How does a guy catch a dadgum fish around here?
- Tom Rife: Livin' the Team
- August 5, 2021
- 852
The morning routine generally goes like this:
—Wake up (hopefully).
—Find pulse (thankfully).
—Take meds (religiously).
—Check bank account (nervously).
—Turn on the news (reluctantly).
And what’s the first thing that pops up on the TV screen? Well, the other day it wasn’t the news. It was a program called “Major League Fishing.”
Major League Whating? Never heard of it. Does Cleveland have a franchise? Do they conduct a draft? When do the playoffs begin, and what’s the format? Is there money? Medals? Uniforms? Politically correct mascots?
That’s right, it’s the MLF on CBS, and the Discovery Channel and the Outdoor Channel and the Sportsman Channel too.
Can a loser who hasn’t caught a fish since he moved back to Ohio five years ago play? How does the World’s Worst Fisherman get a tryout?
They say a man named Cody Pike won “Stop 6” on the Tackle Wearhouse Pro Circuit. Hey, isn’t a pike a fish? Is that the dude’s real name? What a coincidence. Is there something fishy going on? Don't they know how to spell warehouse?
Wonder if he’s ever tried his luck in the Cuyahoga River or Killbuck Creek. Both places are rumored to be pike heaven, especially in the wintertime.
But then again, what would the World’s Worst Fisherman — aka WWF — know about such things? He can hardly get a bite, much less actually reel in a beautiful bass. All the intrepid WWF is good for is providing the fish with a steady diet of plump, juicy nightcrawlers.
The danged bobber doesn’t even move, yet mysteriously, the worm vanishes. The hook is devoid of all things slimy and anything with fins and scales. The line is slack.
Fishing has to be where the word “slacker” comes from. Come to think of it, “Slacker” would be a catchy name for a fishin’ boat, wouldn’t it?
If only WWF had a fishin’ boat (see “Check bank account” above). WWF fishes off the bank, or a dock, or a bridge of some kind. A long, long time ago, he learned owning a boat isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.
While working a summer job at a marine shop near Rocky Fork Lake in Ohio, WWF concluded the purchase of a boat would never, ever be in his future. He discovered that in reality boats own people, not the other way around.
Not that WWF was always a complete failure with a rod and reel in his hand. As a youngster he was known to snag two or three hungry bluegills at the same time on the same hook. He enjoyed thrashing through the tall weeds and climbing barbed-wire fences just to get to the private pond. He loved hacking down the cattails to clear an opening through which to cast his line.
Nothing fancy. The cheap Zebco was plenty good enough. He dug up his own puny worms in the soft mud near an artesian well in the lower yard.
Not one to fiddle with nature, he always threw the tiny bluegills back into the water once he gingerly removed them from the hook.
“There you go, little fishy. Now we can catch you again,” he would say — and then do.
WWF also was a pretty successful angler when he moved to Southwest Florida a number of years later. He landed sheepshead and an occasional snapper while working the back inlets and mangroves. His most prized catch-and-release was an extremely elusive gamefish called a snook.
Sunday mornings were for father-son fishing adventures, and needless to say, the little guy always caught more fish. Dad was too busy putting the shrimp on the hook because the little guy didn’t like to touch shrimp and thus stubbornly refused to bait his own hook.
“That’s what dads are for,” he would say with irresistible charm.
One Sunday morning, the tide came in, and one of the little guy’s rubber flip-flops accidentally floated away. The bait bucket floated away too, but no worries. Forgetting his company cell phone was in his jeans pocket, Dad jumped into shoulder-deep brackish water to quickly rescue the wayward gear.
On the way home, the little guy got new flip-flops. The next day the boss bought Dad’s story, cheerfully shelling out for a new cell phone.
It wasn’t until Dad landed back in the Buckeye State that fishing began to smell. Early-morning trips to Lake This and Lake That were efforts in futility. Even when others sharing the same small dock — and using the same bait — were reeling in keepers, the retiree from Florida always came up empty-handed.
One Amish woman suggested perhaps WWF’s hooks were too big. So he went straight to Wallyworld to fetch smaller hooks. And lures. And fake worms. And fake bugs. And more bobbers to replace the ones that got tangled in low-hanging limbs, bushes and lawn chairs.
Dadgummit — not one lousy fish in five years.
But be warned, little fishies: WWF’s Ohio resident license is still valid for another few months.
Where the heck is Cody Pike when you need him?