Growing up sandwiched between two sisters, it was inevitable that I'd have brothers-in-law one day. Not a pretty thought given my sisters' taste in boys, but I figured to live far enough away by then that it wouldn't matter. As it turned out, I saw a lot more of my brothers-in-law than I ever imagined. 

Don't get me wrong: they aren't bad guys. In fact, I'm not sure that either of my sisters could have done much better. But, that doesn't mean they're perfect. Far from it. One, my younger sister's husband, has been lost more than Moses. His road trips are legendary. His nickname is borrowed from a traffic sign: Wrong Way. 

But, this isn't about Wrong Way. His problem has a solution: GPS. This is about my other brother-in-law. The one married to my older sister. The fisherman. 

We'll call the adult version Bill. I've known Bill since he was Billy. That'd be about fourth grade. (Wrong Way grew up in a neighboring town, and I'd never seen him before he started dating my sister. I always wondered how he managed to find her until it dawned on me that she must have found him.) 

Billy and I were in the same grade -- which means my sister was robbing the cradle -- and played Little League together. Actually, we played in the same four-team league, but we were on different teams. Billy played for Summerford Truck Lines and I played for Carpenter's Men and Boys.  

Billy got his first nickname in Little League. We were playing in a district all-star tournament, and Billy chased a foul ball up a steep embankment behind third base. Joe Pate, our shortstop and resident wit, put Billy and surefooted together and came up with Goat. 

Okay, so it's not exactly original. And, it works on only one level. Goat in baseball has another, more generic, meaning. Baseball goats are those unfortunate players who make crucial errors. Think of another Billy. Buckner. If I recall correctly, our Billy scrambled up that rise and made the catch. No goat there. It might have been the last popup he ever caught though. 

Billy was a basketball and track star in high school and worked as a lifeguard in the summers. For someone (me) who spent his days inside stocking shelves and bagging groceries, it seemed like a glamorous job. He also started dating my older sister which seemed less glamorous, but that's probably sibling rivalry talking. 

After high school, Bill went to work for Judy Bond, a textile manufacturer. Before long, he was a husband and father. And, a brother-in-law. Mine.

I went off to college, but returned home for holiday breaks and summers. Being a friend -- and a brother-in-law -- Bill got me a summer job with Judy Bond. Now, given that, what I'm about to say is probably going to sound ungrateful. But, there it is. 

See, Bill didn't just become a husband, father, brother-in-law, and blouse-maker. He also became a fisherman. And not just any fisherman. 

I know what you're thinking: that Bill became one of those weirdoes who equate a wasted weekend with enlightenment. I fish, therefore I am. Or, as the t-shirts proclaim, "Fishing is Life."

No, it was worse than that. Beyond philosophy. Approaching religion. And, Bill, bless his soul, wanted to share it.     

Now, I've got a Type A personality. I don't like to sit still for long periods. Even outside. And, I'm results oriented. Fishing is mostly process. All means, no ends. At least in my experience. 

But, Bill could be persuasive.  First, he'd harangue me with fish stories.  "You should have been with me last weekend.  They were practically jumping into the boat.  Heck, I got worn out just reeling them in."  I'd express skepticism and he'd look hurt.  "No, listen, I'm not exaggerating.  It's almost like they catch you."

When that didn't work, he'd try bribery. "I'll get a six-pack and bring some sandwiches. And, you can drive the boat. If they're not biting, we'll leave early."

Nice try, but no. Then, he'd start to whimper. It wasn't pretty. So, I'd give in. 

As you can see, Bill took his fishing seriously.  That means we had to roll out of bed at 0 Dark Thirty and be on the river by dawn.  If any fish were awake at that ungodly hour, we never caught any of them. 

In fact, that's the nub of the problem: we never caught any fish at all. Never  None. Oh, Bill caught thousands of fish. Boatloads. He just never caught any when I was along. And, that's what I couldn't understand. Why drag me along if all I brought was bad luck? 

As he moved up the corporate ladder with Judy Bond -- all the way to plant manager -- he splurged on a sleek, powerful (and expensive) bass boat. He looked at that bass boat the way teenage boys look at a Playboy centerfold. I'm not sure that he didn't carry pictures of it in his wallet.

The day came, however, when I noticed that the bass boat was missing from Bill's garage. When I mentioned it, I swear that his lips trembled and his shoulders slumped. Now, I could tell you what happened to that bass boat, but you don't really want to know. Trust me on this.

Eventually, I moved far enough away that I only got home once or twice a year and then not for very long. Bill finally stopped asking me to go fishing. 

Having given up on me, Bill talked my young son into a fishing trip. I tried to warn him, but he had visions of fish dancing in his head. Alas, none of those fish ended up dancing at the end of his line. Bill was at a loss to explain their failure. After all, they'd been jumping into the boat the week before. 

I finally put two and two together, and while they added up to something fishy, it wasn't a boatload of fish. No, what I smelled was a fish story. Oh, Bill had a few Polaroid's of him holding up fish and grinning, but anybody can borrow (or buy) a fish for a photo-op. Heck, with Photo-Shop, even I could be a Bass Master.

I should have just let it go, but I didn't. I started calling him Fishless. That was wrong. Not wrong about him, but wrong of me to tease him. Anyway, I have no proof that Bill didn't catch all 208,204 fish that he claims. It wouldn't be the first miracle involving a mess of fish.