In Tampa, we build pirate ships inside football stadiums.
So commissioning a giant, hyper-detailed chalk mural for Black History Month at Tampa Bay Buccaneers headquarters? Honestly. On brand.
But what makes this one interesting isnโt just that it exists. Itโs who made it โ and how intentionally she approached it.
When Laura Thomas got the call, it wasnโt vague. The organization wanted something that honored Black History Month, incorporated football, and reflected the Tampa Bay community.
No pressure. Just identity, history, civic pride โ and maybe donโt smudge it.
โItโs for Black History Month, but I wanted it to be something that would helpโฆ kind of make everybody proud,โ Thomas said. โYou know, everyone can enjoy it. Appreciate it.โ
That line feels particularly Tampa. This is a city that contains multigenerational Black neighborhoods, shiny new condos, die-hard Bucs fans, and people who still argue about which Cuban sandwich is correct. If youโre going to make a piece that lives at One Buccaneer Place, it has to speak to more than one audience.
Thomas understood that assignment.
โThe organization reached out to me, wanting to do this for Black History Month,โ she said. โAnd I was very excited and honored that they asked me to do it.โ
Excited. Honored. Also: strategic.
She didnโt just sketch one idea and hope for the best. She created multiple designs and submitted them. The team chose their final draft pick.
โIโm super glad that they did,โ she said. โAnd I think itโs a fun piece and people are going to really enjoy it.โ
Fun is doing a lot of work here. Because letโs be real: conversations about race in America are rarely described as โfun.โ But Tampaโs cultural language has always leaned toward spectacle โ Gasparilla beads, boat parades, cannon blasts, oversized pirate flags. If youโre going to make an impact in this town, subtle isnโt always the move.
Chalk art is inherently theatrical. It demands attention. It creates illusion. It makes people stop mid-scroll and mid-stride.
And it disappears.
โI always want to have the most meaning or impact for whatever the event or theme is,โ Thomas said. โI always want to do my best with it, and always knowing that when itโs done, itโll eventually be gone.โ
Thereโs something very Tampa about that too. This is a city constantly reinventing itself. Buildings come down. Murals rotate. Neighborhoods shift. We memorialize in public โ and then we build over it.
Thomas knows the clock is built into her medium.
โI hope they will forever be in awe of it, and obviously take many photos so they can look back and enjoy it,โ she said. โAnd I hope itโs something that they feel proud that they had here, and had created and had done.โ
That phrasing stands out: had created and had done. Not just โdisplayed.โ Not just โposted.โ Created. Done.
Sports franchises are some of the most powerful cultural brands in the city. When they choose to commission a local artist to interpret Black history on their own property โ not tucked into a social media tile, not relegated to a halftime announcement โ thatโs a decision about visibility.
It says this story belongs here.
At a training facility where million-dollar contracts are negotiated and Sunday lineups are built, chalk dust might feel small. But culture rarely changes because of one massive gesture. It shifts through visible, repeated choices.
And in a city that loves its cannons loud and its visuals bold, sometimes the most radical thing is simple: make something beautiful. Put it in the open. Let people stand in front of it.
Take the photo.
Let it fade.
And remember that it was here.
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This article appears in Feb. 12 – 18, 2026.