It’s 4 a.m. and you’re wide awake.
It’s Day 3 of competition, but you’re not fishing. You’re going home.
As you lie there — half-listening to the Weather Channel — you watch as your roommate prepares for the day ahead. He made the cut, and he’ll be fishing. And though you’re happy for him, it’s salt to the wound.
As he exits the room, you wish him luck, then lie there with a sick, hollow feeling. An emptiness you’ll carry for days.
Expo-sed
By 9 a.m., you’ve packed your gear and made a trip to the hotel breakfast bar. The options include boxed eggs and something they’re calling meat. You pass, opting for a bowl of cereal and some fruit.
After that, you check out, carry your gear to the truck, then gather your extension cord and orange safety cones. It’s time to head to the Expo.
When you arrive, there’s already a small crowd perusing various exhibits adjacent to the weigh-in stage. Among them are Shimano, Power-Pole and Mercury — sponsors whose tents you’ll work for the next few hours.
Flanking the stage are massive JumboTron screens, airing live coverage of the leaders, who are well into their morning of competition. More salt to the wound.
It’s noon. You choke down a hotdog with Mountain Dew, then return to your sponsor’s booth to greet an increasing number of spectators. You show those interested, the products you represent and how they can improve the experience of finding and catching more fish.
Occasionally, someone will share his or her personal fish photos, expecting you to be impressed. But you’ve seen a million of them already.
Then there are those who ask the dreaded question, “What happened, why didn’t you make the cut?”
Having no real excuse, you suffer through a brief explanation, then try to change the subject.
Now it’s 2:45 p.m., and the anglers are on their way. B.A.S.S. emcee Dave Mercer is on the stage, stoking the crowd, building excitement. It’s your cue to leave. Watching your competition cross the stage with big bags of fish is just more salt. Besides, you have hours of roadwork ahead of you.
Miles of solitude
It’s now 5 p.m. and you’re two hours closer to home. But you won’t make it tonight. You have another 800 miles to go before you’ll get there.
At 10 p.m. you’re beat, looking for a hotel. You find one. It’s a dump, but it has a vacancy, and you’re ready to crash.
You grab a quick shower, tune the tube to ESPN, then drift off as the day’s scores are reported.
The next morning, you’re out of bed by 5 a.m., anxious to get on the road. You tank up the Tundra, find a drive-thru for breakfast, then resume the long drive home.
At 8 a.m., you link the Bluetooth to Bassmaster LIVE, hoping to learn something from those still competing. The commentators share their observations as the leaders begin to fill out their limits, and you quickly realize you were doing the right things, just not in the right locations. Or, maybe it was your timing that was off.
Either way, it’s more salt.
Several times during the day, the broadcast is interrupted by sympathetic callers — friends and sponsors trying to encourage you to get past it and look ahead. You thank them, appreciative that they take the time to reach out. That, too, helps to pass the time.
Finally, late that night, you enter your driveway.
It’s good to be home. But as you drag yourself to the doorway, you’re reminded that there’s another tournament in two weeks. It’s on a lake you know nothing about, but you’ll worry about that later.
It’s time to heal some wounds.
