Fishing with any kind of consistency is itself a major achievement. Anglers know only a few things about bass. Bass like structure (docks, for instance); they like a nice, cool spot in the shadow of a tree; they like an easy meal. "They're like people," Monroe says. "A pizzaman shows up at your doorstep with a pizza, and you ain't gotta pay for it, you're gonna eat it." The idea is to get a bite, determine precisely how you got that bite, then develop a pattern around that bite (which, come to think of it, is also how a car salesman moves Chevys). "The only thing about that is that fish are unpredictable," he says. It's not light work, either. After two days – 16 hours – of fishing, Monroe's right leg aches from leaning on the trolling motor's pedal. The muscle between his right thumb and index finger has locked up. His hands are cut, his fingers hurt, and he just took an Excedrin for his head. "Put it this way," Coleman says. "Those people who say bass fishing isn't a sport? They have no fucking clue."
The sheer difficulty of the sport – of trying to make rent money off the whims of a few ugly fish – seems to give even Monroe doubts about his choice of career. His youngest half-brother is starting to fish, and Monroe says he'd like him to get involved in the sport, but not too involved. "My mom takes him fishing, and I tell her to do it as much as she possibly can, because he'll end up like me," he says. "I'd love for my brother to end up like me, as far as not having the whole drugs thing, not getting into trouble, never going to jail. But as far as fishing for a living? No. I want him to have a real job." He laughs a little. "A real life."
James Sanders
Sports Illustrated says Monroe "is
changing the face of competitive bass
fishing."
James Sanders
Signing autographs at Clear Lake.
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But then Monroe has a good day like this, in the final round at Clearlake, and Mr. Consistency cashes another check. His non-boater for the day is Bob Sweeney, who has lung disease and a bad back. In the afternoon, as the day grows hot and Monroe complains that the theme from Shaftis stuck in his head, he steers his boat into the weedy corner of a marina, where he pitches over the railing of what looks like a small footbridge. Within minutes he sticks a keeper, and in one deft motion flips it up over the post, and into the boat. Then he does it again. Can you dig it? "That was cool," Sweeney says later. "I was sitting back there laughing. Just laughing. I had to get my breathing machine out."
Monroe winds up with five fish weighing 11 pounds, 9 ounces, giving him 22nd place overall and a $1,450 check. At the weigh-in, Fishburne, again the MC, says, "Ish has not been a happy camper this week." But at the moment Monroe doesn't look unhappy, and for the next few minutes he and Fishburne banter about Monroe's girlfriend, and then Monroe steps down from the stage. A black man shakes his hand, and a white guy sitting in a canvas chair says, "See you next spring, Ish." Monroe walks along a roped-off path with his bag of fish, and all around him the fans have taken up nice, cool spots in the shadows of trees, and the kids bounce from dock to dock with lures in their hats, as if they had just been hooked.
