We yearn for anthill-sized apexes, silly jobs and things we can explain over drinks to people who aren’t listening. (Cough cough, Fare Filone.)
We sort ourselves into cliques and wage war in the cafeteria: tennis versus pickleball, PC Master Race versus console gamers. The moment I start my Garmin, I feel the urge to push people off their bikes.
This past weekend, my best friend got married at a fishing lodge. Fishing is a passion of his we’ve never shared. I’m more of an indoorsman, but in life it is important to do the right thing, so I did fishing.
Outside of the love I carry for my oldest friend, my loins burned to get into some gear and flick up.
Close to two months removed from reading The Sun Also Rises, the temptation to get into some waders and play Hemingway was too good to pass up.
I didn’t fully commit to the part. The Mets fitted was the closest thing I had to appropriate headwear.
The Apple Also Rises.
After his mom (hi Paula) took the obligatory little-boy pictures of us—him holding a pole, me with a net and a stick—my own pole felt like too much danger on a high-stakes day. In life, sometimes you’re Gaston and sometimes you’re LeFou.
Through years of overindulgence, I’ve decided there are four different ways to approach gear.
The vibes guy. They don’t own gear. This isn’t their thing. They do a good goof, don’t take themselves too seriously. Nobody would’ve watched Entourage without Turtle. Perfectly fine and, frankly, underrated.
Mr. Affirm. This guy blows. He always has the latest and greatest and still can’t figure it out. Every iron covered. He looks like a Peter Millar mannequin and still can’t get out of the tee box.
It’s not that fucking serious. Every blunder comes with a new excuse for why it’s not his day. He’ll probably rage quit, blame the beloved vibes guy, and the next time you see him he’ll have another getup with the tags still on it, ready to win the day.
This is the worst guy you can be.
It’s important to note that a lot of people start here. Full recovery is possible.
The Everyman. They have gear. It’s serviceable, and so are they. This is where most people fall. They have fits of romance, but it never really crosses the line into costume. (The pants came with the room, so no harm, no foul.) This is perfectly fine.
They could be an upwardly mobile vibes guy or a recovering Mr. Affirm.
Then we have the holy grail: The Natural. The person who has no gear and is somehow the best. Roy Hobbs carving his own bat from a tree split by lightning. The guy running a sub-three-hour marathon in old trainers with no smartwatch.
This is either something you’re born with, or you’re just a chill-ass old dude who’s been doing it so long it looks natural.
To just wake up and be good at something.
What a feeling.
Being allergic to fish, I’ve never had much utility in the hobby. That, combined with being more of a yapper than a relaxer, meant it was never really my thing.
But combine anything with one of my true passions—pants—and I can find joy in it.
I entered the Beaverkill River a vibes guy, though the way I strutted around in my waders suggests my sickness was already kicking in.
Frank, forever my counterpart, actually does outside. Not long ago, I watched him slide across a frozen lake in Vans on a different excursion while I held onto a burly Adirondack man for safety.
He had earned the pole. I had earned the net.
It turns out the waders were the only gear that had any real use that day, seeing as we didn’t manage to catch a single fish.
Gear is a gateway into worlds that can be intimidating without it. And what the hell is the point of doing something unless you’re going to play a little dress-up?
It’s lame to show up to the courts in all white like prime Fed, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t buy a pair of shoes to aid your overzealous grunting and forehands into the net. Isn’t that what we do it for?
Or, in my case, get some extra time with my guy on his big day, even if I did end up with wet socks.
-SP
Ofishally !!! my favorite Substack writer (and ofishiant)