Finished

Timothy Fleming sat on a bed with worn-white sheets, questioning what good he was. Everyone wants to give something back or at least feel like he's altered the world in some fashion. Previously, he thought he was a talented athlete. As a little boy, his tee-ball coach bragged about how fast he was. He could outrun all of the boys on his street. He beamed with pride at his natural ability. He made his speed a defining characteristic as he aged. But he never wanted to rest on his laurels. A coach told him the fastest runners in the world aren't either born or made. They're both. He trained rigorously, beefed up his muscles, and read copiously on the mechanics of running. He took all the best paths in competitions and concentrated as singularly on excelling a possible. Throughout high school, he moved up the rankings in his state.

Timothy never bothered with his classes. He did enough to avoid academic probation, but otherwise was disinterested. His only acquaintances were other runners, but he rarely had time to socialize. Even on the long intrastate bus rides, he would close his eyes and imagine the courses over and over with Wagner playing in his ear buds. The local media covered the state race in his senior year. The sportswriters speculated that Timothy Fleming was bound for the Olympics. Careening around the track earlier that day, Timothy knew he was on state record pace. He felt strong. He heard the metal of his spikes dig into the rubberized surface, the frantic clacks of his opponents, and his measured respiration. The strands of blond hair fluttered atop his head. In the moment, everything was as it should be. Crossing the finish line, he completed the race faster than anyone ever had in his home state. Hands slapped his back and his coach embraced him with his sweaty, hairy arms.

A pronounced sense of accomplishment never formed in Timothy's mind. High school competitions are child's play. Legends aren't made in Springfield, Illinois. He wanted to set world-records. He needed to train more. His body had more developing to do. Then he could captivate larger audiences. They'd be in awe of his speed just like his tee-ball coach. Before the other events were over, Timothy was already thinking about how many reps he needed to do on the leg press tomorrow. Ascending the steps to the bus for the long ride home, a teammate called, "Congrats, Timmy!" He turned his head around to scan for the face that matched the voice. Distracted, he clipped the edge of the second step. Quickly bringing his leg down to regain his footing, his knee joint gave. All the sinews in his knee tore, shooting pain up the relays to his brain. As Timothy fell forward in a heap, he knew his ACL and MCL were torn and hoped he was dying.

Waiting in an emergency room bed wearing a white gown with sky-blue small polka dots, Timothy wondered. Is it possible for a person to have a talent that goes unfulfilled? Nobody cares about high school records. I have nothing now. No prospects. I'm not good at anything else. What a waste of space!

Hooked

Jonathan lightly pinched the wriggling worm between his index finger and thumb. Its slick segmented body squirmed about as he drove the tip of a fishhook through it. What is this poor worm thinking? Jonathan thought as he gazed for a moment at the hook. Oh well. It's for a greater cause.

Jonathan's grandfather, William, commanded his pre-teen kinsman to cast his bait into the water before it wore itself out. The bobber soon made a soft smacking sound as it crashed into the surface of the water. Though there was not another soul for miles, the area around the pond was teeming with noise. The cicadas and crickets combined into a muddled cacophony. The two of them sat in well-worn folding chairs in the back of a well-worn red truck.

Jon and Bill spent hours in the back of Bill's truck. Nary a word was spoken between the two of them. They stared at their respective floating pieces of plastic as the sky around them went from pink to yellow. Once nine o'clock came, they both reeled in what was left of their bait, closed the styrofoam container that housed the nightcrawlers, and reentered the cab. A fifteen minute jaunt and they were back to the cottage.

Jon lacked the stomach to eviscerate fish. Bill, being a compassionate man, never forced him to. As a result, all the fish that were caught were shortly thereafter thrown back. It was enough for Jon to spend a week's worth of mornings with his grandpa in the back of a a truck.

Given the small size of the fishing hole the Westinghower's frequented, it was inevitable that the same fish were caught more than once. The last summer that Jonathan fished with William, he reeled in a particular blue gill for the second time. Carefully grabbing it around its spiny fins, Jon was dismayed by the fish's appearance. Years ago, William had promised a younger Jonathan that the fish quickly healed from their wounds owing to the cleanliness of the water they lived in. The particular fish he held then in his hands showed no such regenerative abilities. It hopelessly puckered the remaining half of its lower jaw as the gleam of brass shined out of its right eye. Previously maimed in the mouth, it now suffered the degradation of blindness. Jon became queasy at the sight. I'll never fish again! This poor fish! Caught twice and for what?! Only to be thrown back and caught again next year?

Unsure of what to do next, Jon held the fish in his hand. Bill, noticing his grandson's hesitation, asked him for his catch. As carefully as possible, Bill removed the burred hook from the blue gill's face. He tossed it into the pond. It landed with a splash and flourish of motion as it dove back into the murky depths.

"I want to go home."
"It's not nine yet."
"I know that, but I want to go home."
"Are you upset about that fish?"
"I don't want to fish any more."
"Because that fish is a little worse for the wear?"
"For God's sake grandpa, he can't eat or see right anymore!"
"He got two meals out of the deal."
"You're inhumane! I want to go home!"
"What does humanity have to do with fish?"
"We shouldn't just hurt animals for the fun of it."
"We weren't trying to hurt animals, were we?"
"Being stabbed must hurt."
"If you can figure out a better way to bring them out of the water so we can get a better look at them, I'm all for it. As it is, we have to skewer them a little."
"We don't fish to see fish better."
"We don't? Well, what do we do it for?"
"I don't know."
"Because you wanted to when you were younger. You were all sorts of excited at the opportunity to go on a fishing expedition in the great unknown of your grandparent's farm."
"Well, I've seen enough of the farm."
"Have you seen enough of your grandpa?"
"If it means we have to hurt innocent animals, yes."
"You didn't have an issue hooking the worms. They are the ones that great the real raw deal out of this activity. They get gored only to be eaten."
"All the more reason not to fish anymore."
"Pain isn't so bad. You shouldn't let it have the only say in deciding whether to do something or not. Sometimes pain is worth it."
"What does a fish--or a worm--get out of being apart of our game?"
"Like I said, the fish gets a little meal. It gets to live a little longer. As for the worm, well...it's more of a sacrifice. We thank it for letting us have time together."
"I don't think the worm is busy thanking us."
"You think the worm is busy holding it against us?"

Jon paused thinking for a while. He could see his grandfather was getting the upper hand in the conversation and opted for obstinacy rather than continue to reason with him.

"Can we please go home?"
"Fine."

The two fishermen shared a quiet ride home, and never went out to the pond again.