“The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”
– John Steinbeck
It should have been easy.
I had just posted the largest stringer of the tournament, by a wide margin, and would carry a 4-pound lead into the final day. My fishing location was close. I had spent countless hours slowly idling the structure to learn the intricacies of the lake floor, done so at dusk and dawn to avoid detection by other competitors. I knew for a fact that the largest bass in the lake were living there.
That final morning, the garage door opened to reveal a beautiful, crisp day, reminding me of hundreds prior spent fishing on the Great Lakes. I knelt to ask for strength, thank God for my wife, and pray for those who needed it. None would be fishing for money that day.
After launch, my co-angler and I reflected on how lucky we were. He had witnessed a homeless man trying to clean himself up in the bathroom of a 24-hour grocery store earlier that morning. Later, I found it symbolic that we spoke of how, no matter what happened, we needed to be thankful.
The final day take-off when in contention is always thrilling. When big water is the playing field, I always get a chuckle out of the out-of-towners who find themselves thrown into the spotlight. You can often see the worry in their eyes as they check the weather forecast over and over, asking me for my thoughts on wind and waves. Today, they would all go out behind me.
After a quick stop and a few casts, it was time to head to the promised land; the location that had produced all of my giant bass the previous 2 days. Truthfully, I had rarely seen an area holding so many 5-pound smallmouth. Big, dark, virgin fish; each jumping two and three times when hooked. Fish that pulled so hard I often needed to free-spool them and chase them around with the boat. The fish of my dreams.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. The increasing wind over crisp 60-degree air gave the world a feel that can only be understood by a smallmouth fisherman. It was time to put this thing to bed. I started the boat and hit the throttle.
And everything stopped.
The wind, my visions, the sounds of jumping bass, the smell of victory, the emcee at the weigh-in stirring the crowd into a frenzy as it watched the hometown boy raise the trophy in triumph. They all just instantly vanished.
My motor coughed, spit up, and died.
The veteran cameraman who’d been covering me calmed me a little, offering the suggestion that it could be something as simple as a spark plug. Truthfully, I knew otherwise. These motors still run, albeit rough, with fouled plugs.
I managed to harshly idle my way to the dock and catch a couple squeakers while waiting on my supporting Ranger dealer to come to my rescue. Within minutes, Bill Rose Jr. of Rose Marine was on the scene, cowling off, computer hooked up, elbow deep in excess fuel that poured through the motor. If anyone could fix this thing, it would be Bill. But the diagnosis was catastrophic.
Why was this happening to me?
I use fuel additive in every tank, the best oil, and perform all of my maintenance. Although I often run far, I never run hard. I carry spares for everything, keep a live oxygen system on board for fish care; I even make my own catch-and-release chemical. I tighten and re-tighten every screw, bolt and nut on my boat before every event. Batteries are the biggest and baddest, always fully charged. There are spare GPS cards; even spare depthfinders, transducers and GPS pucks mounted in my boat, sitting idle, just in case.
Why this? Anything but this.
I had fished competitively for 25 years on the Great Lakes without incident. I choose my equipment carefully. This just doesn’t happen.
A few hours later I had negotiated a loaner boat. Mark Modrak, both a competitor and friend, never asked any questions, he just immediately went into battle mode. Despite Mark being at work, and wife Jan enjoying a quiet Saturday morning, they completely uprooted their lives for me.
When Mark arrived with the boat, I would need to swap gear and do a complete restart. Upon completing a second boat check, swapping the fish, erasing GPS units and transferring numbers, I was back on the water with a couple hours to fish. It was now or never. I could still pull it out.
I arrived at the promised land and was casting almost before the boat came to a halt. But the wind howled, the relentless boat wakes of Saturday traffic adding to the misery. I needed to find strength, to eliminate urgency, to breathe.
I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the crankbait careening off the submerged grass. But I couldn’t feel the lure the way I had on days prior. I cranked harder, faster, and threw farther. I needed this to happen, and I needed it to happen now.
After nearly half of my 2-hour fishing day was gone, a bass finally struck the bait. Immediately, the 4-pounder came to the surface and performed an acrobatic feat that would gain praise on a practice day, but was cursed instead in those final hours. The lure flew through the air, nearly landing in the boat.
I moved to a location where I thought I could salvage a good check, maybe get some momentum. But it might as well have been in the middle of an interstate highway. The air show was in town and spectators crammed into any boat available, turning the small bay into a whitewater fury. As they passed by with wide smiles and cold beers, I just kept my head down in a state of ruin, wondering why in the world I was doing what I was doing.
I moved back to the Glory Hole, feeling more desperate than regrouped. After a half-hour, another giant struck my lure. I could feel by the head shakes that this was a monster. I did my best to slow down, to just play this leviathan like each one prior, not to rush. One at a time. Free-spool a bit. Don’t pull the fish to the surface; you know what it is.
Out of nowhere, she was gone.
After 10 minutes or so of silence, I picked up, giving myself a little while to fish around the check-in spot. It was all for naught.
The extended press interviews; stories practically writing themselves. The video I shot on the importance of my Daiwa long-cast system, and how it was directly related to my success. My praise of all my equipment, how Humminbird got me this far. It would all be a waste. Not because I didn’t catch ‘em, but because I wasn’t given a chance.
Weigh-in at Bass Pro Shops was tough. I did my best to put on the face of a champion, and not one of a cheated little boy. I was happy to see the winner crowned, knowing he had accomplished a goal that likely meant the world to him. Competitive bass fishing can be wonderful.
Following the event, I had hundreds of texts and e-mails, offering me condolences on my tough break. Many commented how they prayed for me when they read the Bassmaster.com post that I had an early breakdown.
But don’t pray for me; don’t even spend an extra minute sending me your thoughts. Pray for the homeless man in the grocery store that morning. Send your thoughts to my brother-in-law who joined the Army to start a new life, and got shipped off to Hell three times in a row. Pray for my friend who fights an illness he can’t seem to beat, or my mentor who wonders how long he will continue to beat his.
As much as it seems like everything important was stripped away, truly nothing was. Go ahead and give the trophy, the triumph and the press to someone else. This, my friends, is just fishing for money.
It offers highs and lows possibly greater than any other sport. It pits an individual against all else, with uncontrolled variables at every turn. We can’t blame a teammate’s error, a bad call or bad cards. It’s often life-changing rewards and career-ending circumstances at the same event.
And although I’m sure I write this for my own benefit as much as yours, it’s fishing.
For money.
(Joe Balog is the often outspoken owner of Millennium Promotions, Inc., an agency operating in the fishing and hunting industries. A former Bassmaster Open and EverStart Championship winner, he's best known for his big-water innovations and hardcore fishing style. He's a popular seminar speaker, product designer and author, and is considered one of the most influential smallmouth fishermen of modern times.)
