MY MISSION

What makes a man? You may have thought to yourself, that’s easy — a beard makes a man. Well, I’m here to tell you that you are vastly mistaken. And this has nothing to do with my baby-faced bitterness of not being able to grow one.  For those of you who can grow a beard, I commend you. A beard is beautiful. A beard is rugged. But a beard does not make the man.

Maybe you didn’t go the beard route. Perhaps your idea of a man took on more of the spiritual sense. You thought the defining characteristic of a man was his attitude. Like his disregard for what is feasible, an utter refusal to ask for directions, or those three commonly used words of “I’ve got this”, when he most certainly “doesn’t have this.”  It is no question that men are idiots. Men are stubborn. But the attitude does not make the man.

If you said a man was a provider, then you are correct. But not in the traditional “Honey, I’m home” sense. Men are hunters. It’s in our DNA. And every millennial is not a man until they provide the world with a glimpse of a monster… fish. This doesn’t mean an acceptable sized fish that looks good on Snap Chat. I’m talking the kind of wall mounted monster that would make any Bass Pro Shop jealous. One that you can glance up at from your frozen Hungry Man dinner and proclaim with an open mouthful of Salisbury steak, “I got you, ya son of a bitch!” Becoming a man is my destiny. It’s my quest. Whether I wanted this or not, this is the only way to cement my legacy.

Obviously by reading this, you realize that I am not a man… yet. But this summer I am looking to change that. By all means, this quest to become a man has been enjoyable thus far. There is nothing more manly than waking up at the ass crack of dawn with a thermos full of crappy coffee in one hand and a fishing pole in the other. The hunt for a monster is invigorating and it makes one feel alive. In my head I feel like a grizzly bear about to snatch salmon out of a stream. But as manly as the idea of fishing makes me feel, it turns out — I ain’t no good at it. 

Socrates once said, “you can’t catch a fish without a line in the water.” The problem with that is — my line is usually in a tree.  I’m in the trees so much that you would have thought that I’d have caught a bird by now. There’s no getting around it, I suck at fishing! And honestly, I don’t know why I’m bad. I have shiny bait. I have stinky bait. I have any kind of adjective you can think of bait. Yet, I still have no monster to speak of.

I often lie awake at night and ponder upon my shortcomings. And it’s not just the insomnia: food has lost its taste, colors seem dull, and every time I see my friend’s fish photos on social media, I fall deeper into my emotional funk. Oh, and it’s not just my friends — it’s their kids too. Timeout for a second, there is nothing more adorable than seeing a child catch their first fish. I will always like every kid fishing picture or video that pops up in my newsfeed. I am not some kind of savage. But I will not pretend that I don't (for at least a millisecond) have the urge to shove those little bastards into the water for being better than me. 

This quest has taken over. I am putting the rest of my life on hold until I reel in a monster and make myself a man. If my parents truly want grandchildren, then they better make sure my tackle box is full. Because I, Jake Grothoff, am on a mission. A mission to become a man.