The sun was starting to dip down over the field when Beau stepped up to the edge of the pond wearing his muddy camo Crocs like they were lucky boots. He had been fishing all afternoon, swatting mosquitoes, waiting on a bite, and talking to the fish like they could hear him.
Out of nowhere, his pole bent so far it looked like it was trying to do a backflip. Beau’s eyes got wide and he hollered, “This one’s a whopper!”
He grabbed the pole with both hands and started reeling like he was cranking a rusty tractor. The fish pulled. Beau pulled back. It was like a tug of war between a country boy and a slippery underwater muscle machine.
After what felt like forever and a half, Beau yanked the fish out of the water. It flopped and slapped and nearly smacked him in the face, but Beau held on tight. “Look at this monster,” he said, grinning from ear to ear like he had just won the lottery at the bait shop.
His knees were dirty, his shirt was wet, and he smelled like pond water and victory. Holding up the big ol bass, he said, “Ain’t nothin better than fishin and catchin the one everybody else swears got away.”
That day, Beau didn’t just catch a fish. He caught a memory, a story, and maybe a little bragging rights for the rest of the summer.
