I sat cross-legged in the backseat of the truck, my face pressed against the glass, eyes drifting over an endless sea of oil derricks dotted across the red dirt of Oklahoma. The long road home after a big bass tournament offers an angler a much-welcomed opportunity to unwind and bask in the high after a successful derby. Or, it can be a very cruel trip if you had a bad week. Your mind fills with all the defeats; all the anguish of mistakes made and opportunities missed.

On this particular November morning every mile up I-35 slogged along as I replayed each step of the tournament in my head. I hadn’t caught a single fish, and was on the edge of a meltdown. I wanted to sell every fishing-related piece of gear I owned, so I’d never have to suffer this kind of humiliation again.

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