The Second Fly Caster: Fatherhood, Recovery and an Unforgettable Tournament Read online

ND FLY CASTER

  A Story of Fatherhood, Recovery and an Unforgettable Tournament

  by

  Randy Kadish

  author, The Fly Caster Who Tried to Make Peace with the World

  When I was a boy I thought my father was the greatest fly caster on earth, so I grew up dreaming of following in his way and not of becoming, as my mother wanted, an accountant.

  Today, I am a man who often relives the important events in my life, but when I think back to the five state casting tournaments my father won, most of their images and sounds have melted and flowed into downstream memories, except for the images and sounds of one special tournament. Instead of fading over time, they ripened in my mind in more than just a visual way, and now they are almost as vivid as the moments of today.

  I’ll start telling about the tournament this way: Our small, historic town was almost exactly in the middle of our state. On the outskirts of our town was a beautiful, banana-shaped lake. The lake and our town were in a valley, and therefore shielded from the biggest enemy of fly casting: gusty winds.

  Those are the real reasons the annual casting championships were held in our town, though now I’ll admit there was some truth in the accusations of jealous people who said my father founded the Casting Association just so he could win tournaments in front of his friends, neighbors and me.

  But there will always be even more truth in the fact that my father won the tournaments fair and square. You see, day after day, year after year, he loved practicing with his beautiful bamboo fly rod and trying new techniques, such as holding his rod hand at different levels and lengthening his casting stroke. He loved practicing so much so that I often wondered if he loved fly casting more than he loved me. In spite of my wondering, I, as well as he, often prayed that he would one day reach the cherished goal of casting as far as humanly possible, perhaps even as far as a hundred feet.

  As for my mother: Did she mind that he spent so much time away from her? I guess she suspected that fly casting and fly fishing were what really kept my father sober; but then again she spent a lot of time reading romance novels, so looking back, I now know she craved the affection that my father couldn’t give her, or for that matter, give me. But I didn’t mind. Day after day, when he practiced on our lawn, I often watched him in awe, and told myself that, if he hadn’t hurt his elbow in minor league baseball, he would have become one of the best pitchers in the majors, instead of a carpenter.

  And I told my friends. They were so impressed that some even asked me for his autograph.

  I always gave it.

  It was about a month months before the special tournament. My father said I could go with him to the Casting Association meeting as long as my mother said it was okay. Later, after dinner, as my mother cleared the dinner table, I asked her if I could go.

  “You have homework tonight and school tomorrow,” she answered. “That’s what should be important to you if you want to become someone in this world and not end up wishing for things that will never come.”

  “I’m twelve. I should be allowed to go, especially since I’ve already done my homework.”

  “All of it?” she seemed to accuse.

  “Well, most of it. I’ll finish the rest when I get back.”

  “Then don’t listen to me. Just go.” she stated.

  “Are you sure I can?”

  She put away the bread, walked to the sink and turned on the water. “Do what you want.” Her words sounded as cold as ice. For a few seconds I felt as if I couldn’t move. Finally, I picked up my plate and glass, gently put them on the counter and ran to my father. He hugged me, and I told myself that I had the greatest father in the world.

  The meeting was held in our old, white, wooden church. Six other men attended. They formed a small circle of folding chairs below the stained glass window of Mary holding baby Jesus. They didn’t put out a chair for me, so I sat in the front pew.

  For the next few hours the men talked about changing some of the rules of the tournament, like how much time and how many casts a caster should be allowed. Before long, the talk bored me. Because I was worried that my mother was still mad at me, I wished I hadn’t argued with her and had stayed home. If I had, my new radio would be on real low so she couldn’t hear it, and I’d be listening to the broadcast of the minor league baseball team I loved, the Fire Birds, and I’d be seeing them—in my mind, at least—hitting home run after home run.

  I looked up at the image of Mary and Jesus, and I prayed that the Fire Birds finally would break their long losing streak.

  I stood up, went to the back pew of the church and lay down. I closed my eyes and dreamed of becoming a great fly caster. When I tired of the dream, I simply changed the scenery in my mind and became a great pitcher. I threw blazing fastball after fastball and struck out batter after batter. The capacity crowd rose to their feet and cheered wildly.

  The sound of the church door being flung opened knocked my daydream off its tracks. I bolted up.

  A stranger stood in the doorway. He looked old, maybe because of his long, gray hair and beard. He chewed hard on something and wore a plaid shirt that wasn’t tucked in and old, dirty jeans. On his sleeve was what looked like a tobacco stain.

  My father and the other men stared at him. A silence seemed to explode and fill the church, and though silence, I knew, didn’t weigh anything, this silence felt heavy and seemed to somehow stop time. Everyone in the church seemed frozen in place. I heard myself deeply breathe.

  Finally, the stranger took two steps inside but didn’t close the door. He said, “I’m here to enter someone in your so-called tournament. That someone’s name is Shane Riley, and he’s the greatest distance caster in the country.” The stranger’s voice was deep and powerful and sounded too polished for his hobo-like appearance.

  “Does he live in the state?” my father asked.

  “Since six months ago.”

  “Where did he live before?”

  “That’s no concern of yours.”

  Another silence. This one was even more uncomfortable than the first, at least for me.

  My father held up a registration form. “Have him fill this out and mail it in with ten dollars.”

  The stranger marched to the front of the church. His boot heels banged like a hammer on the wood floor. He took the form, looked it over, then, without saying thank you, stuffed it into his shirt pocket and grinned. He strolled back towards the door, then glanced right at me. His eyes were blue and deep-set. They seemed to shoot bullets. I didn’t duck. The stranger nodded slightly and then left, leaving the door open behind him. His bad manners angered me.

  I got up and closed the door.

  “The gall of that guy,” Bill Lambert said.

  “That’s real chutzpah,” Steve Cohen said.

  I looked at me father. He had a blank look on his face. I wondered if he, like me, was suddenly scared that this Shane Riley might win the next tournament.

  My father grinned, suddenly. “Well, I guess things just got a little more interesting.”

  A half-hour later the meeting finally ended. My father and I walked home. He didn’t say anything, so neither did I. The eerie silence from inside the church seemed to be following us.

  Finally, we turned onto our street. I asked, “Do you think that this Shane Riley might be for real?”

  “Son, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “His name sounds made-up. Maybe he’s like a ghost and just lives in the old man’s imagination.”

  My father smiled.

/>   I thought of asking: Are you scared that Shane Riley will beat you? But I guess I didn’t want to know my father’s answer or to show that, even if he wasn’t scared, I was.

  For the next month I kept my question and fear all to myself, right up until the morning of the tournament, when I watched my father polish his fly rod. When he finished, he looked at me and said,

  “Would you like to carry it for me?”

  “Sure, dad.”

  Together, we walked to the lake. I stared at his fly rod. For some reason I imagined it was a sword. I thought of Roman gladiators walking out for battle, and I wondered if they ever got scared. I was grateful that I wasn’t a gladiator.

  The bleachers were almost full. People came up to my father, shook his hand and wished him luck. Bill Reems, our mayor, who had a body like a snowman’s, told him how the whole town was counting on him.

  “Mayor, I’ll try not to