Dog-Eared Pages

There was a time when my fingers seemed permanently covered in ink from the Bass Pro Shops catalog. While “Bass Pro” was never short on mailings, winter season brought the granddaddy of them all – the Master Catalog, thick as a brick and jam-packed with everything from pontoon boats to Indian moccasins.

I’d memorize the entire book by spring. It started with an ad for some resort I’d never see, but then go right into the boat section, saving the top-of-the-line bass boats for last. Next would be the rods and reels, then spinnerbaits, I think, then jigs, hardbaits and soft plastics. I’d comb over endless pages of lures again and again, fantasizing a massive tackle box stuffed to the gills.

Somewhere within this chapter would be a new bait I had to have. A craw worm with rattle chambers in the claws, or a floating Rat-L-Trap. And, my gosh, the Tornado. Part spinnerbait, part who-knows-what, photos confirmed a genius tinkerer named Shoestring Dubois invented this masterpiece somewhere deep in the bayou, hauling giant bass from every waterway he fished. I ordered two.

The Master Catalog. On annual trips to Florida, I’d spend 18 consecutive hours drooling over the pages. Each summer, my birthday money in hand, I’d somehow condense thousands of potential picks into one $50 order. I’d need several copies of the mail-in form, crossing off and erasing dozens of selections with my No. 2 pencil. When the dust finally settled, I’d be within a nickel of 50 bucks every time. Sometimes my mom would pay shipping, God bless her.

Then the waiting game began. In today’s world, mailing in an order is, of course, obsolete, but so is waiting weeks for the delivery. Eventually, though, I’d have my gear, disappointed at first glance with the size of the box, but immediately elated once I opened it. I’d dump the lures onto the kitchen table like a glutton at a buffet. The sight of the sparkly blades and fire-tiger paint jobs indulged my senses. The smell of fish-attracting juices was intoxicating.

Sometimes the packaging on certain baits would be worthy of collecting. Once in a while, a forward-thinking brand might include a sticker. Good Lord, these were more valuable than the lures themselves. Any sticker would immediately go on my tacklebox, crooked from being rushed, then later my boat, showing that I belonged. I was serious about this stuff, by God; more so than just some schmoe out there flailing around. Semi-professional, really.

This was before every bass angler began dressing up like the pros, with the embroidered shirts and all. The pros themselves were still sewing sponsor patches on their shirts. Not long after, of course, those patches made their way into the Master Catalog.

There we some notables, like Shimano and Uncle Josh. And there was this big bass club-type thing, where you could get a little patch for every lunker you supposedly caught. “10 Pound Club” one would say, or something like that, and the idea was that you’d get another and another each time you caught a big fish, until you sewed the whole sleeve of your shirt with these military-like badges. No verification of the catch was required.

Well, being a kid from Ohio and fishing in Florida six days a year, I had one 10-pound bass to my credit, so I got that 10-pound club patch and had my mom sew it on the sleeve of my fishing shirt. I wore it with pride to a friend’s birthday party that summer and received some pretty impressive looks.

Imagine how I shocked I was, though, when the next time I met my buddy to go fishing at the neighborhood pond, he showed up with a shirt full of badges There was the “5-Pound Club”, the 10, and even the “Over 13” patch. Thirteen? This kid had never left Ohio and could barely use a baitcaster. I had to teach him how to Texas-rig. He mounted a 3-pound smallmouth!

That taught me a lot about patches, awards and being the envy of your fishing peers. Later that night, I took my pocket knife to my fishing shirt, carefully cutting the stitches mom had sewn to my big bass patch, and tossing it in the garbage. A noticeable discolored area remained on the shirt where the patch once was. Mom would later cover it with a B.A.S.S. membership patch.

All summer, my buddy wore his rodeo clown suit covered with fictitious awards. Occasionally, a grown-up would comment how proud he must be to have caught so many big bass by the time he was 11 years old.

I’d spend nights combing through the catalog by flashlight when I was supposed to be sleeping. Somewhere in there was the answer to all of life’s questions. A roadmap to what really mattered.

Existence.

(Joe Balog is the often-outspoken owner of Millennium Promotions, Inc., an agency operating in the fishing and hunting industries. A former Bassmaster Open and EverStart Championship winner, he's best known for his big-water innovations and hardcore fishing style. He's a popular seminar speaker, product designer and author, and is considered one of the most influential smallmouth fishermen of modern times.)

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