BASS photo

Cresson, Tex. (by way of Syracuse, New York) – Helen of Troy may have had the face that launched a thousand ships, but Bassmaster Elite Series pro Chad Griffin is one up on her. Not only did he pocket a check for a hundred grand, enough to stock a third world country with Ezee jigs and beat up Zell Pops, but apparently his mug, and his fishing, inspired the bards of the Great White North New York to put pen to paper.

It would all make sense if the winning angler had been Matt Sphar, or another resident of the Empire State, but Griffin’s something of a frontier state nomad – born and raised in Alaska, learned to fish in his early twenties in the nation of Texas.

So how the hell did we get to the point where the largest portion of his fan club resides in and around Syracuse, home of the Carrier Dome. It wasn’t Syracuse Orange that earned him his fame; it was four days of limits of Oneida brown and green, big limits of bass that surprised many of the locals and other northerners.

Steve Gerrish of Hanover, Massachusetts watched Griffin all weekend in his Lund. He had no idea who Griffin was. In fact, he previously didn’t know much about professional bass fishing, but he left as Griffin’s number one New England rooter. As he later told Chad’s dad Gene: “I witnessed your son’s actions on the water, at the boat ramp and at the weigh-in last weekend…and he is a true professional, gentleman and champion.”

With all apologies to Billy Joel, it appears that if you really want to understand the (upstate) “New York State of Mind,” it’s Gerrish’s friend John Cooley, Director of Recreation for Onondoga County Parks (which include Oneida Shores, where the weigh-ins were held) who has Griffin’s number. Griffin caught most of his fish within a long cast of Cooley’s house, in an area that they’ve since renamed “Chad’s Cove.” It inspired Cooley so much that he wrote a poem about it in time for Christmas. Chad got his best Christmas present in August, but this one ain’t bad, either.

[We here are Wired2Fish take no credit for any poem that doesn’t include the word “Nantucket.”]

The Day After Bass Tour

(to The Night Before Christmas)

‘Twas the dog days of summer and all through the ‘Cuse

The visitors were golfing, with results an excuse

The rods were all strung in the boats with care,

In hopes that the lunkers still would be there

The pros were nestled all snug in their beds

While visions of big stringers danced in their heads

And Steve plus the girls and I in the heat,

Repeatedly said the A-C felt neat

When out in Bay Maple there arose surface clatter,

We went to the dock to see what was the matter

Onto the lake we flew like a flash,

Tore open the boxes and threw ocean- type trash

The next morn at sunrise we were first to the punch

And landed a few (yet said ‘twas a bunch!)

Then what to our sleepy eyes should show

An ESPN chopper, and those chasing ‘water dough’

Looks like a young Texan, so anxious yet glad

We knew for certain it was the Griffin lad, Chad

More rapid than (BC) eagles the green fish they hit,

And largemouth, too, the ZellPop they bit

Now there’s one…another…three pounders…four

On this cast….on that one…he’ll get many more

To the top of the standings, to the Elite Series crown

Now the $100k winner is toast of the town

The next night before the hot spot went dry,

Johnny U. and the Cooz thought let’s give this a try

So to nearby Gander Mountain they flew,

There was one Excalibur Chartruese still there, whew!

In virtually a twinkle, we saw the first flash,

Then leaping and jumping as angry bass crashed

As I landed a beauty, and was turning around,

Johnny latched onto another, which took a great bound

The bass were all beautiful, and hitting you bet

Eel Isle was as hot as the firey sunset

The ‘cool’ yellow shirt was drenched on my back,

At home after dark Deb gave a bit of wife slack

My bald head now twinkled! My pimples were cherry!

This was fishing nirvana, vacation without care-y!

Even a rookie like Michael wanted to be at the bow,

So on Friday at camp we continued the show

The doubt of my stories was clear on his face,

As we motored to the world’s new best bass place

Mike tried a limp cast and said he had one,

Had to be weeds, thought this son of a gun

This beauty was chubby and plumb, a right jolly nice catch

And I laughed as I helped him, like a pup playing fetch

‘Cause I had one too, then Mike’s shook his head

And into my hand, the razor hooks did imbed!

Mike spoke not a word, thought this is like work,

Then took off both bass and called Jon a jerk

And back at the camp they did find some pliers,

And giving a squeeze, made his bro’ into a crier

But they went back on Oneida, to the bass gave a whistle,

A sure enough more finned into action like a thistle.

So now we exclaim on Christmas ’09 ,

Here’s your own Excalibur, may your next outing be fine!