Tag Archives: athlete

A Bold New Plan For Revitalizing The Ailing Fly Fishing World (or, Death Becomes You…)

Would all sports – including fly fishing – attain a new sense of urgency if the price for failure was death?

Incentive to improve your fly fishing game?

Incentive to improve your fly fishing game?

Frankly, the Underground’s band of dropouts, slackers and drug users Editorial Board says yes. That’s why we’re at the forefront of a bold new initiative offering new life to the fly fishing industry (through the practice of visiting death sentences on those who fail).

We came upon this seemingly obvious idea via the factually based Onion News site, which wondered if pro sports wouldn’t be more entertaining if the losers were put to death (as was the practice only a few hundreds of years ago):

Sports Becomes Increasingly Boring As Death No Longer Punishment For Losing | The Onion – America’s Finest News Source

According to prominent sports historians, the modern-day practice of allowing a losing team or athlete to live has significantly lessened the intensity of sports as a whole in the centuries since the execution of defeated competitors has fallen out of vogue.

“A shared awareness that the loser would be put to death raised the stakes and increased crowd involvement, to say nothing of its effect on the entertainment value of the match itself,” said Joachim Albrechtssen, professor of competitive outcome studies at Louisiana State University. “Sports today just can’t compete with that. If a Roman Colosseum audience saw Kobe Bryant miss a last-second shot, they would be unable to comprehend why he would not be stabbed to death, drawn and quartered, or burned alive, not to mention torn to shreds by the winning teams’ womenfolk.”

Frankly, I love the idea, and think we should translate it to fly fishing immediately. That would put a stop to all this “just nice to be out on the water” crap we hear from so many losers anglers.

And it would help the ailing fly fishing industry – currently mired in the slump that inevitably follows too much navel gazing and acronym marketing – drive sales of lucrative bead-head nymphs, bobicators, boring how-to books, and high-modulus, broomstick-stiff fly rods.

How would this next step in the evolution of fly fishing be put into practice?

Simple.

If you don’t catch fish, then you don’t eat for 48 hours (and neither does your family).

For a lot of anglers I see on the river, that punishment will eventually amount to certain death.

And because the Underground is truly a hotbed of bold thinkers (eat our dust, Greek philosophers), we have a suggestion: Why not institute this plan up and down fly fishing’s food chain?

Fly fishing guides would enjoy an immediate surge in bookings, though any guide that didn’t produce for their clients would be summarily stoned to death (imagine the surprise on the face of that rude, overbearing, Simms-wearing bastard when he’s standing there expecting a tip, and you “hand” him a rock going 37 mph instead…).

Fly shop owners who ran out of stonefly dries at the height of the best hatch in years would be dragged up and down the street in front of their shop, and their severed heads placed on poles at the upcoming AFFTA trade show to serve as a warning to others.

Fly fishing writers who culled information from message boards and then reported it as gospel truth – without any actual personal knowledge of the technique or information – would be stabbed repeatedly with a sharpened fountain pen.

And those who confidently reviewed fly fishing gear without using it for an extended period would find themselves forced to wear the summer-ripened, never-washed waders of slobbish Montana guides over their heads – a death sentence if ever we’ve heard one.

Naturally, manufacturers wouldn’t be spared.

Anyone who dumped a poorly engineered, $425 fly reel on the market (or a poorly engineered pair of wading boots, or a poorly designed $500+ fly rod) would one night find a dark stranger mysteriously knocking on their front door.

And magazine editors who ran the exact same cover photo over and over – using their bully pulpits to justify general industry woosiness – would be buried under several metric tons of their own back issues.

And finally, all fly fishing bloggers would be put to death immediately (just because, that’s why).

Naturally, as the architect of this Bold Plan For Adding Badly Needed Urgency to the Sport of Fly Fishing, I’d be exempt from the new rules.

That’s because – as someone who is clearly more intellectually advanced than the rest of the industry (I’d have to be to craft something this damned brilliant) – I alone am allowed to fill the ecological niche of effete, bamboo-waving, dry fly fishing blogger.

