Randy Kadish's Blog - Posts Tagged "fly-casting"
excerpt: George La branche, an Immigrant and the Fly Casting Tournament of 1911
... The man wearing a derby held up the megaphone. His derby looked too small for his long, potato-shaped face. His eyebrows were so bushy they looked like little canopies. “Ladies and gentleman, I’m Howard Tucker. Welcome to the Angler’s Club annual, long-distance, fly-casting tournament. Here are the rules. Each caster will use the same kind of reel, line and fly, and will get three casts. Only the longest cast will count, but only if the fly lands between the long ropes. George M. L. La Branche, last year’s runner-up, is first up.”
The spectators clapped. I wondered why Mr. La Branche had not one but two middle initials, and why he wanted both announced at a fly-casting tournament. He was on the small side. He had a black mustache and a cleft chin. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, a black tie held in place by a small, ivory brooch, and a shirt with a standup collar that looked so stiff I wondered if it would cut into his neck and draw blood. Mr. La Branche looked like a dandy.
I decided to root against him.
He walked to the table and put one of the reels onto his fiery-orange rod. He pulled white line from the reel and fed it through the rod’s silver guides.
Howard Tucker gave him a small fly. He tied it on, walked to the end of the long dock and pulled more line from the reel. The reel spun and clicked loudly. The man in the back of the rowboat grabbed the line. The other man in the boat rowed away from the dock. The reel clicked louder and faster and seemed to neigh like a wild horse. When the boat was about a hundred feet from the dock, the man holding the line dropped it between the long ropes.
Hand over hand, Mr. La Branche retrieved about fifty feet of the line and piled it on the dock. He breathed deeply and crossed his heart. He moved his right foot behind his left, as if he was going to throw a ball, then bent his knees, leaned forward and pointed his fly rod toward the water. He cast the rod back, moving it somewhere between perpendicular and parallel to the water. The water, however, didn’t seem to want to let go of the line. As if in a tug-of-war, the water pulled back and bent the top half of the rod into a half-circle, so that the whole rod took on the shape of a giant question mark. Mr. La Branche stopped the rod suddenly. His casting arm was behind his body and, along with the rod, pointed to about 2 o’clock. The line sprayed water as it flew off the surface like a bird. The rod snapped straight. The front of the line formed a narrow loop. The top of the loop was much longer than the bottom. The loop rolled backward like a wheel, the top getting shorter and shorter, the bottom getting longer and longer, until the top and bottom were the same length—but only for a split second. Soon the rolling loop resembled a sideways candy cane.
Mr. La Branche cast the rod forward, then stopped it when it pointed to about 10:30. The front of the line formed another loop. The top of this rolling loop also got shorter as the bottom got longer. Mr. La Branche let go of the line and stabbed the rod forward. The loop streaked like an arrow, then unrolled. The straight line splashed down on the water, right in the middle of the long ropes.
The man in the back of the boat counted the crisscrossing lines. He put a long ruler on one of the long ropes. “Ninety-eight feet!”
We all clapped. Mr. La Branche didn’t move. He glared straight ahead like a zombie cut off from the rest of the world. He retrieved his line, finally.
His next cast was 96 feet, his last 94. He shook his head disgustedly and reeled in his line. Looking down as if he were disappointed, he walked back to the table. Though I didn’t know anything about fly-casting, 98 feet seemed like a heck of a long cast to me.
The next caster stood up, and one by one the fly casters, including the one with the handlebar mustache, used the same casting stance as Mr. La Branche and tried to cast farther than 98 feet.
None did.
The last caster stood up, finally. Tall and thin, his arms were as long as a gorilla’s. He was clean-shaven. His skin was almost as white as a cloud. He wore wire-rimmed glasses. To me he looked like a Sunday-school teacher. I wanted him to beat Mr. George M. L. La Branche.
Mr. Tucker held up the megaphone. “Ladies and Gentlemen! Our next and last caster has won this tournament five years in a row. He is probably the greatest long-distance fly caster on the planet, B. L. Richards.”
Again we clapped.
B. L. Richards put a reel onto his fly rod, tied on a fly, and marched down the dock like a soldier. When he was ready, he bent his knees but didn’t cross his heart. He cast back and forth, back and forth. He stopped the rod and let go of the line. The rolling loop tightened and turned into a pointy wedge. The wedge, however, still rolled like a wheel, until the top got real short and then flipped over. The straight line floated down.
