Bass Fishing Gear
From ramp disasters and gear worship to tournament heartbreaks and “scientific” moon-phase theories, this book drags you through every glorious misstep the weekend angler can make. You’ll meet the friends, the rivals, the snacks, and the delusions that power a thousand empty coolers.
The rod rack stands proud along the far wall, graphite soldiers awaiting orders. I run a finger along each one, naming them softly like old friends with complicated histories. The first is Faith, the second Overtime, the third Mistake #4.
Some survey, probably sponsored by a polish manufacturer, claims we shine our gear more than our character. I can’t verify the study, but I’ve certainly replicated the results.
The fan whirs in the corner, sounding suspiciously like whispering temptation. My spreadsheet of gear costs glows faintly on a nearby laptop—one tab for lures, one for emotional justification. I tell myself I’m just “tracking depreciation.” In truth, it’s a confession rendered in formulas.
The garage is quiet until the neighbor wanders in, beer in hand, peering at the wall like he’s stumbled into an exhibit titled How Dreams Die Tax-Deductible.
“Organizing inventory,” I say quickly, though I’m on my knees before a shelf, misty-eyed, whispering apologies to a scratched reel.
He nods the slow nod of someone who’s seen a cult forming and decides to let it.
“You can’t put a price on passion,” I tell him, standing now, voice firm with conviction. Then, out of habit, I open my notes app and calculate the total investment to the cent—taxes, shipping, and the unspoken surcharge of denial. The number glows back like divine judgment in Times New Roman.
I stare at it long enough to consider conversion—to minimalism, to sobriety, to anything with fewer accessories.
The LED lights flicker, soft and accusatory. Somewhere behind me, a plastic case shifts. The sound is delicate at first, a whisper of plastic on metal. Then the entire lure display gives way in slow motion, cascading across the floor in a chromatic downpour of faith. Hooks, beads, feathers, and pride scatter across the concrete.
The noise echoes—a metallic rain of repentance.
I just stand there, nodding like a man who finally got his sermon.
“Guess I finally tithed enough.”
Faith assembled. Warranty pending.