The bluegill was airborne, yanked from the pond by a combination of Superman’s super strength and my grandson Malachi’s enthusiasm.
First fish.
I wanted to freeze the moment, frame the scene and mount the bluegill. But if you have ever been anywhere with a 4-year-old boy, you know there is no pause button in his genes. Grandpa was more sentimental than the fisherman, who was on to his next cast and his next fish within seconds.
First fishing trip.
We were at a friend’s back-yard pond in Warrenville, the closest thing I can imagine to a can’t-miss fishery for a child. This was an important ingredient because my little guy’s attention span is shorter than a TV commercial break. If it’s not happening now, he’s on to the next game. The super slick fishing gear was a $10.96 Superman rod purchased the day before, appropriate because Malachi is going through a super-hero phase at the moment.
It is fair to say that until his Illinois summer visit, despite growing up in Alaska, Malachi had devoted far more energy to thinking about Spider-Man, Batman and other prominent good guys than he had bluegill, bass or catfish, our potential fishing menu.
The night before our trip, I read Malachi a get-in-the-mood, bedtime story called “Adventures with Jonny: Let’s Go Fishing!” by Michael DiLorenzo, a Michigan-based children’s writer. The story is about a dad who takes his young son fishing, but also includes fishing tips for parents and pictures and descriptions of traditional gear. Just as the story does, DiLorenzo plans to write additional books pairing parents and children in fishing and other outdoor activities.
The story’s magic neatly bridged the picture book and the fishing trip for us. On the morning of Malachi’s adventure, he announced, “I’m going to try to catch a bluegill.”
This was a tag-team chaperone effort. To teach Malachi, who has the lungs of a tuba player and the energy of a power plant, and to make sure he did not fall into the water, choke on bait or strangle anyone with the fishing line, I was aided by my sister, Barbara, and Chauncey Niziol of the Illinois Outdoor News Network, who has conducted many fishing classes for kids.
“Let’s go fishing!” Malachi yelled, as he climbed into the car with his Superman rod tucked under his arm.
When I was Malachi’s age, growing up in Boston, I had no one to fish with and so did not take up the sport until much later. Bob Long, the Chicago Park District’s “fishing guy,” likes to say that if a kid is taught how to fish young he always will come back to it later in life, but if he does not learn by the time he is 10, he probably never will fish. This was Lesson 1 for Malachi.
Chauncey kept Malachi’s hook baited with wax worms, Barbara prevented him from swinging the hook wildly into anyone’s carotid artery and I snapped pictures and beamed as my pal, waist-high on an adult, brought in bluegill after bluegill.
“I got another fish!” he shouted. “Yeah! I want to catch another fish!”
Go for it, buddy.
Malachi jumped up and down, caught another fish, and yelled again, “It’s green!”
Bait the hook, throw the line, catch the fish. Oh, if it was only so easy all of the time. One day the boy will learn a key attribute of being a fisherman is patience.
“I got a fish again!” said Malachi, who when excited speaks only in high decibels.
Each bluegill caught was released. As a bluegill was freed carefully from the hook and grasped around the middle, Malachi recoiled, fearful of being bitten. Then one fish dangled from the hook in front of his face and he said, “I want to eat it.”
Uh, it’s not cooked.
Barbara teased Malachi, telling him not to kiss a fish, as if it never happens. Ha. Tell that to the winner of the Bassmaster Classic.
“How come you don’t kiss a fish?” Malachi asked.
Well, at least not on the first date.
My biggest worry was that we would drive to the fishing pond and 10 minutes into our stay Malachi would lose interest. Niziol gave him 20 minutes tops. But Malachi did not burn out. He hauled in 20 fish in 45 minutes and only the sound of thunder hinting at an approaching storm provoked us to pack up.
I don’t know if we made a fisherman out of The Bluegill Kid, but it was difficult to interpret all of the smiles and squeals as adding up to anything besides a good time. And the next day, when Malachi woke up, he said, “I want to go fishing again.”
Just you, me and Superman, kid.
———-
lfreedman@tribune.com
