db: Banquet Season

Welcome to my off season. My Banquet Season. It is one of my favorite seasons.

“So when the man comes there will be no, no doom…” 

Dateline: A Banquet Room

“Maybe everybody in the whole damn world is scared of each other.”
– John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

Last Saturday, somewhere in the state of Rhode Island, I told a bunch of children at a banquet simply this: I apologize.

Told them this: I’m sorry.

Asked them this: Forgive me.

Please.

Welcome to my off season. My Banquet Season.

It is one of my favorite seasons.

It is the season where I leave the docks behind. I leave behind the wrap boats and the wrapped anglers. I leave behind launches and weigh-ins. I leave the game behind and spend my time with you.

You, the fans. You, the B.A.S.S. Nation.

I get to shake your hand, smell your cologne, eat your chicken, pat the head of your child, stand around and get goofy photos taken of me, stand up in front of you and talk for an hour. Sit and listen to you for several hours. That’s the best part. Not you listening to me, but me listening to you.

Not you shaking my hand, but me shaking yours.

In the state of New York, you told me:

In the state of Maine, you told me:

In the state of Connecticut, you told me:

In the state of Rhode Island, you told me:

“Be kind with our sport.”
“Respect us and our sport.”

“Don’t forget me.”

And:

“We matter.”

“…sayin’, ‘one love, one heart…”

This year I met the fine B.A.S.S. Nation people of New York and Rhode Island and ate chicken with them both, maybe 300 people total.

In New York, I was pretty funny, sometimes serious, but mainly yucks.

This past Saturday in Rhode Island I was only okay-funny, but I was also sick. I took a whole bunch of B1 through B2,000 vitamins to get through the talk, said some funny stuff, but then glanced to my left and saw a table filled with the family of a man named Joe Croteau.

I saw his son, Brian.

I saw his wife, Irene.

I didn’t see Joe sitting there, as he should have been, as he has for decades, because Joe passed away, at age 70, this past June.

And it knocked me out. No Joe. I would not have had the strength to sit there if my father, if my spouse, were not sitting there with me. It couldn’t for me be an annual dinner without Joe there every year.

So, I stopped the planned speech stuff and spoke from my heart to the Croteau’s, to the friends of Joe, and I hope, in some way, to Joe as well.

I stopped the planned speech stuff and talked to all the families in all the B.A.S.S. Nations, all those sitting at an annual dinner without their annual partner, be it a dad, a mom, a husband, a wife.

I told the Croteau’s, told all the families missing a loved one, a B.A.S.S Nation loved one, to please know that tears are shed all over this country for your loved one, that we call this a nation for a reason. We call it a nation because under that banner, we are brothers; we are sisters. And to Joe, to Noreen, to all those who have passed away this year, there will always be a tear for you at every annual dinner.

I also told Irene Croteau that I believe that one day at the Bassmaster Classic we will hang in the rafters, if I have to crawl up there myself and hang it, a banner…a banner devoid of printed names…a blank banner for all the B.A.S.S. members who have passed away the previous year.

And I promised Mrs. Croteau and her family that when that banner is hung, Joe’s name will scroll across it.

Thank you, Joe, for the gift that you have left behind. The gift called ‘Nation.’

“…let’s get together…”

It was to the children, the teens, the preteens, the young children, to the children, I apologized.

I told them: “Take it from a guy who has been in the media for 30 years…I hate the media, and I’m part of it.”

I can take a pen and make a small athlete large. I can take a pen and make a large athlete small.

Can make athletic accomplishment sound like the greatest thing on earth, when, in fact, in real life, for the vast majority of us…our 40-time means nothing.

To the children, reading the defense on the football field doesn’t come near to being as important as reading a book.

To the dads, lifting weights is no big deal; lifting up your child in a hug should be the biggest deal.

I told the children that if they only get one message from the strange-looking man standing up in front of them, let it be this:

On Earth there lives 7 billion people. If all you see on the news is all the bad stuff we do to each other, you could become scared. That’s understandable, but I want you to remember this, as a guy whose covered bad news all my life, if I’m honest I have to tell you, I’m dead wrong in the stories I’m bringing you.

To the children, just for a moment think, there are 7 billion of us on this miracle planet. Let’s say 1 million of us are bad people (I don’t think the number is anywhere near that, but lets say 1 million of us are mean jerks, OK?) That would mean that of all the people living here, 0.0142857% of us are bad people, less than one half of one percent of us are dangerous jerks.

If you ask me, if 99.5% of us are good, then this is a pretty good world we live in.

To the children, look around this banquet hall, look around any banquet hall you sit in: that’s the real world. Those people you see: your parents, your family, your friends. That’s what this world really is.

You might not know it watching or listening to the news, you might be scared, and being careful is good, but please, this world is a blessing, and those people around you who love you, they’re proof of the miracle.

“…and feel all right…”

In the book I bring around to have the Nation people autograph for me, all pages are special, all signatures are special.

But one is a little more special. This one: “Andrew Lavoie AOY 8”

I had a chance this past Saturday in Rhode Island to meet the Lavois brothers: Matthew, age 7 and Andrew, age 8. Both are sticks on the water. Older brother Andrew, by virtue of being a year older and more experienced, raked in a bunch of trophies this night, including the Angler of the Year iron for the nightstand.

With all their trophies in hand, I took a couple photo’s with the boys. Andrew was so proud he told me a couple of times, “This is my AOY trophy,” and then he held it up once again for me to see.

I told him, “Andrew, I know a lot of AOY’s, and frankly, of all of them, you smell the best.”

Young dude giggled, then told me he caught a 3-pound fish, a 3-pound Bass, something like that, then both Lavoie boys gave me five and moved on to take some photos with Grandma.

I looked for this young, good-smelling AOY to say goodbye before I left, but couldn’t find him, so if you don’t mind, I’ll say goodbye to Andrew from here.

“Andrew, Mr. young AOY, keep bathing as you do; it’s very important as you grow in height and smells. I’m glad you weighed and measured that fish, but please know this: the measure of a man is the size of his heart. In time, the size of the fish won’t matter at all; what matters is the size of the heart you bring to your family, the size of the heart you bring to life and your children, and the size of the heart you bring to the kind and decent people around you here at this and every banquet you attend in life.”

Banquet season, to me, is the heart and soul of the B.A.S.S. Nation. Thank you for the invites. Thank you for the laughs, the tears, the handshakes and hugs.

Thank you, Matthew and Andrew, for your autographs. Be gentle with our sport as you carry it forward.

To Mr. Croteau: Rhode Island loves and misses you. There will always be a chair left empty with your name on it.

Godspeed, Joe…Godspeed.

“…I’m pleading to mankind.”
One Love/People Get Ready
Bob Marley and the Wailers

 

“God’s dream is that you and I and all of us will realize that we are family that we are made for togetherness, for goodness, and for compassion.”
– Desmond Tutu

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