That summer, Nick was eight years old, his brother Danny was eleven, and the fishing was good.

While Danny enjoyed fishing, Nick absolutely loved it. Morning, noon, and night, in any and all weather, Nick was dedicated to his sport. He sometimes fished in shallow water off the dock, but prefered exploring the lake with his dad in their boat.

Crotch Lake, in Ontario, Canada, is a wilderness lake, with limited access and an undeveloped, natural shoreline. Moose and bear wander through the woods, otters slide and play, and loons send their eerie call out across the water before diving deep into it.

And in the lake, smallmouth bass hunt for the perfect worm or leech and take a bite.

The lodge where Nick and Danny were staying with friends and family held a contest for “Fisherman of the Week.” The winner was the angler who caught the biggest fish, with a separate category for kids under fourteen. The prize was an elegant turquoise T-shirt depicting the glory of Crotch Lake–a purple and orange sunset, dark majestic pines silhouetted against the vast sky, and the world’s most perfect fish arching up out of the water. Most important, there was the prestige of winning and the adulation of the other fishermen.

Every day, Nick gazed up at the T-shirt displayed on the bait shop wall. He was determined to win it.

He headed for Bassmania, a secret spot he and his dad had discovered. It lay hidden in a cove, watched over by eagles nesting in a pine tree. With Nick’s own inventive method of perpetual motion angling, he defied the experts by reeling in fish after fish while talking, singing, and rocking the boat. By Thursday, he lead the other young entries with a 3.25 pound smallmouth bass.

The contest would end on Friday at 5:00 PM.

Friday morning, Danny set out with friends in their boat to fish. At noon, he returned and headed for the cleaning shed where his dad was busy filleting fish for the family’s annual catch of the week dinner.

“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, Danny. How was the fishing?”
“Good.” Danny, like his dad, was a man of few words. “I caught this.” He held up a glistening smallmouth bass.
“Nice fish. Did you weigh it?”
“Yeah. It’s 3.9 pounds.”
“Well, that’s the record for the week. Did you enter it?”
“No.”

Danny watched as his dad skillfully scaled and cut the perch and bass that would be battered and grilled that evening.

“If I enter it, then Nicky won’t be the Fisherman of the Week.”
Silence.
“What should I do, Dad?”
“Whatever you want, Danny. It’s up to you.”
He scraped the slimy board clear with the knife and grabbed a small perch from the pile. Danny stood by him for a few moments, then casually dropped his fish on the table.

“Here, Dad. It’ll cook up nice on the grill.”
The knife stopped moving.
“You sure, Danny?”
“Yeah.” And he walked off toward the beach.

At 5:00 PM the ceremony took place in front of the bait shop. Nick’s face beamed like a second sun as he stood stiff and straight in his Fisherman of the Week T-shirt. Cameras clicked amidst congratulations from kids and grown-ups too.

“Nice shirt, Nick,” said Danny. “You look awesome.”
“Yeah.” Nick grinned. “This is the best T-shirt I ever had. I knew that fish was a winner.”
“Of course.” Danny smiled at his little brother. “Everybody knows you’re the best fisherman around.”

Nick wore the shirt that night at dinner. And everyone agreed that the fish were the tastiest they had ever eaten.

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