Grip on Sports: Here’s a fishing story about the son who wouldn’t take the bait

A GRIP ON SPORTS • There were few activities my dad loved more than fishing. His only son? Not so much. Read on.

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• One of the oldest pictures my parents had of me was taken at a lake somewhere, either Arrowhead or Big Bear. I was holding a fishing pole, looking a bit dazed and confused. My dad was holding a little trout. He was smiling.

Smiling because his son had just “caught” his first fish. The quotation marks are needed. I hadn’t caught anything. My dad had a hooked a small lake trout while I wasn’t looking, called me over and told me, a preschooler, to “hold the pole” while he went to use the facilities.

Lo and behold, I had “caught” a fish. And my mom caught the moment with her Brownie, though, as per usual, there was a sliver of her finger in the upper right corner.

My dad told me the truth about the “catch” some years later when we were looking at the picture. I felt betrayed.

But that was my dad. He would have given anything for me to catch the lure of fishing.

He was always disappointed.

He once took my sister and I on a fishing trip to Mt. Whitney. She never left her tent, either pining over some guy or upset she had to be out of phone contact with her friends.

And me, the less-masculine of my dad’s younger two kids?

I brought my books. And an unwarranted bad attitude.

The memory of one of those days will always be with me.

Dad and I got up at dawn. We trekked up to a creek, carrying salmon eggs and Velveeta cheese. We reached a small eddy and threw our lines in. He caught a trout almost instantly, throwing it into his little shoulder bag that had some official fishing name I’ve forgotten over the years.

Me? Not a nibble.

Dad saw his chance. He told me to stay here, he was going to hike up the creek. I think he figured he intimidated me – he did – and it would be easier for me if he wasn’t around. There was little doubt he expected me to be able to snag at least one of the half-dozen or so rainbows we could see feeding in the water.

So he left.

As soon as he was out of sight, I stuck my pole in the ground, bait dangling in the stream. I pulled my book de jour out of the back left pocket of my jeans and found a soft spot under a tree. I sat and read.

Every once in a while the pole would jerk me away from the moons of Jupiter and I would make a half-hearted attempt to engage what was on the other end.

But I never reeled in a fish. The trout in that stream dined on more Velveeta that day than my parents at a late ‘60s fondue party.

After a suitable interlude, my dad came crashing down the hill next to the stream, bear-like in his movements. The book disappeared in my back pocket, the pole jumped back into my hands.

“Catch anything?” he asked hopefully.

“Nope, but I did have a few bites,” I answered, not really lying.

He was disappointed, that was obvious. He dropped his gear, grabbed my pole and proceeded to catch a fish – in about six seconds.

“They seem to be biting OK,” he said, with a reproachful tone. Then he relented. “We’ve got six. Let’s go make breakfast. Maybe Margie will be awake by now.”

That wasn’t the last time we “fished” together but it finally became apparent to my dad I wasn’t going to be the next Ted Williams or anything.

So after a while he quit dragging me along.

It’s my fault, really. All my dad wanted was to give me a lifelong hobby. Instead all I caught were a few memories and a lot of regret.

And that one lake trout when I was really young.

• Why am I sharing this story? Because Father’s Day is coming up. And I want you to share your fishing stories of your dad with me – and the readers of this column.

You put them down on your computer and send them to my email address – vincegrippi55@yahoo.com. I’ll take care of the rest. Please include your name and a phone number so we can verify them. That’s it.

It can be a story of fishing with your dad. It can be a story of taking your kids fishing. Heck, it can be a story of your dad fishing with your mom. Or for your mom.

No, wait, that last one won’t work.

Hopefully, unlike mine, it will be a happy memory.

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• One thing I’m not doing today? Going fishing. Unless you count fishing for dog waste in the backyard before I mow the lawn. What a glamorous life I lead. Until later …