While the fog wisped off Kentucky Lake to reveal a rolling, silhouetted landscape, my mind remained socked in a haze. I was running so low on fumes no energy drink could throttle me up. I tried—32 ounces worth. My tournament partner and I were, nevertheless, methodically casting along a flooded shoreline, searching for the first bite of our season-opening collegiate bass tournament.
We’d left campus in Madison, Wisconsin, the previous afternoon...