You ever seen locusts with accents? That was Dale Mabry this weekend — Raymond James crawling with Boston fans like Logan had a Spirit Airlines special on misery. You could hear it before you saw it. That nasal “yah, kid!” tone, like someone fed a seagull a cigarette and gave it season tickets. By the second quarter, even the humidity was saying “wicked.”
They came out of the woodwork. Crawled out of whatever fake-palm Southie they’ve been nesting in since Brady left. Faded Red Sox hats from 2004, cracked blue Patriots jerseys that look like they survived the Ice Age — all of them marching south like nostalgia had GPS.
And listen, I don’t hate Boston. Hate would mean emotional effort. I despise it — the self-mythology, the way every Masshole thinks they personally discovered football, the civic arrogance that can’t pronounce an “r” without sounding like it’s trying to escape. Boston talks about its teams like it invented the concept of winning, conveniently forgetting the decades it didn’t.
They didn’t even come here for the football. Not really. They came for the pilgrimage. For the chance to scream “LET’S GO BRADY” in a city that actually got over him. Tampa’s out here building a new era, new quarterback, new energy — but nah, these folks show up like exes at your wedding, loudly telling everyone how happy they are for you while crying into their Sam Adams.
And don’t even start on the Brady thing. I get it. Greatest of all time, fine. Seven rings, fine. But the way they worship the man like he invented football? It’s weird. It’s cult behavior. Half these guys probably have his TB12 cookbook next to the Bible and haven’t touched either. Tampa got the man’s last great act — his encore, his Florida epilogue — but Boston fans can’t handle that someone else got the goodbye tour.
They came down with that same smug energy, too. That “we’re the real fans, kid” tone. Yeah, tell that to the palm trees, kid. Tell that to the humidity that eats your soul and your hairline in ten minutes flat. Tampa’s built different — we tailgate with pirate ships and rum, not Dunks and bad attitude. You come down here in your navy hoodie and your emotional-support khakis, and you think you’re bringing tradition? Buddy, we’ve got parrots that talk better football than half your section.
Soon as the Patriots hit our schedule, every “lifelong football guy” north of Worcester suddenly remembered how airports work. They roll into town like pilgrims, muttering about “Tommy” like he’s a saint. “Wicked stah player, huh?” Yeah, sure, pal — where were you when Mac Jones was out here looking like a human traffic cone?
Tampa didn’t need the circus. We’ve got our own chaos — tailgates, humidity, and pirate cannons that still might blow out an eardrum this season. But seeing Raymond James splattered in blue and red? That hit different. It was like your ex’s new boyfriend crashing your birthday party — polite, ugly, and still talking about high school.
And then they won. Of course they did. Because the universe loves irony. They got to carry that victory home like a souvenir, heads high, accents thicker than chowdah.
After the game they swarmed Tampa’s streets — chipper, beaming, every single one eager to talk about “the game” like we were all cousins now. “We love the Bucs too, y’know, because of Tommy!” they’d chirp, like our city was their second-favorite team. They’d slap your back outside bars, relive every drive, ask if you “miss him down heah.” No, pal — we healed. You’re the ones on a nostalgia tour.
You want them to die a sports-fan ego death — a spiritual cleansing where they realize fandom isn’t a religion and maybe humility’s a virtue. A little Nirvana, right there on Howard Avenue. But nope. They win, and they get to keep being f**ing Boston* — undefeated in arrogance, blessed in self-importance, baptized in Dunks. Their ego doesn’t melt in the sun; it gets a tan.
They’ll go home with their skyline selfies and their “we were there” posts, inflate the story till it sounds like divine intervention. And Tampa? We’ll stay right here — sweat-slicked, loud, rum-buzzed, and unbothered. Let them keep the W; we keep the weather, the cannons, and the kind of chaos you can’t pahk in a cah.
They came for Brady, stayed for the humidity, left with the win — and of course they think they’re back as the main character. Keep the chant, keep the trophy, keep being Boston. We’ll keep the sun and the cannon.
