Photograph #16: Footprints in the Sand
Footprints in the sand
The tracks of a legend.
Many can match the size of the shoe, but few can match the accomplishments of the person who walked this way.
A friend, a teacher, a listener, a joker, a champion.
Calm on the outside, fire in the inside, laser focus.
We became friends, he schooled me on the game, answered my questions before I even asked them.
Somehow, he is Joe Montana/Babe Ruth/Gretzky/Magic all in one.
It is a privilege to cover a legend.
It is an honor to become friends with one.
Footprints in the sand locked within my soul.
The tracks of a legend who only really needs one name…
…CLUNN.
Thanks Rick for all you did for me…
…and the sport.
db
Photograph #17: The Bar Always Rises
Dave Precht
Day 1 on location at BASS this man comes up to me, pretty much says I was forced on him and something to the effect that my numbers (readers) will decide whether I’ve got it or not.
I was pissed, I went up to my hotel room, called my wife and told her about what just happened and the conversation.
There was talk about going back to ESPN.
All the while she was talking me off the ledge.
Then she asked one simple question, “So what are you gonna do.”
I gave her a one word answer, this: “Win.”
To be honest I’d never heard of Bassmaster until a couple weeks before this, didn’t really care if I was there or not, I didn’t fish, not a big fan of being inside the outside either.
And then in a hotel hallway a grey haired stranger challenged me, damn near dared me.
Game on.
It was the greatest and luckiest conversation of my life.
And it changed my life.
Dave Precht drew a line in the sand and in doing so drew out my heart to play, my goal to succeed, pushed me to prove myself.
Make no mistake this is a “prove who you” business.
Midway through my gig at BASS we had a sit down at a picnic table in Waddington NY and it was there we shook hands, and it was there that I thanked him for our initial conversation.
Dave Precht told me there he respected me and what I did, when he retired, he sent me a private email that I have framed and hanging on my office wall.
Let me say this for the record, we believe in each other now.
We have been friends for years.
This photo is of the last time we were together, both retired now.
Did I “WIN,” yes.
Did Dave “WIN,” yes.
That is how it should be, as is this:
“Thank You Dave,
db”
Photograph #18: Classic #1
My 1st Bassmaster Classic Champion: Alton Jones
I was watching from the arena floor, watched them weigh the fish, heard them call out the weight and then suddenly the whole place went crazy.
Yelling, clapping, a monsoon of confetti.
I took a couple of snaps and then backed up against a wall to get out of the way of the onrush to the stage from his team.
Yet.
No team.
Wife and kids, I think but no large group of teammates.
Bunch of people not on stage nor back in the bowels of the arena.
Just Alton and his family.
No benches cleared.
No beer or champagne poured on this Alton guy.
In a hallway I asked some reporter guy, “When does the guy who won this, when does the rest of his team get here.”
All I got was a smirk.
I stood in the back of the “presser” listening to the questions, the answers, one eye on the stage, one eye on the door waiting for the rest of the team.
Turns out, I was LOOKING at the entire team: Alton and his family.
That’s it.
This is the exact note I wrote down while standing in the back of the interview room: “These dudes are different.”
Seared into my soul that moment was the respect I gained for these guys of this game…
…as well as their families.
Turns out the TEAM was here after all…family.
And that makes guys like me work even harder because in time…
…we become part of the team as well.
Family.
Photograph #19: Family…Paul & Shaw
Knuckleheads.
Best friends of mine.
Adoptive brothers.
Roomies.
FAMILY.
Did I mention knuckleheads…
We roomed together on the road for years: North, South, Middle and West.
Nice places, sort of nice places, and some…
I was there when they got up in the morning and listened to how they were going to play the game that day, I was there at weigh-in and back at their boats as they rigged for the next day.
You become like brothers not so much during the wins or making the cut days, you become family on the bad days.
The days of hundreds of miles drives, gallons and gallons of gas, 10-12 hours behind the wheel or more…and no check to cash.
We made each other laugh, we made fun of each other, but we also comforted one another.
Make no mistake, we had each other’s back.
It was an absolute honor and incredible experience to witness the game from within and not from the vantage point of showing up on Wednesday and thinking you’re an expert.
Ride with them 7 days a week.
Eat breakfast, lunch and dinner with them 7 days a week.
Know the names of their wives and kids, know what kind of dog they have, know their favorite meal, know where they hurt, then you’ve got game.
I was embedded within the Elite anglers and their families for years and in fact for many of them, I’m still family.
Right or wrong as a journalist, that’s just the truth.
More truth, I respect those who play this game, and those who support them, wives, family, girlfriends, sponsors, the most of any professional sport I have ever covered.
Any.
Sport.
But these two are still knuckleheads…to me.
Photograph #20: Tears
I have no idea who these people are.
I took the photo and then had to go sit by myself for a bit, compose myself.
I take photographs of families all the while being away from my family.
There is no photo of me and my son, me and my daughter, that looks even remotely like this image.
None.
And both of my kids are now adults.
I’m too late.
I’ve missed more than I caught.
Realized too late.
This photograph brought tears to my eyes when I took it.
And does so whenever I see it.
Even, now.