The fly landed outside the long lines.
“Damn!” B. L. Richards yelled.
“No cursing!” one of the spectators insisted.
B. L. Richards didn’t apologize, as I thought he should. He retrieved some line and cast again.
The fly landed between the lines.
“One hundred four feet!” the man in the rowboat yelled.
Wildly, we clapped.
B. L. Richards, however, didn’t smile or nod. He cast again.
“One hundred two feet!”
B. L. Richards stomped his foot.
Mr. Tucker held up the megaphone. “For the sixth year in a row, our champion is B. L. Richards.”
“Maybe!” someone shouted. A young man carrying a fly rod stood on the top of the stone hill. He wore a long white shirt and faded, baggy pants. His hair was brown and wavy and combed straight back.
He climbed, then slid down the hill and walked right past me. He was average size. His eyes were small and close together. His nose was long and a little hooked. In his face, therefore, I saw the face of an eagle.
He walked up to the table. “I’d like a chance.” He spoke with a slight Polish accent. I wondered if he came from the Lower East Side.
“The tournament is only open to members of casting clubs,” Mr. Tucker said.
To me the rule didn’t seem fair, the same way it didn’t seem fair that immigrants had to live in tiny apartments that didn’t have bathrooms.
“But I’ve been practicing all year,” the young man said.
Mr. Tucker grinned. “Are you saying you
can beat the greatest fly caster in the world?”
“I’d sure like to try.”
“Have you ever cast in a tournament before?”
“No.”
“Where’d you get your rod?”
“The rod is legal. It’s eleven and a half feet.”
“Let him cast!” a spectator demanded.
“Rules are rules,” B. L. Richards stated.
“What are you scared of?” another spectator shouted.
“Only God,” B. L. Richards insisted. “The young man can join my club, but he’ll have to pay five dollars, like everyone else.”
The young man reached into his pocket and took out money. He uncrumpled two bills. “All I have is two dollars.”
“Sorry,” Mr. Tucker said.
I pulled my father’s arm. “Dad, can I have my next two weeks allowance?”
“He’s a stranger who probably won’t ever pay you back. Are you sure you want to give up your allowance?”
I thought of all the baseball cards I wouldn’t be able to buy; and how I still craved the card of the greatest shortstop of all time, Honus Wagner. “Yes, I’m sure. Please?”
“All right.” He gave me three dollars. ...
The Fly Caster Who Tried to Make Peace with the World
The spectators clapped. I wondered why Mr. La Branche had not one but two middle initials, and why he wanted both announced at a fly-casting tournament. He was on the small side. He had a black mustache and a cleft chin. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, a black tie held in place by a small, ivory brooch, and a shirt with a standup collar that looked so stiff I wondered if it would cut into his neck and draw blood. Mr. La Branche looked like a dandy.
I decided to root against him.
He walked to the table and put one of the reels onto his fiery-orange rod. He pulled white line from the reel and fed it through the rod’s silver guides.
Howard Tucker gave him a small fly. He tied it on, walked to the end of the long dock and pulled more line from the reel. The reel spun and clicked loudly. The man in the back of the rowboat grabbed the line. The other man in the boat rowed away from the dock. The reel clicked louder and faster and seemed to neigh like a wild horse. When the boat was about a hundred feet from the dock, the man holding the line dropped it between the long ropes.
Hand over hand, Mr. La Branche retrieved about fifty feet of the line and piled it on the dock. He breathed deeply and crossed his heart. He moved his right foot behind his left, as if he was going to throw a ball, then bent his knees, leaned forward and pointed his fly rod toward the water. He cast the rod back, moving it somewhere between perpendicular and parallel to the water. The water, however, didn’t seem to want to let go of the line. As if in a tug-of-war, the water pulled back and bent the top half of the rod into a half-circle, so that the whole rod took on the shape of a giant question mark. Mr. La Branche stopped the rod suddenly. His casting arm was behind his body and, along with the rod, pointed to about 2 o’clock. The line sprayed water as it flew off the surface like a bird. The rod snapped straight. The front of the line formed a narrow loop. The top of the loop was much longer than the bottom. The loop rolled backward like a wheel, the top getting shorter and shorter, the bottom getting longer and longer, until the top and bottom were the same length—but only for a split second. Soon the rolling loop resembled a sideways candy cane.
