An American Dreamcicle

I would never call myself a fair-weather fan. Hey, I cheered the Bucs in their dreamcicle days, when it seemed that “Bucco Bruce” was the best thing going for us. I went to games when you could actually walk up to the gate and buy a ticket. Frankly, I almost took pride in how much we stunk, as if we were fulfilling some sort of obligation. The Bucs were supposed to lose. We did. And we did it well.
But fast-forward to the Dungy days of red and pewter – like a little girl on the first day of school, we had a new outfit and a new attitude. I began to believe. We started having winning seasons. The Bucs…winning seasons! The Bucs…in the playoffs! I believed and believed – through the robbery of “the catch” and the ousting of Shaun King (who I think would have made a great, long-term quarterback and I’m not just saying that because we went to middle school together), and a bunch of other junk that told me that our time was almost – just any minute – going to come.
And then….Hooray! We are the Champions! Finally.
I mean, I think that’s how it went. I can barely remember, now, it’s been so long. Didn’t we think John Gruden was the best thing since sliced bread? I mean, didn’t we all just know that somehow, “Pound the Rock” was the answer to all our prayers?
The truth is, I really miss Tony Dungy. I mean, I miss him like I miss my skinny, twenty-one-year-old body. I miss him like I miss Bill Clinton. But, oh well. Turns out Gruden really did win with Dungy’s team. Lord knows, his version of the Bucs seems to be destined to go down with the dreamcicles.
But, getting back to my point (and I do have one): the Bucs are our team. Sure, I miss Mike Alstott and John Lynch and Martin Gramatica – aw, heck, I even miss Warren Sapp and Keyshawn. But that’s ancient history. We’ve got to support the guys we’ve got. Hey, some metropolitan areas don’t even have a team!
My job, gentle Gabber reader, is not to belabor the issue about Gruden’s ineffectual coaching and bizarre personnel decisions. No. My job here is to tell you my favorite places where you can enjoy such ineptitudes.
Now, obviously, I love football season. It’s the closest thing we have in Florida to tell us when it might be time to unpack the “winter” clothes (or, at the least, to take out the Halloween decorations). It’s the thing that truly sets Americans apart from all of those other soccer-loving countries. Football is the real “National Pastime,” if you ask me.
Naturally, when I plopped down to this season’s stinker (I mean, “opener”), I did it in the fashion that all red-blooded Americans prefer: on the couch, with a frosty beer and the sweet smell of grilled burgers wafting through the air.
But what if, on occasion, you crave a little more excitement in your football-viewing experience? What if you want to pound on a bar while you shout, “Pass interference, for chrissakes! Good God, are they blind?” Well, in that case, you’ve got to go to Limey’s Pub on 4th Street in St. Pete.
Oh, I know, I know. There are far better sports bars to catch the game action. In fact, Limey’s isn’t even a sports bar. It’s not even close. (They’ve only got two TVs!) But it is, without a doubt, my favorite place to watch a sporting event of any kind, and I’ll tell you why.
First, and foremost, I know most of the waitstaff. Okay – still not impressed? (Well, they do, sometimes – and I’m not naming any names – slip me a drink or two on the house…).
Secondly, they have all manner of cool beers, an extremely laid-back atmosphere, and the most unbelievable broccoli bites I’ve ever had. (Okay, the only broccoli bites I’ve ever had, but get them with the honey mustard dressing. You’ll thank me.) Oh, and most of the bar is open to the outdoors, which is so Florida, in my opinion.
Third and finally – and this is really my favorite part – head down on any afternoon, and you will be absolutely certain to encounter a lively (if sometimes toothless and drunken) gathering of old Bucs fans around the bar who are more than happy to commiserate (or argue until a lack of oxygen makes them stop) about the fate of our team.
People, this is what football is all about: emotion, passion and the plain, stupid love for a group of men in leggings, slapping butts and doing impromptu MC Hammer moves in the end zone.
We are a civilized society. We no longer pack up a picnic for public hangings. We don’t admit to rubber-necking at crash scenes. We have evolved. But, we still have football – and glorious, open-air bars in which to proclaim these oh-so-important grievances about the worthiness of our head coach.
This year, I’m pulling for Gruden. Last week, we slaughtered the Saints, so things are looking up. And, maybe “Pound the Rock” has gone the way of all ancient war cries – into the overly-dramatized land of Time Life Sports retrospective videos. But, we will always have “Pound the Bar.”