(ROCKWALL, TX – August 10, 2015) The bluegill; a small, often disregarded fish compared to the great gamers like the temperamental largemouth, the finicky trout, or the powerful striper. Also known as the bream, panfish, or (in Texas) the perch, it’s the fish of our childhood, and for most, the first fish we ever caught. They’re aggressive, voracious eaters, thriving in any puddle, pool, or pond. My old man was a bluegill PhD. Oh, he fought monsters like king mackerel off the coast and landed rod-breaking striped bass on the Tennessee River, but give that man a cane pole and a box of crickets and he was happiest. Fishing was our pastime every Wednesday in summer and 95% of the time we fished for the little fighters.
When I was a teenager, I’d sometimes take my closest friends fishing at my parents’ lake house in Tennessee; guys that I had known since third grade. Back then, I’d set up their poles, show them how to bait, and we’d load the boat. It was one of the few times they’d get to fish; it just wasn’t part of their upbringing. We’d putter out on Reelfoot Lake and catch crappie, catfish, and of course, the bluegill.
Eventually, we graduated moved on to college. That first semester at Memphis State University, we’d pass between classes (or skipping), but once we settled in life’s direction, we just sort of missed one another. Eventually, Brad headed off to medical school, Joseph joined the work force, and I graduated and moved to Texas seeking a graduate degree. Brad and Joseph became mere stories to my kids and 25 years passed. Funny, most of the folks I graduated with were in my classes since the first grade. Every year for 12 years, I saw them nearly every day and then nothing for a quarter of a century.
A friend messaged me in June wondering if we’d come to Memphis in July for a class reunion. The past gatherings had occurred during football season, which made it impossible to get away, but summer provided opportunity for the kids to see grandparents. Soon after they set the reunion date, Brad called, wondering if I’d like to go fishing while in town. He had bought a boat and became quite a bluegill connoisseur; he contacted Joseph and we set a time.
These guys had been a part of my life nearly every day of my childhood. We played baseball from little league to high school varsity. It had been too long, but when we met on the docks, I was shocked at how little had changed. We launched the boat and puttered into some coves. Brad tossed crickets, Joseph hunted bass, and I fly fished. A couple of caught fish interrupted the tangles, yet the conversation flowed for hours. Family, work, places we’d been; it was as if we’d just picked up from the last time we hung out.
I think that’s the beauty of bluegill fishing, and really fishing in general—I know that’s when Dad and I talked the most, when we grew deeper. Maybe that’s why he loved it so much; the little bluegill bridged relationship between father and son and has even brought old friends together after 25 years. So, some may think the little panfish are useless, too small to eat easily, or even a nuisance, a distraction from a trophy. Yet for me, they reunited childhood buddies after a 25 year gap. Now we have plans for future adventures— all surrounding the little fish, and that’s nothing worth disregarding.
By Blue Ribbon News guest columnist Scott Gill of Rockwall, a teacher, coach and author of Goliath Catfish. Follow Scott’s blog at scotttgill.tumblr.com and read all of his “Front Porch Ramblings” at BlueRibbonNews.com.
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