Mr. La Branche cast the rod forward, then stopped it when it pointed to about 10:30. The front of the line formed another loop. The top of this rolling loop also got shorter as the bottom got longer. Mr. La Branche let go of the line and stabbed the rod forward. The loop streaked like an arrow, then unrolled. The straight line splashed down on the water, right in the middle of the long ropes.
The man in the back of the boat counted the crisscrossing lines. He put a long ruler on one of the long ropes. “Ninety-eight feet!”
We all clapped. Mr. La Branche didn’t move. He glared straight ahead like a zombie cut off from the rest of the world. He retrieved his line, finally.
His next cast was 96 feet, his last 94. He shook his head disgustedly and reeled in his line. Looking down as if he were disappointed, he walked back to the table. Though I didn’t know anything about fly-casting, 98 feet seemed like a heck of a long cast to me.
The next caster stood up, and one by one the fly casters, including the one with the handlebar mustache, used the same casting stance as Mr. La Branche and tried to cast farther than 98 feet.
None did.
The last caster stood up, finally. Tall and thin, his arms were as long as a gorilla’s. He was clean-shaven. His skin was almost as white as a cloud. He wore wire-rimmed glasses. To me he looked like a Sunday-school teacher. I wanted him to beat Mr. George M. L. La Branche.
Mr. Tucker held up the megaphone. “Ladies and Gentlemen! Our next and last caster has won this tournament five years in a row. He is probably the greatest long-distance fly caster on the planet, B. L. Richards.”
Again we clapped.
B. L. Richards put a reel onto his fly rod, tied on a fly, and marched down the dock like a soldier. When he was ready, he bent his knees but didn’t cross his heart. He cast back and forth, back and forth. He stopped the rod and let go of the line. The rolling loop tightened and turned into a pointy wedge. The wedge, however, still rolled like a wheel, until the top got real short and then flipped over. The straight line floated down.
The fly landed outside the long lines.
“Damn!” B. L. Richards yelled.
“No cursing!” one of the spectators insisted.
B. L. Richards didn’t apologize, as I thought he should. He retrieved some line and cast again.
The fly landed between the lines.
“One hundred four feet!” the man in the rowboat yelled.
Wildly, we clapped.
B. L. Richards, however, didn’t smile or nod. He cast again.
“One hundred two feet!”
B. L. Richards stomped his foot.
Mr. Tucker held up the megaphone. “For the sixth year in a row, our champion is B. L. Richards.”
“Maybe!” someone shouted. A young man carrying a fly rod stood on the top of the stone hill. He wore a long white shirt and faded, baggy pants. His hair was brown and wavy and combed straight back.
He climbed, then slid down the hill and walked right past me. He was average size. His eyes were small and close together. His nose was long and a little hooked. In his face, therefore, I saw the face of an eagle.
He walked up to the table. “I’d like a chance.” He spoke with a slight Polish accent. I wondered if he came from the Lower East Side.
“The tournament is only open to members of casting clubs,” Mr. Tucker said.
To me the rule didn’t seem fair, the same way it didn’t seem fair that immigrants had to live in tiny apartments that didn’t have bathrooms.
“But I’ve been practicing all year,” the young man said.
Mr. Tucker grinned. “Are you saying you
can beat the greatest fly caster in the world?”
“I’d sure like to try.”
“Have you ever cast in a tournament before?”
“No.”
“Where’d you get your rod?”
“The rod is legal. It’s eleven and a half feet.”
“Let him cast!” a spectator demanded.
“Rules are rules,” B. L. Richards stated.
“What are you scared of?” another spectator shouted.
“Only God,” B. L. Richards insisted. “The young man can join my club, but he’ll have to pay five dollars, like everyone else.”
The young man reached into his pocket and took out money. He uncrumpled two bills. “All I have is two dollars.”
“Sorry,” Mr. Tucker said.
I pulled my father’s arm. “Dad, can I have my next two weeks allowance?”
“He’s a stranger who probably won’t ever pay you back. Are you sure you want to give up your allowance?”
I thought of all the baseball cards I wouldn’t be able to buy; and how I still craved the card of the greatest shortstop of all time, Honus Wagner. “Yes, I’m sure. Please?”
“All right.” He gave me three dollars. ...
The Fly Caster Who Tried to Make Peace with the World
