A whopper of a fish tale

Resslin' Around, by Frank Ameduri

It's all about teamwork in the newsroom. Like any modern office environment, there are three bowling balls to be juggled for every available hand. When one of the hands is not available, like when Casey Ressler is out fishing, we don't complain. The team just snaps into action and picks up the slack. That's what I'm doing at this very moment, in fact.

You see, there's an unwritten rule in the newsroom that says, "Sure, you're entitled to vacation … but you'd better turn in all your work for the next two weeks, first." It's not fair, but this is the 21st Century, after all.

My good friend, and trusted colleague, Casey Ressler had planned a vacation from the middle of last week through this weekend. He's an avid fisherman, and he wanted to make sure he got at least one more good trip in before the weather turns. Part of the deal was Casey would write the column you're reading right now. Ah, fishing tales.

I knew something was up when Thursday morning rolled around and there was no Ressler column in my mailbox. He's normally right on top of things, so I wasn't too worried. When Friday morning arrived however, and there was still no "Resslin' Around" in my inbox, things got a little more tense. I had to make the call.

Casey sounded a little frazzled when he picked up the phone. I imagined he was hard at work on an award-winning column. Actually, his problems were a little more pressing. He'd just returned from a trout trip and was preparing for a weekend float. His waders had sprung a leak, so Casey was resslin' around trying to patch them.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Hold on," he huffed. There was a lot of grunting and something fell off a shelf. I heard Casey's young daughter, Maddie, laughing in the background.

"It's not funny, Sweetie-pie. Daddy's in trouble. Hand me those tin snips off the shelf over there." His voice sounded a little muffled, and there was a hint of alarm in it.

"No, Bunnyears, those aren't the tin snips. That's Daddy's John Elway doll, and I don't need that right now. I don't want John to see me like this."

"Casey," I said. "What's going on over there?"

"I'm patching a hole in my waders," he answered, a little out of breath.

"Why do you need tin snips to patch your waders?"

"I had a little problem with the adhesive, if you must know."

"Which part of your body is stuck to your waders?"

Silence.

"Casey?"

"My forehead, my left knee and my lower back are all stuck to my waders, OK? Are you happy?"

I wasn't happy. Casey's my good friend, and he was in trouble. How could he type a column with all those body parts stuck to his waders? It seemed physically impossible, but Casey's a pretty good typist. I had to ask.

"No," I said. "Of course I'm not happy. I'm very concerned. Are you going to be able to finish your column with those waders stuck all over you like that?"

Silence, again. Followed by some brightly colored language.

"Whoops," he said. "Daddy's sorry, Cupcake. Please don't repeat any of those words in front of Mommy -- or anybody else, for that matter. Frank," he continued, "I completely forgot about the column. I did catch the biggest trout of my life, however."

"That's nice, but I don't feel right putting a fish in the newspaper until at least two days after it's been printed. Any chance you'll snip yourself out of those waders in the next hour or so?"

"Anything's possible," he said, "But I'm not too optimistic. One of the boot heels just attached itself to my right eyelid. This is not at all how I'd envisioned this."

The last time Ressler tried to patch these waders, he nearly burned down his brother-in-law's shed. He claims he actually saved the shed, but if you've ever seen Ressler with a screwdriver in his hand, you'd know better.

"Why don't you just buy another pair of waders?" I asked.

"I can answer that with three more questions," he said. "Why didn't you ask me that yesterday? Why didn't you give me a raise so I could afford new waders, and why don't you mind your own beeswax?"

"Do you want me to write you column for you?"

"Well," he said. "I'm now curled up in a rubberized ball on the garage floor, and my daughter's hitting me with the rake. I suppose I could have her drag me up the stairs and stuff my keyboard inside the waders. If that doesn't sound reasonable to you, maybe you should start writing."

And thus I put on my team-player cap and started typing. That's what we do in a fine-tuned newsroom when our friends and colleagues are in trouble. And, Ressler, if you're reading this, I expect to see you at 6 a.m. Monday morning with or without pieces of wader stuck to your flesh.

Frank Ameduri has been know to exaggerate some of his stories, but you still shouldn't let Casey Ressler patch your waders.