The Great Fisherman

The Great Fisherman  6/16/09

Our grandson Austin—who’s almost 11 and already has the swagger of an old sea captain—came to visit this past weekend. First thing out of his mouth? “Grandma, I’m catchin’ dinner.”

Bold words for a kid who still thinks ketchup counts as a vegetable.

Off he marched to the pond, dragging his fishing pole like a knight heading into battle. I barely had time to blink, or hide the emergency frozen pizza, before I heard the triumphant cry from the bank.

“I GOT ONE!”

Now, I was expecting a tiny sunfish or maybe one of those leaves that look like a fish if you squint hard enough. But no—Austin hauls in a 3½-pound trout like he’s Poseidon’s nephew. This fish was so big I half expected it to have its own zip code.

It flopped, it flailed, and then it surrendered like, “Fine kid, you win, just don’t name me Bubbles.”

That trout? Oh, it didn’t stand a chance. And later that night, it didn’t stand a chance on our dinner plates either—perfectly cooked and proudly devoured, one delicious bite at a time. Moist, flaky, and served with a heaping side of Austin’s smug grin.

Well done, Austin. You’ve officially out-fished the rest of the family and made your grandma consider investing in a commemorative plaque… or at least a T-shirt that says “Fishin’ Ain’t a Hobby... It’s a Superpower.”