Mick hated fishing. Slimy fish, wiggly worms, hot sun, long boring hours—when you finally catch one, you toss it back cuz it’s too small. Watching his bob bounce in the water, he imagined burning down the local fish-and-tackle.
A tug on his line dragged him from his reverie. Jumping up and down, he reeled it in.
“Grampa, Grampa, look! I got one.”
“You got yourself a live one! That’s my boy!”
Fat and wiggly and about as long as his arm, the bass struggled so hard Mick could barely hold it.
He grinned up at Grampa. He loved fishing.
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