The Bass The Weigh Master Threw Out

The last Thursday of October, the board and about forty members crowded into the community room at the Mount Ida fire station, folding chairs in rows and a coffee urn on a table.

I had filed the written protest on Monday, one page, signed by me and by Hubert and Earl and Ellen and Sam. The president, Lonnie Teague, a retired shop teacher I had known since junior high, read it aloud in a flat voice and asked if Rick wanted to respond.

Rick stood up. He was gray in the face. He said the ruling had been a judgment call. He said he had seen the boy’s father on the bank and drawn a conclusion. He said he had been weigh master nine years and never had a complaint.

“Nobody’s questioning nine years,” Lonnie said. “We’re asking about one fish.”

Then he asked if anyone else had anything to add, and I thought it was going to end there, with a lot of men looking at their boots and a vote that went along with the chair.

A chair scraped at the back.

It was Brady. He was in a clean flannel shirt, with his hair wet-combed, and his mother was behind him with her hand on the back of his chair, white as paper. He stood up, fourteen years old and all legs, and his voice shook, and he did not look at his father once.

“I was in the next cove over,” he said. “I saw Caleb land that fish. He was by himself. Nobody helped him. Nobody was in that boat but him.” He swallowed. “I knew it was a record when I saw it come up. And then I got first place, and I didn’t beat him. I didn’t beat anybody.”

You could have heard a pin drop in that room.

“I’m not keeping the trophy,” Brady said. “It’s still in the box. I want it to go to the right person. That’s all I wanted to say.”

He sat down. Lorna’s hand came down on his shoulder, and I saw her face crumple, and then straighten.

Lonnie Teague cleared his throat twice. “Motion to certify the fish at six pounds, two ounces, and to name Caleb Wilder the winner of the fall youth day?”

“So moved,” said Hubert Cole, from the third row, before the last word was out.

“Second,” Earl said.

The vote was thirty-four to two. The two were men whose sons fished the same bracket, and I did not hold it against them.

Lonnie did not stop there. “Second motion,” he said. “That the weigh master’s call on any protest be reviewed by two board members at the scale, effective right now, and that the weigh master position be put up for a vote of the membership.”

I watched Rick. He sat very still. Then he stood, and he did not wait for anyone to ask.

“I’ll step down,” he said. “I’ll hand over the scale and the clipboard tonight.” His voice broke on the last word. “I did wrong. I’ll live with it.”

He kept his eyes on the door. Not on me, and not on Lorna. He walked out the side door into the lot, and I heard his truck start.

That was all. No apology to my son, no hand held out across the room, and I will say that plainly, because some people want it to end in a hug. It did not.