Memory Lane

It was the Summer of '58. With my trusty bamboo rod in hand and wearing my trusty jodhpurs and my trusty bus driver hat I had cast off from what would become known as "Elvis" beach (the king was then but a hunka-hunka hillbilly truckdriver) for the waters known to the indigenous Heckowi Indians as "Walleye City". I was out there drownin' a worm and groovin' to the sounds of the Kingston Trio when suddenly and without warning the great leviathan struck. He nearly capsized the boat, such was the force of his powerful gyrations. Ripping the stainless steel lid off of a can of Olde Frothingslosh (pull tabs, alas, had yet to be invented) I quaffed a gulp of courage and set out to engage the great beast in mortal combat.

Three days later, bloodied but unbowed, I succeeded in landing the monster, K-Oing him with a straight right cross to the dorsal fin. Although area children still sing songs commemorating the event, I choose to think it was merely a case of a simple, unassuming yet extraordinarily talented angler coming face to gills with a horrifying denizen of the deep.