There is a certain type of fellow who, when he gets old, wants a fast boat. My friend Harry Ruth was such a guy. One day, before we ran up and down the big river, Harry nosed the boat up toward a bridge piling.
I cast at the concrete, let the minnow slap against it and held the bail open to let the bait slide down the piling into the water. Then I saw the flash and the grab. Crappies were stacked around the concrete on both sides, and we hammered them on the white plastics, which must’ve looked like shad fry to them. I caught my best-ever largemouth bass off the bow of Harry’s boat that day, and some pretty good smallmouth, too, but I won’t soon forget that school of crappies.
I live for those moments when
