The final weigh-in at the Will Rogers Coliseum attracted a small crowd, reporters from the Dallas Morning News and the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, and a phalanx of BASS publicists and ESPN still and video cameramen who carefully panned the audience so as not to reveal the acres of empty seats.
I had never seen anyone win a quarter of a million dollars, and so I didn’t know what to expect. The day before, at the women’s weigh-in, the top prize was a fully rigged boat worth an estimated $50,000. Yes, the women have their own professional tour, many of them competing in bright-yellow and pastel-pink FisherGirl jerseys packed with emblems for sunglasses and bait. One of the competitors, Becky McKinney, had been seven months pregnant. Another—Violette Sesco, from Citrus Springs, Florida—was 80 years old.
But now it was time for the main event. The rock and roll blasted, the strobes flashed, and behind their police escort, the airbrushed SUVs rumbled into the arena, each hauling a bass boat. The trailers stopped next to the stage and the anglers hopped up, their fish squirming and dripping cool water through black mesh bags. Some of the finalists held their beady-eyed, humpbacked, potbellied bounty high in the air so the photographers could get the shot. The bass jumped and flailed, but placed into a Plexiglas box and weighed beneath the lights, they finally lay prone. And after the poundage flashed on the big screen, the gasping assets were rushed offstage and back to the reservoir. Peter T. had not had a great day on the lake: four fish for a total of ten pounds five ounces. But as the last of the anglers lay down their creel, it became clear that no one had done any better.
Indoor fireworks sprayed as Peter T. stepped onto the pedestal in his shining suit of sponsorship. He grasped the grail, held it high above his head, and made sure to thank Mercury Motors and Ranger Boats. Then he called his wife on his cellphone. How would he break the news that he had been crowned the prince of BASS—and suddenly become a quarter of a millionaire? Would he scream or sob, cackle or be struck dumb?
As it turned out, none of the above. “Honey,” the chef said, his low voice booming through the arena, “remember that new range we’ve been talking about?”
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