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dinky four-pound bass might win the whole shooting match. More than likely, though, it takes a lunker fish to win the major tournaments, and few anglers are capable of catching lunkers day in and day out.
    Weekend anglers are fond of noting that the largest bass ever caught was not landed by a tournament fisherman. It was taken by a nineteen-year-old Georgia farm kid named George W. Perry at an oxbow slough called Montgomery Lake. Fittingly, young Perry had never heard of Lowrance fish-finders or Thruster trolling motors or Fenwick graphite flipping sticks. Perry went out fishing in a simple rowboat and took the only bass lure he owned, a beat-up Creek Chub. He went fishing mainly because his family was hungry, and he returned with a largemouth bass that weighed twenty-two pounds, four ounces. The year was 1932. Since then, despite all the spaceage advancements in fish-catching technology, nobody has boated a bass that comes close to the size of George Perry’s trophy, which he and his loved ones promptly ate for dinner. Today an historical plaque commemorating this leviathan largemouth stands on Highway 117, near Lumber City, Georgia. It serves as a defiant and nagging challenge to modern bass fishermen and all their infernal electronics. Some ichthyologists have been so bold as to suggest that the Monster of Montgomery Lake was a supremely mutant fish, an all-tackle record that will never be bested by any angler. To which Dickie Lockhart, in dosing each segment of Fish Fever , would scrunch up his eyes, wave a finger at the camera, and decree: “George Perry, next week your cracker butt is history!”
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    There was no tournament that weekend, so Dickie Lockhart was taping a show. He was shooting on Lake Kissimmee, not far from Disney World. The title of this particular episode was “Hawg Hunting.” Dickie needed a bass over ten pounds; anything less wasn’t a hawg.
    As always, he used two boats; one to fish from, one for the film crew. Like most TV fishing-show hosts, Dickie Lockhart used videotapes because they were cheaper than sixteen-millimeter, and reusable. Film was unthinkable for a bass show because you might go two or three days shooting nothing but men casting their lures and spitting tobacco, but no fish. With the video, a bad day didn’t blow the whole budget because you just backed it up and shot again.
    Dickie Lockhart had been catching bass all morning, little two-and three-pounders. He could guess the weight as soon as he hooked up, then furiously skitter the poor fish across the surface into the boat. “Goddammit,” he would shout, “rewind that sucker and let’s try again.”
    During lulls in the action, Dickie would grow tense and foul-mouthed. “Come on, you bucket-mouthed bastards,” he’d growl as he cast at the shoreline, “hit this thing or I’m bringing dynamite tomorrow, y’hear?”
    Midmorning the wind kicked up, mussing Dickie Lockhart’s shiny black hair. “Goddammit,” he shouted, “stop the tape.” After he got a comb from his tacklebox and slicked himself down, he ordered the cameraman to crank it up again.
    â€œHow do I look?” Dickie asked.
    â€œLike a champ,” the cameraman said thinly. The cameraman dreamed of the day when Dickie Lockhart would get shitfaced drunk and drop his drawers to moon his little ole fishing pals all across America. Then Dickie would fall out of the boat, as he often did after drinking. Afterward the cameraman would pretend to rewind the videotape and erase this sloppy moment, but of course he wouldn’t. He’d save it and, when the time was right, threaten to send it to the sports-and-religion network that syndicated Dickie Lockhart’s fishing show. Dickie would suddenly become a generous fellow, and the cameraman would finally be able to afford to take his wife to the Virgin Islands.
    Now, with the tape rolling, Dickie Lockhart was talking