says: go ahead—keep talkin’. I’ll keep smilin’ while I take what I came fer.
That be why I treat him like me hero.
Not because he be old. Not because he be “retro.” Those be museum words. This be a blueprint. This be the kind o’ symbol ye don’t just wear—ye learn from it. Ye steal from it. Quietly. Shamelessly. An’ ye never admit which parts ye stole, because the whole point be to make it look like ye were born with it.
That wink be doctrine.
It teaches ye how ter stand there—relaxed—while the whole world tries ter turn yer confidence into a joke. It teaches ye that charm can be a weapon, an’ that the weapon works better when it looks like a party.
(Boom lets out a soft click.)
See? Even Boom felt that line land. He likes anythin’ that sounds dangerous without raisin’ its voice.
An’ listen—this be important—none o’ this be bitter. None o’ this be “back in my day” whinin’. This be celebration. This be me pointin’ at a piece o’ identity that refuses ter be reduced ter a punchline and sayin’: there. That. That be the attitude.
Because the Buccaneers can change coaches, change coordinators, change the whole shape o’ a season…
…but a city’s posture? That be slower ter move.
Bucco Bruce moves it.
An’ if ye want proof that Tampa treats him like more than a doodle—if ye want evidence that the face has a real place in the city’s memory—
Now—ye’ve seen it with yer own eyes, and that matters. That face be kept proper, not tossed in a drawer like last season’s brochures. Tampa put Bucco Bruce under glass at the Tampa Bay History Center—aye, the real kind o’ “this be ours,” preserved and respected. And the name behind the ink ain’t some ghost story neither: Lamar Sparkman drew him, local hands, local mischief, the kind o’ artist who understood that a wink can hit harder than a snarl. His family even handed over more than two hundred original drawings, like droppin’ a whole treasure chest o’ memory on the table and sayin’, don’t ye dare lose this. Blimey—ye don’t donate two hundred pieces o’ work unless ye know it mattered.
Now—look at that face showin’ up bold in daylight again, like it never asked permission in the first place. That wink be doin’ what it always did: makin’ grown folk remember they got a smile in ’em. Not “ironic.” Not “we’re laughin’ at it.” Avast with that bilge. This be recognition. This be joy with teeth.
Here’s the thing about a true icon: it don’t need a season to be hot. It don’t need a record to be respectable. It just needs a crowd ready to stop pretendin’ it’s too cool to feel somethin’. An’ once the crowd admits it—blimey—it spreads. Like sunshine. Like trouble. Like a chant ye didn’t know ye knew.
Because the wink ain’t a joke. The wink be a contract. The wink be a dare. The wink be manners wrapped round menace so the menace can walk right through the front door smilin’.
Aye—there it be, the modern proof of life. An’ it don’t feel like a throwback; it feels like a return o’ posture. Ye can see it in how folk wear it—chin up, shoulders back, grin sharpened like they’ve been waitin’ all week to be a little wicked in public. The face makes the whole vibe lighter, sunnier, louder—like the city remembered it don’t have to choose between fun and bite.
Now I’ll tell ye where I start gettin’ carried away, because I can hear meself talkin’ and I like how it sounds: that wink don’t merely sit on a helmet. It sits on a mood. It sits on a season. It sits on a whole fanbase like a hand on the shoulder sayin’, “Relax. Enjoy it. Be dangerous anyway.”
An’ once I’m in that lane, I can’t help it—me mind starts stackin’ legends on top o’ legends. The wink becomes a lantern. The wink becomes a key. The wink becomes a little crooked star that points toward mischief when the world tries to point ye toward beige.
(Boom shifts. A faint hiss o’ smoke.)
See that? Even Boom be feelin’ it. He don’t clap. He don’t cheer. He just gets… interested.
Then the stamp drops, and I take it personal—aye, personal as in sacred. “Back” ain’t a marketing word in me mouth. “Back” be a door openin’. “Back” be daylight touchin’ an old grin and the grin refusin’ to flinch.
Because when Bucco Bruce be called back into the light, that ain’t nostalgia… that be a decision. That be the world sayin’ the blueprint still fits. The wink still works. The posture still wins.
An’ now I’m really off to the races—because if the wink be doctrine, then “back” be scripture bein’ read aloud. That’s when the tale gets bigger, sunnier, stranger. That’s when I start talkin’ like a man who swallowed fireworks and decided they were vitamins.
Aye—hear the rule, clear as cannon steel: ye don’t outgrow joy. Ye sharpen it.
An’ when ye sharpen it, the whole place starts standin’ different.
So when the echo comes from outside the building—when the wider football world starts pointin’ at the face like it’s an artifact an’ not a gimmick—aye, that’s when it gets bigger than team hype. That’s when it feels like football itself is noddin’ along, admitin’ the truth it tried to ignore: some icons don’t age… they wait.
“Pirates used to take with steel. I take with a wink.” “That’s finesse.” “And I’m not here for yardage. I’m here for the high score.” “Wink, then win.” (Boom clicks once.) “Hear that? You got finessed — and Boom is the seal.”
Logbook I be sealed.
Next week, we’ll get into how Tampa got a team—the proper franchise-origin tale, the part with roots and doors opening—aye, that one deserves its own entry. But this week? This week belonged to Bucco Bruce, the hero-face, the blueprint-wink, the lesson that says ye can be playful and still be a problem.
Till then—keep yer grin sharp, keep yer joy loud, and if some corporate bilge rat tells ye it’s “just a logo,” laugh kindly… then ignore ’em.
Sir Finesse o’ the High Score
Boom
