The cover of the Wall Street Journal has taken our dirty little secret into the hallowed halls of the mainstream.
I figured to make the paper at some point, but assumed it would be some small obituary when they found me sprawled lifeless across a rusting Ford buried in the bank, fly rod clutched in cold, blue fingers.
It’s like reading wanted posters at the post office; Roughfisher, Urban Flyfisher, Trout Underground, Fat Guy Fly Fishing, and Michael Gracie all mentioned prominently with our beloved sport.
Initially I had trouble recognizing the parties mentioned as the author uses “Mister” and our given names. Brownliners prefer the familiar to address each other, with monikers akin to “Nosebleed”, “Meathead”, or “Buckwheat.”
The next step would include a major motion picture deal, but there’s not enough portly stout sweaty and overweight leading men to cover our merry band.