Steve
WILLEY
Matt Haney/DN
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Angling for fish
Bait for the sport cf lungs’: underwear
Ever since I allowed my dad to
write a column about his favorite
Christmas memory, he has hounded
me weekly for another chance to be
in print.
I tried to explain that it was a
one-shot deal, but I quickly con
ceded defeat when he threatened to
cut me off financially.
My father’s monthly financial
“support” consists of $1.37 in food
stamps and a limited edition “The
Rescuers Down Under” coin, which
my father claims will be worth
“billions one day.” And of course, as
the sole owner of every single coin
ever produced, he’s “sitting prettier
than a puppy with 12 peters.”
Now, my dad has long laid a
claim to the title of “The World’s
Greatest Fisherman.” Having fished
numerous times with the old man, I
must admit he does have an amaz
ing ability to obtain fish.
But despite his productivity, he
has trouble getting recognized as a
professional by any of the angling
societies. Perhaps the main reason
he has been purposely ignored stems
from an incident occurring on June
18,1953, during a BASS
MASTER’S tournament.
Dad easily won the event,
catching 50 more pounds of fish
than his closest opponent. But when
he was asked how he arrived at
such fantastic results, my dad
responded in what would prove to be
a career-ending way.
“See, ya’ll don’t know how to do
it,” Dad told the soon-to-be aston
ished crowd. “Whatcha gotta do is
throw you underwear in the lake;
next thing you know them fishes
will come turning their bellies up —.
then all you do is pick them suckers
out of the water, jus’ like you was
picking strawberries.”
As you can no doubt see, I’m a
little apprehensive about letting Dad
speak his mind; it tends to be
embarrassing. But I don’t even think
Dad could corrupt something as
pure as fishing. So without further
adieu ...
“I just plain love to fish. If a body
would cone up to me today and ask
me what I would lop off my tongue
far, I’d say, ‘fishing.* My boy, Steve,
he likes to fish too. I used to take
him fishing with me when he was
just a little shit.
“I didn’t take him because he was
a good fisherboy. Naw, I always took
Steve on account of how much I
used to enjoy watching his mama
whup-up on him for coming home
so muddy. I’ll never forget what he
used to always scream.
‘“Whhawww! Mama, you killing
me! Don’t you know daddy’s been
throwing me in the mud all along?
Whhaaww! How you think I get
mud in my nose by just playin’?’
“Goddamn that was funny! He
was squalling like a drunk mule that
fell down an elevator shaft. Anyway,
Steve tells me now that he catches
fish way up there in Nebraska, but I
know better. The only thing that
boy’s ever caught with a fishing
hook is my eyelid.
“That’s what makes me think that
Steve ain’t really my boy. If he was,
he’d of got some of my talent. For
real, there ain’t a fish in all these
United States that I can’t catch — at
least when I’m sober. For some
T innt aam *4 /intnh fioVl if T
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been drinking.
“Why shoot, I remember one
time, me and my old hound dog
Dixie split us a case of Schlitz on
the way to the fishing hole. We was
two sheets to the wind by the time
we got there. 01* Dixie was so drunk
that she’d try and bark but the only
thing that come out was the Johnny
Cash song, “The Man in Black.” I
wasn’t no better. I spent six hours
fishing before I realized I was
casting onto the highway.
“Them were golden times,
though. I don’t drink no more when
J fish. I don’t need to—on account
of I was bom to fish. -
“Steve’s gran’mama will tell you
that when I was birthed, not only did
I come out sideways, but I had a
tackle box with me too. Sad thing is,
that was her second most painful
birth. My brother Donny come out
riding a John Deere,
“Now, you’re probably saying,
‘Well, Mr. Willey, if you so good at
fishing, why ain’t I ever seen you on
one of than TV shows?’ The answer
is easy. See, I won’t resort to the
trickery them fishing stars do. You
know what I’m talking about, don’t
you? All them TV fishermen got
scuba people swimming under their
boats and hooking the fish.
“Know how I know? Well, I used
to be one of them suckers for Roland
Martin back in the ’70s. See, it was
my job to swim underwater, catch
the fish and then tug on the line
when I had ‘em hooked.
“One tug meant that I meant that
I had a big one on the line and the
fisherman was supposed to hoop and
holler like crazy. TWo tugs meant it
was a baby and three fugs meant that
I have somehow gotten myself
involved in one helluva altercation
with an alligator and they bess go to
a commercial before my arms float
up without me.
“And that’s what’s got me so
cotton-picking mad at them pro
fishermen. They fish for fun, but for
me, it was for survival.
“When Steve was just a fat, little
baby, I had to make for sure that he
had fish in his bottle everyday. If the
fish ain’t biting, I can’t go home. I
gotta feed my boy! Hell, I remember
one time, I fished from sunup till
10:30 at night without so much as a
nibble.
“Then it dawned on me: I
ALWAYS KEEP A NUDIE PHOTO
OF WILLIAM HOWARD TAFT IN
MY WALLET FOR THEM SPE
CIAL OCCASIONS! So I tried it
and lo and behold, my boy got to eat
a 14-pound carp fa* supper. It would
have made McGuyver slap his
mama.
“Now I know this here paper
ain’t gonna prove I’m the best
fisherman there is. All I can do is
extend an invitation. So next time
you’re in Mississippi, look me up
and I’ll show you. But don’t bring
no cool beer or I might mistake you
for a trophy bass and get you
mounted. Or worse yet, maybe my
hound, Dixie, will mount you. Heh
heh.
“See boy, I told you I wasn’t
going to embarrass nobody. You was
worried for nothin’.”
(Author’s note: Once again, I
stand corrected by my father. I am
again found in the crushing grip of
his intelligence.)
Willey is a senior news-editorial
major and a Daily Nebraskan
columnist
^ Chanticleer L«a«
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