After graduating from all of our schooling and becoming more economically solvent, most of us start gravitating toward exploring pastimes that might linger into our later years. Many seem to want to stick to a hobby that drew their interest during their younger years.
For a lot of people, it’s golf. I’ve always wondered what possesses people to take up that sport. Participants talk about its heritage, discipline, that golf is technically athletic (whatever that is), addictive… yada-yada-yada.
Yeah, I know… I tried it for a while (a very short while), once even talking about it in mixed company. I just never could quite understand the mystique.
How it happens
You start out by purchasing a cheap “starter” set of clubs, which you secretly bought at a discount store or off of Marketplace. You figure that they’ve got to be alright since the same manufacturer made your little league baseball glove. After a few yard swings, you decide to casually mention to your friends that you’re now a golfer. The next thing you know, you’re invited to a scramble with a shotgun start. You soon find out that there’s no shotgun associated with the scramble and that it’s a good thing, considering the size of the cooler on the cart. You’re fairly happy — especially about the cooler. But soon things begin to shift, as happiness and a big cooler can only take you so far.
After losing both “Bucket-O-Balls” you bought at a yard sale, half bouncing down the road next to the driving range and the rest along both sides of some par-3 fairway, your friends convince you that the inexpensive clubs are at fault. Your swing just needs a little tweaking and your grip restructured.
This is the best time to cut all but professional ties with any type of doctor. It just seems like one of them always has the “perfect set,” which, if given the right incentive, they’d be willing to sell for a price destined to fund their own new bag of sticks — or a Mercedes.
After that, it’s pretty much over. You sneak off to get lessons, your wardrobe changes, reading habits shift, you subscribe to the golf channel, vacations are taken to cash in on Southern golf weather, and you’re continuously working to find the perfect one-two punch of driver and putter. You’re not only hanging out with your old golfing buddies, but you also begin socializing with those aforementioned doctors and even (gasp) attorneys!
Golf somehow infiltrates its way into almost every conversation.
“How’s little Johnny doing in school?”
“He’s on par with most of the other kids, though his follow-through needs some work.”
Little Johnny’s college fund is now helping to finance the local country club while the kid is left working a double at McDonald’s, and that cooler has evolved into a string of cocktails or martinis costing more than your old buddy’s Yeti and its contents.
A simpler pastime
All of that to chase that elusive little ball around a maze of ponds, trees and little beach wannabes. That option just seemed like a bit of a waste of time, money and effort to me. So, I chose the much simpler pastime of fly fishing.
My venture into the sport emerged while watching Bing Crosby on the old TV show, “The American Sportsman.” I watched as Bing’s line swayed back and forth in its mesmerizing loop until it settled gently on the water. Next thing I knew, he was fighting a leaping Atlantic salmon. I was hooked deeper than that fish’s jaw. The cool part was that I didn’t know anybody who fly fished. I could finally be a trendsetter! The next day, I arrived at the Sports Center in downtown East Palestine, Ohio. My front pocket was loaded with farm earnings and I was in a buying mood.
I walked by the baseball bats, gloves, basketballs and footballs, custom trophies ready for engraving, golf clubs and straight back to a row of rods and reels. Ace, the store’s owner, walked over. “Can I help you find something, Jim?”
“I’m looking for a fly rod.”
“What kind of fly rod are you looking for?”
I looked at him dumbly, an expression I’d embraced since birth.
Ace was never the kind of guy who would take advantage of anyone, but for me, he’d made an exception. “I only have one on the shelf, but lucky for you I’ve got a couple of reels that would match it nicely as well as a decent fly line — it’s a seven-weight.”
I really didn’t care how much it weighed; I was more concerned about how much it cost. Since fly rods seemed to be in short supply, I said I’d take it. The reels were very different. One was some sort of spool inside a cage. All you had to do was crank on a handle to retrieve the line. It looked pretty elementary to me. The other was obviously much more technologically modern. You wound up a spring that was hidden inside the reel by twisting an over-sized knob. A longish metal lever extended from it, resembling the trigger of a 50-caliber machine gun. It was designed to quickly pull the line back into storage on the now singing spool, kind of akin to cracking whip. I took that, too, and the seven-weight line, even though it didn’t seem all that heavy. I started for the cash register.
“You have leader and tippet?”
Dumb look.
“It’s the thin monofilament line you tie on the fly line.”
Dumb look.
“Here’re are a couple packaged leaders. I’ll toss in a spool of tippit.”
Dumb look now dusted with confusion. I once again start heading for the register.
“Got flies and poppers?”
Dumb, confused and now worried look.
“Fly box? Fly floatant? Net? Line nippers? Leader stretcher? Fishing license? Fly vest? Wadeeerrrrrs?” The last stretching out like he was dreaming of retirement.
“I’m not sure if…” my thoughts trailing off as I stared down into my open wallet.
“That’s all right, Jim. You don’t need all the stuff to get started. How much do have to spend, anyway?”
After some careful counting, I left with the rod and reel rig, leaders and some flies and a couple of poppers and empty pockets. The rest he was kind enough to put on layaway. Dad called Ace the friendliest horse trader he ever knew. I never saw Ace with a horse, but if he’d had one at the store, I’d probably been making monthly payments.
From there, I went to the library and checked out every available book on fly fishing. I suppose that should’ve been my first stop, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Money talks, and mine had been screaming “Spend me!”
A lot of fun
Over the next few days, I lay on the floor thumbing through the books, especially ones that had decent pictures. What I would have given for the ability to search on Google, but this all occurred during ancient times. Since all of this transpired in February, I was stuck waiting for spring. I spent a lot of time on our snow-swept front yard casting that seven-whatever fly line across that frozen tundra, practicing my back and forward cast like the books explained and Bing had demonstrated. Our neighbor slowed down on his way out of our shared driveway, stopping to watch. Finally, he asked, “You caught anything?” Funny guy. I seized the chance to explain everything I was studying about the sport, how Bing had done it and that I would soon be a local trendsetter. He suddenly remembered an urgent something he forgot and sped away.
In its heyday, that rod caught innumerable bass and bluegills and provided a lot of fun. That trigger-activated reel even taught a few smallish sunfish to water ski. After a few years of whipping the water on my own while using my basic collection of gear, my adult self moved to an area that had the specialized fly-fisherman’s Mecca, Orvis!
To paraphrase Clement Moore, “The little round owner, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment, I need a new stick.” During my first visit, I was looking at rods and was shocked by the hangtags on the Orvis graphite and bamboo. I was definitely not in Walmart anymore.
“Can I help you find something, young man?”
“Just looking over the fly rods.”
“I have a handy layaway plan here at the store… how much do have to spend, anyway?”
This was the beginning of the rest of the story. There have been new rods, reels, vests, packs, waders, fly tying and rod building lessons, more rods, more reels, long-distance vacations, fly floatant, sinking lines, floating lines, sink-tip lines, floating lines that now sink, books, TV channels, clubs to join, a wallet-sucking interest in collectible fly-fishing paraphernalia, etc.
There are also new friends who knew exactly what I should buy next. All of this, and I’m still no trendsetter…
Now that I think about it, maybe I should have taken up golf — at least there was a cooler.
“Nawwwww!”
“I think I fish, in part, because it’s an anti-social, bohemian business that, when gone about properly, puts you forever outside the mainstream culture without actually landing you in an institution.”
— John Gierach