Frankly, my continued existence is a small price to pay for the revitalization of fly fishing – the sport where Catch & Release only applies to the fish, not the fishermen.

Of course, the Undergrounders are expected to contribute ideas to this burgeoning brain trust of brilliance.

Who should get it, and how?

See you at the guillotine, Tom Chandler.

The Underground Tosses a Brick Through a Plate Glass Window (or, Can You Stuff Diapers in a Patagonia Critical Mass Bag?)

You can probably count the number of truly life-changing decisions you’ve made on the fingers of one hand.

And no, I’m not talking about the moment you realized double-taper fly lines simply made more sense than weight forwards.

I’m talking about the lifestyle equivalent of picking up a brick and tossing it through the plate glass window that defines the limits of your neat, orderly life.

As in smashing it.

Something like that day in college when you realized words were cool things, and that perhaps you could make a living arranging them.

Or the decades-later realization that your clients had email addresses, so maybe you could hunker down near a good trout stream instead of living in the alternate universe known as the Silicon Valley.

Then there was the afternoon you realized life without a certain woman looked a lot less appealing than life with her, and maybe it was time to make this whole thing permanent.

Every one of those decisions seemed huge at the time – and each created its fair share of anxiety – but all worked out beautifully.

It appears the L&T and I have just thrown another brick.

In about two weeks, we’re saddling up a Boeing 777 jet and flying literally halfway around the world to meet our little daughter.

Our new little daughter.

Holy shit.

I’m about to become a parent.

The New Reality

I’m going to be right up front here; in the past, I have had doubts about my fitness as a parent.

And yes, since this process started a year ago, I have often huddled in bed at 3:30 in the morning, eyes wide open, mentally bulleting the ways I could emotionally (and physically) scar a kid already facing the challenges of adoption.

The good news? While adoption rules forbid me from posting her picture or name here, the pictures we’ve seen clearly indicate Little M (my clever code name) is not only cuter, smarter and just plain better than all the other kids on the planet.

In fact, it’s likely she’s a world-class athlete and natural-born fly caster.

I just know it.

You can tell by looking.

Plain as day.

(And yes – I already have the whole Proud Poppa thing down pat.)

Allow Me To Brag

The L&T has cleverly bypassed the “no public displays of photographs” rule by emailing Little M’s picture to approximately 80% of the planet’s working email addresses.

The overwhelming consensus is that she’s gorgeous beyond belief.

I believe they’re right.

Little M will be just over 11 months old when we bring her back home to the mountains of Northern California, where she will no doubt adapt immediately to her surroundings, sleep through the night, eat whatever she’s given, and spontaneously toilet train herself a good 12 months early.

And if she doesn’t do all those things, well, she’s still got that seriously cute thing working.

I mean, seriously cute.

The Parent Trap

I suspect I’m not entirely alone in this, but as parent-to-be, I’m already excelling at the bit where you cycle hourly between excitement and sheer terror.

One minute I’m convinced I’m going to be a great dad, teaching my daughter all the really cool, important stuff while driving her to her next athletic triumph (track/tennis/soccer/etc – I’m easy).

The next minute I imagine falling prey to one of my absent-minded fogs, forgetting to feed my daughter, wandering off, then coming home to find her swilling drain cleaner from the bottle I left on the floor next to the gasoline-soaked rags piled on the accidentally left-on stove.

Clearly, anticipation is a two-edged sword.

Even Wally the Wonderdog knows something’s up – alerted by the steadily growing piles of kid stuff now taking over the house.

The Wonderdog’s not brilliant, but he clearly possesses an animal cunning, and he knows that diapers and brightly colored plastic toys can only mean one thing: A new source of dropped or spilled food is about to enter his life.

I have a feeling that the Wonderdog will become extraordinarily protective of Little M.

I already have.

Of course, stepping beyond the glass window that defines the limits of your “normal” life means picking up a brick and creating a little chaos.

Life changes, you sweep up the broken bits, your view is clearer and your range is expanded, and you can’t really complain.

I mean, it’s what you asked for when you picked up the brick in the first place.

See you at the glass shop, Tom Chandler.