Don't be shocked at what I'm saying. J.J. knows he stinks like garlic. Garlic is pretty much his life. He makes some sort of garlic dipping sauce for BASS. At first, I thought it was me. I'm talking to him while trying nonchalantly to sneak my nose over my armpits (nothing) and stick out my lower lip and blow up in case the smell is in my mouth (nothing) all the while talking with J. J. and sniffing mightily.
Jim is a pro angler fishing the Bassmaster Opens and other local tournament trails ... his dream, to be a Bassmaster Elite Pro. While climbing down from a tree stand something broke and Jim fell 20 feet to the Alabama soil.
On the work bench, mega-RPM high torque power wrenches and a Teflon coated BBQ cooking set (black and very stylish BTW). Metric and mayonnaise, horsepower and horseradish coexist. As I turn, I watch as the ENTIRE service crew walk down the gravel boatyard road to a BBQ shootout with the local food vendors.
A couple weeks ago I did a story with Brody Broderick about how his father, Skip Broderick, had suffered a serious heart attack. About an hour or so ago, Brody called me to tell me that just after talking to me earlier today he got a call from his sister in Ohio and was told that his father had died.
Once a week my mother would layer me in as many clothes as she thought it took to keep the earth off me, rush me through the earth into the car, and drive to Dr. Richards, an allergy doc-guy, who would walk in the little shot giving room with two TRAYS of five shots each, and one lollipop.
Imagine this, you're an Elite Pro, a rookie doing not so well, Wheeler Lake is your shot to turn it around, and then your sister calls. Your father, the guy who took you fishing when you were a kid, just had a serious heart attack.
Elite pro Jon Bondy told me of his "adventure" getting back to the ramp in time for weigh-in.
A knock on my hotel door. Outside is Elite Bassmaster pro Brian Clark. In his hand is a drained iPod.
A man's best friend is his dog — a charcoal broiled foot long with mustard, relish and a hot sauce that melts fillings. If not for barbecue sauce there would be no reason for chickens.
A few days back, I was sitting at a picnic table with Skeet Reese when I asked him if he had ever experienced euphoria.