It's not a criticism, it's an observation.
Fishing in the 21st century
Mike Cox

I met James when I started climbing telephone poles. He was older than the other new hires and tried to be a big brother. Having spent some time in Davenport, Iowa, he was more worldly than the rest of us.

James had kids the same age as mine, so we saw each other at little league parks and YMCA gyms. We had things in common and became friends. He was the catcher during the best baseball game I ever pitched. We also fished some together. I taught him how to cast an open faced reel.

As time passed we drifted apart. He got more involved in fishing; even bought a bass boat. After not hearing from him for several months, he called out of the blue one Saturday morning and invited me to go fishing. I noticed early on he seemed more serious than before. When we got to the first promising spot, he began casting his lure so fast sweat formed on his bald head.

I am a relaxed fisherman. I enjoy being on the water, seeing the sights, and enjoying the conversation. I figure if fish get caught, that's a bonus. I was reaching for my tackle box and bumped the cooler. James shushed me. Shushed Me.

If we hadn't been so far from the landing, I would have dogpaddled to the parking lot right then. Instead, I stared blankly and listened to him explain to me in a very strained way what I needed to do to catch some fish. He was an expert; he'd been reading some fishing magazines. This from the guy who would still be using a Zebco 202 if I hadn't come along.

I never fished with James again, but I thought about him recently. I was visiting Tuscaloosa, and Rick and I were watching a fishing tournament because it was in Hi Def. I haven't watched fishing on TV in many years, and it has changed a lot.

The fishing shows I remember were like being on the lake with Andy and Barney. Things were quiet and restrained. The music was barely noticeable. It was as if a cameraman spent the day with the genial host and recorded whatever happened.

The two guys we saw recently were more like reality television contestants. It was obvious they knew the cameras were rolling. Each one screamed like a Red Bull junkie when he hooked a bass, then talked to it while he reeled it in. One guy called his fish a hog; the other called his a mule.

They were trying to make tournament fishing an extreme sport. Next thing you know we'll have extreme bowling. Oh, yeah, they already are doing that. The one who called his fish a mule ended up winning the tournament. He looked Hispanic.

The other guy, I think he was an Arkansas- American, had his heart broken at the end of the day. He missed the trophy and the testosterone that goes with it by three ounces. Bummer.

Bill Dance and Virgil Ward were never like this. I wonder if James was tuning in.