We’ve played this game before; I try to wrench you into the 21st Century, and you’re content with the pasttime your poppa taught you.  Still leery of professional fly fishing as a sport, televised or otherwise, and scowling while I insist competition would liven the small screen, and using NASCAR rules would make an interesting twist…

Spying an article on collegiate angling set my too-vivid imagination in motion. Rather than a gaggle of anglers, camp followers, and their entourage in an exotic venue, with apres-hatch masseuses, cold drinks, and sponsor’s hovering about, why not start the competition with a cavity search in the parking lot of the fly shop?

… then hand each fellow $1000 dollars for his entire ensemble; leaders, rod, flies, waders, boots, vest, floatant, absolutely everything – and only then turn them loose on the stream.

Like football we could show the ambulance crew close in on the guy that invested his cash in flies, and opting to wade wet – froze his equipment and succumbed to hypothermia.

… and there’s the agony of the top seed forgetting to buy a reel. We’ll have popcorn coming out our nose as he stuffs line in pocket, oblivious to zippers and dangling vest essentials, breaking off fish after fish – while we giggle over the *bleep* intensity of frequent outbursts.

There’d be the petulant fellow unwilling to part with a single Royal Trude – staring menacingly at the register total, insisting that in his state sales tax was 2% less – and he should get a waiver…

…  and the fellow that drank far too much at the Scientific Angler’s party,  and missed out on the #16 Adam’s ..

Most sports aren’t about identifying heroes any more; the cameras insist on tirades, tantrums, and villainy – we can moan from the sanctity of our couch when this week’s “Snidely Whiplash” makes it through another episode, after spiking his pal’s waders when the judges were distracted.

Then as each fellow is eliminated the remaining anglers could descend on him like a pack of wolves and tear his gear from lifeless fingers. All them young eyeballs glued to the screen learning valuable hunter-gatherer techniques to bully the bus and dominate their playground.

Oprah couldn’t resist that much testosterone, and we could fete them in all the daytime gossip venues.

Fly fishing has more than it’s fair share of opinionated insensitive types that could light up the small screen with pouts, scowls, and blame-storming. As everyone hates everyone else – a little blood or a couple of spilled drinks, a fist fight or gunfire, and we’d be rivaling the Ultimate Fight Network for Thursday night Primetime.