A Meditation

Growing up, my dad often took my brother and I fishing; not an unusual experience for a young girl in East Texas mind you. My dad would set up my line for me and thread some worm on the hook and even cast it for me, until I got old enough to realize that casting was at least ninety percent of the fun and I wanted to do it myself. I still let him take care of the worms and hooks though; no need to be too logical about independence. The pond was so small, you could almost throw your line from one bank to the other but had to be quick about reeling your hook across as there were only shallow lanes that were stump-free. We learned the map of that glorified puddle quickly, but still spent hours at a time in the hypnotic rhythm of cast and reel. Most days, we would catch just enough for my dad to clean and for my mom to fry up, and some days there just wouldn't be any bites at all. Whenever this happened, I had a tendency to believe that if I just kept moving around, I would find where the fish were hiding. It also sticks in my memory, just so, that every time I would move to a different bank, my brother or my dad would catch a fish in the exact spot I had just left. I'm guessing that my memory is slightly myopic on this point, but there's no arguing rationally with the certainty of injustice. There was one day in particular that is gilded in the light of perfection, however. It seemed like the surface of the pond was boiling with all the fish bouncing around the surface. Who knows what suicidal bent had taken over the poor fish, but I got to the point that I simply hovered my hook over the surface of the water right at the bank and let them catch themselves. It was almost like they were in a tidy line underwater, taking their turns jumping up to catch hold of the glittering god of their mass delusion. Of course, crazy fish still make good eating.

Poker players out there will roll their eyes as I make the obvious analogies to be had in these few images, but please allow them anyway. It is terribly relevant to compare the rhythms of poker and the strategies of hooking the big ones to fishing. I'm certainly not novel in my application of the metaphor as it is common to call bad players "fish"; horrific players being referred to as "whales" just by the way. What I'm guessing is one of the unspoken strengths of the metaphor, however, is the strength of meditation. Having experienced it myself and also having enjoyed the company of great amateur fishermen, I know this to be one of the silent appeals of the sport. Hours of quiet and nerve untying rhythms. Pulling up a piece of shade and letting the peaks of excitement when catching one take you and then bring you right back to the quiet waiting. It is essential to being a successful poker player to have this quiet within you and to return to it after every ebb and flow. It is simply too easy to get carried along with the disappointments or strokes of good luck and to lose sight of the fact that poker is best played as an act of patience. Waiting for the perfect moment to sink the hook.