For any tournament angler, it’s the sickest feeling in the world: trying to compete without a clue. You’ve tried everything you can think of, but nothing seems to work.
You’re exposed, vulnerable … and your competition can sense it. It’s called “fishing scared,” and it’s taken down more anglers than you can count, including me.
Recently, during the Toledo Bend Elite event, I fell victim to this dreaded disorder. I thought I had prepared myself well enough, but as the tournament unfolded, I realized I was reduced to a point of merely trying to survive. Winning, or even making the cut, was completely out of the picture.
Worst of all, much of it was self-inflicted.
Tremor in the Water
My record on Toledo Bend is weak at best. Although I’ve made a few checks there, I’ve missed more cuts than I care to admit. In fact, I finished dead last when the tour visited there several years ago.
Somehow, though, I thought this time it would be different. The water was up and many of the fish were shallow. I was confident I could do well by simply fishing my strengths.
Man, was I ever wrong!
Throughout practice, I plied a variety of shallow-water techniques and felt I had zeroed in on a solid flipping pattern. But as the competition got underway, I quickly realized I had a problem: my percentage of fish hooked to fish landed was piss poor. The cover was so thick, I lost nearly every quality fish I had on.
Having nothing to fall back on, I tried to salvage things by covering more water — but that led to fishing too fast, which made matters worse. The clock was ticking on one of the best bass lakes in the country, and I had little to show for it.
When I got to the scales, my worst fears were realized. I was more than 4 pounds below the cut. And, as if losing all those fish wasn’t painful enough, I soon learned that several of the leaders were doing exactly as I was — flipping heavy cover.
The next day, rather than making some adjustments, I went back to flipping and losing more fish. It was an exercise in futility.
In the end, I finished 104thin a 108-man field — the second worst finish of my Elite Series career.
Pattern of Failure
When the series visited Lake Wheeler just a few weeks earlier, I fell into the same rut.
Going in, I believed I could catch the right grade of fish by throwing topwaters over shallow bars along the main river channel — the exact method and location used by eventual winner, Takahiro Omori.
I finished sixth using that same pattern in a previous event there. I felt it couldn’t fail.
Soon after trying, however, I couldn’t get any results with the topwater. So I gave it up to try other techniques and areas. As practice wound down, I was, again, at a point of merely trying to survive the event.
In the end, I finished an abysmal 82nd.
When I heard how the tournament was being won, I wanted to shoot myself. I had the winning game plan going in, but I failed to stick with it long enough to make it pay. Simply put, I lost confidence and went looking in another direction — the wrong direction — and I got what I deserved.
It seems when things are going your way — and especially when it’s happening with consistency — you feel almost invincible. Everything is in sync, and your confidence soars. It’s the greatest feeling a competitor can have. But when that feeling fades, things can quickly spiral out of control.
I sometimes see it in the faces of my competitors. When something critical is on the line — like making a cut or qualifying for the Classic — they’ll have a look of worry, of angst. I know because I’ve had that look. And that look is only a subtle indication of what’s going on internally — the tip of an emotional iceberg.
In the truest of terms, it’s the fear of failure. A fear so intense, it permeates the mind. And no matter how hard you try to fend it off, it seems there’s nothing you can do. At that point, you’re at your most vulnerable.
If only there was a quick remedy.
Unfortunately, there’s not … at least not one I’m aware of. It seems like it takes a series of positive events in order to suppress it. Luckily, there’s always another tournament … another chance for redemption.
British writer John Buchan wrote, “The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope.” I couldn’t agree more.