BURR OAK LAKE – The text message from a fishing buddy squashed our plans for a Buckeye Lake adventure on a Sunday afternoon. My boat and truck were ready to go when the day went south faster than a Friday afternoon paycheck. I quickly moved to Plan B only to see it derailed because that fishing buddy already had plans for the day. No big deal, I told myself; I always enjoy my own company. Of course, any plan that involves a boat being pulled by a truck is dependent upon one small but necessary item, a key.
Specifically, it would be the key that starts my Tundra. Somewhere from the front seat of my truck to my barn, my keys were playing hide-and-seek. And they were winning. From 11:45 a.m. to 1:20 p.m., I searched in vain until I thought I was going to pop one.
When you have looked in the same place five times with the identical result, the edge of reality is dangerously close. Small victories in light of losing an entire day of fishing are all that kept me searching. Found a credit card in my recliner, a left glove under the couch, and a map of Rough River Lake in my sock drawer. I even found the two lens protectors that fit over my crossbow scope and a phone charger that had been missing for two years, but no keys.
When I opened a boat compartment I had previously searched 12 times, the keys were under a life jacket. Instead of driving 45 minutes to Buckeye Lake, I made the 15-minute run to Burr Oak. It was 2 o’clock by the time I launched the Skeeter.
Anglers were everywhere. Bobber-watching bank fishermen and boaters were all enjoying the great outdoors as I headed for one of my favorite Burr Oak spots. When I reached my destination, two kayak guys were already there. It looked like a man and a boy, but everybody is the same height in a kayak. Then I saw the boy lift a nice crappie. With my trusty camera aboard ship, I decided to snap a few photos that might prove useful for a future story.
“Guys, I’m Doug Clifford. I’m an outdoor writer. Care if I take a couple pics?”
“Well, you used to be Coach Clifford who coached a defensive end named Kroc.” The beard, sunglasses, and ball cap hid the kayaker’s identity until he called himself Kroc. It was Kyle Fleming. His 14-year-old son James was in the other kayak. Fishing lost all importance as Kyle and I filled in the blanks of a quarter century since he was one of my position players at Crooksville High School.
“Have you taught the lad all the important skills a 50 strong side defensive end needs?” I asked Kyle.
“Coach, he’s a hockey player,” said Kyle as he shook his head in disbelief. “And he’s a pretty good goalie.”
“You mean you are raising a child with no I.Q.?” I teased. When I caught James chuckling, I realized he had inherited his father’s sense of humor. James had released the first crappie before I came into camera range, but soon had another one on the hook.
Kyle told me his wife and daughter were at the campground. They’re teachers at Shaker Heights High School in the Cleveland area, where between 500-600 students will graduate this spring. Kyle teaches history while his wife teaches art and digital photography.
“Coach, I have two kids in high school,” he told me. “The time has gone so fast.”
As Kyle continued talking about his son and daughter, I was in total rewind. I remembered how Kyle had earned his starting spot on defense his senior year, but playing both ways for the first time had caused his defensive play to falter. The head coach told me, “A strong side end has to be a man in this defense and Kyle just isn’t that guy.”
I asked my boss to give Kyle one more week, and that’s all I was given. That Monday at our position meeting, I told Kyle his play wasn’t good enough. Said the head coach says we need a man to play strong side end. Told Kyle he had one week to prove he deserved to play.
I had never seen a face display shock, despair, and grim determination in such a short span of time. The next game Kyle earned his position for the second time that year, and despite a severe knee injury, he stayed at strong side defensive the rest of the season. After the season, he had a surgical date with Lisa Lowery, the orthopedic surgeon who repaired his knee.
If not for lost keys I would have gone to Buckeye Lake and missed a chance to walk through a life I used to live. I have never been one for living in the past, but meeting “Kroc” had me recalling the young men I had the privilege to coach over a 30-year career.
It’s a good thing those memories are coming back because I sure can’t remember how to catch a bass.
This article originally appeared in the Perry County Tribune.