The agony of defeat by John C. Street 

It should be common knowledge that fisherman maintain a rather tenuous hold on the truth when relating their experiences.  These dalliances with the facts are a traditional form of story telling, a folk art derived from the mysterious ability of the piscine main characters to either grow or multiply after they have been taken out of the water.    

Like fables and fairy tales, which they sometimes closely resemble, the traditional fish story generally incorporates some instructional value and moral lessons and if it is a real good one it will have a few deceitful twists like a pulp fiction mystery novel.   

And like any good fairy tale which begins with the classic line, “once upon a time,” the beginning of a good fish story has its own opening, “you ain’t going to believe this s_ _ t, but” ……. I had an acquaintance a while back who worked for a large company in their customer relations department.  By the very nature of his job you knew he was a pleasant enough sort but, like a lot of people clawing their way to the top of the corporate ladder, he was a man driven to success by an inordinate level of competitiveness.   

After we had known each other for a time, long enough that he was lamenting to me one day that his golf game was driving him crazy, I suggested that he might find “a little more satisfaction and a whole lot more relaxation” if he’d take up fly fishing. “Trout streams,” I explained, “don’t come with a ‘par for the course’ score card.”  His face brightened as he thought this over and he was soon talking about selling his clubs to get the “demon of competition” out of his life. 

And so, during the afternoon of his next trip to town with a brandy new fishing license in his manicured hand, I loaded up a bunch of my extra gear and took him to the nearest special regulation, fly fishing only, stream.  I had been there a week before and had caught and released several nice trout and an unexpected smallmouth bass.  It was a good stream for an absolute beginner. 

In no time at all he had the rudiments of casting down pat and was throwing a decently straight, although not overly long, line.  With a little coaching on where the trout were holding, his new skills produced two trout and a subtle change in his attitude.   

Thinking he might want a little time on his own, I suggested that we split up.  “That would probably be a good idea,” he agreed, “You don’t want to stand here and watch me out fish you.”  So I headed upstream to work the lick of current that fed in at the top of the pool, a gnat of uneasiness buzzing my subconscious. 

Fifty yards upstream, where the riffles began to have a little authority, there was a clump of willows growing out over the water.  At the edge of these willows I could see dimples on the water, nothing splashy, just good steady rises that I soon learned were black nose dace.  

When I realized what had taken my fly, I threw some slack line hoping he would free himself.  No such luck.  But, before I could bring in the line, the dace was flushed down through the chute of current and out into the pool.  While I watched in amazement, something of substantial size and girth rushed out and grabbed him like the last piece of chocolate cake in a busy cafeteria line. 

This unexpected strike caused me to do what any fisherman with finely honed reflexes would do, yank the little dace out of the bigger fish’s mouth, zipping it upstream past me like a projectile from a slingshot.  

Stripping in my line to unhook the hapless, illegal bait fish, I noticed for the first time how warm the water was on my hand.  My stream thermometer read a clear 70 degrees in the pool, a bit warmer than trout would have preferred. ‘Hmmm’, I thought to myself, ‘smallmouth bass.’

Glancing down stream, I could see my friend diligently, but unproductively, working the lower end of the pool.  When he hollered up to ask how I was doing, I held up my thumb and fore finger about three inches apart and shouted back, “nothing but dace.”  I was sure I could see his look of satisfaction: Visitors-2, Hometeam-0. 

Turning again to my efforts, I cast back under the willows and just like before another little dace hit.  This time, I pulled him carefully into the center of the current so he’d drift into the deep water at the head of the pool.  And sure enough, another shadowy form rose to meet him.  It was indeed a smallmouth bass. 

The size twenty hook, already stuck in the dace, didn’t have enough gap to reach out and snag the bass.  It would literally have to be swallowed before I could yank the little hook out of the smaller fish and have any chance for a solid purchase.    

While I was giving out a little slack line, my friend hollered mockingly, “you might as well quit while I’m ahead.”  With as calm a voice as I could muster, I yelled back, “let’s give it just a few more minutes, I think they might start to hit any time now.”  

And with that prognostication, I reared back on the rod and that bass came out of the water like he’d been hit with a cattle prod.  Naturally, this did not go unnoticed.  “Whatcha’ usin’?” he hollered.  “Same as before,” I yelled back, “a little nymph.”  

By the time I got that smallmouth in and worked the fly out, I noticed the increased tempo and intensity of my friend’s casting.  When I repeated the performance, a little bigger bass this time, he stood with his hands on his hips glaring at me.  

Under intense scrutiny, getting set up for a third attempt was a little tougher.  Using a subtle pull on the line in my left hand, however, I was able to hook another dace without being detected.  From there it was easy to use a high rod to guide the offering into the pool where the third bass, the most acrobatic of the bunch, came right on cue.     

“You sure you’re still using that little nymph?” he hollered out accusingly.  “Same one you got on,” I answered.   “Then let me fish that spot.”  And he did, uneventfully, until it was almost too dark to find the path out to the road.  

Later, on the ride back to where we’d left his car, I encouraged him to take my spare gear and use it for awhile.  “Nah, I don’t think so,” he said, “I had you down two to zip and you still beat me.  At least with golf I get the satisfaction of seeing bigger numbers on paper.”  

I had a moment of lucidity just then, a moment when I thought I might rise above my own competitiveness, maybe secure him in the ranks of devoted fly fishers for life.  I could have conceded they were only bass or I might have disclosed my deceitful methods.  Either admission, I was sure, would have given him the victory he so badly wanted.  I offered neither.  

The mood was still somber when I dropped him off.  “You know there’s a whole lot more to this,” I said, “than the number of fish we catch.”  He paused for a moment in the open car door, his thoughtful expression etched by the overhead dome light.  “Maybe for guys like you,” he said at last, “but for me everything is about winning and losing.”   

For a moment he sat staring through the windshield, the weight of his confession settling like the dampness of an early morning dew on both of us.  “Having to win at all cost is a curse,” he continued at last, “that you just wouldn’t understand.”