Dear Mr. Bigasstrout,
Where were you?
Last week you ravaged my fly, gave me the fin, and broke me off. The very least you could have done is allowed me a rematch today. I got up early. I made the long drive once again. I was ready. Same hole, same streamer, fresh tippet. 3X.
But no. You had to send your little stocker friends to fight your battles. You coward.
Sincerely,
Mike
When I got back into civilization – civilization defined as placement within some semblance of cell phone coverage - I called Mary to tell her that I had survived yet another day on the stream and that I was on my way home.
“Did you catch any fish?” she asked.
“Of course” I replied, with an almost straight face.
“But not the big one" she said.
It was a statement, not a question. She'd have heard it in my voice if I had.
Dear Mr. Mike,
You had your chance. Don’t bring those feeble fishing skills into my house and expect to land me. But feel free to keep trying. Maybe someday I will give you a rematch. Maybe. Just not today.
Besides, you didn’t get that new net yet.
Warmest regards,
Mr. Bigasstrout
Another day, Mr. Trout. Another day.
4 comments:
Don't bore him, come back when you've got a bigger net to make things interesting.
Good stuff. Don't give up. Go back next time with a real big streamer... make him an offer he can't refuse.
Funny/sad kind of thing. Don't worry Mike, he knows you're coming back and he knows he's history when you do.
I always despised that line . . . did you catch any fish? The next time you go you hear . . . why you going fishing, you never catch anything.
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