Tim Zdrazil
@BassFisher3k
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Fair warning.... This is not purely about fishing, but it is very much a fishing story and will shed some light on how I came to love this sport the way that I do... This is a very emotional thing for me to share, but it is time for me to close some final chapters in my own emotional vault... To my family past and present, I am telling my truth in the way I have too. I would never disparage the man I came to love as a second father. To truly honor the dead I believe it is crucial to tell the true tale of who they were from each person's view. I tell the truth to honor him and heal me. Also please understand that everything you are about to read here is absolute truth and meant to tell the real story of a truly great man who unfortunately had many demons... His demons became my demons by default because I virtually worshiped this wildly difficult man... I love him and miss him every day...
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Robert Matthew Chambers was my bonus dad. He left this world 5 years ago, and I haven't been quite the same since. Matt came into my life around the age of 10 and was a huge force in my life until the day he died. I owe virtually everything outdoors related to Matt. Matt taught me to shoot, hunt, golf, and most importantly fish. While I owe my first fishing memories to my grandfather they were always salt water moments. Although having just written that, I remember being on a lake in Louisiana near Angola prison with grandmother and grandfather. (Hey mom any clue?) But Matt taught me everything about Bass. Matt was a master at the craft. He had a slow and methodical approach to bass fishing that I still try to emulate (poorly) today. He flat caught fish. In the one year I remember him fishing club level events, he won the majority of the events that year. Like all clubs (sorry I have no patience for club drama), he was accused of cheating. Silly idiots. He was that good... period... end of story... He was that good at almost everything he did. He could have been a professional golfer, baseball player or bass fisherman had his life and choices been different.
Matt was an alcoholic and he battled the addiction until the day he died. I was too young to clearly know early on how much alcohol was a problem. I do however remember learning how to pour his bourbon for him. I remember finding random empty bottles in odd places. I also remember being afraid. Luckily it was a lot of the time. Hold on... Hear me out. It is part of why his demons became my demons. Matt was a wonderful drunk. When he was drunk he was the best bonus dad on the planet. He expressed emotion. He told me he loved me. He talked to me. He wanted to spend time with me. He taught me things. I loved him drunk. How much of that I was aware of at the time? Honestly I can't tell you. I know what I know today is that I was always subconsciously rooting for drunk. How horrible is that? I'm a teenage boy rooting for his bonus dad to drink. I have to tell you it affects me to this day. I have a nearly hate hate relationship with alcohol. I do drink, but I operate at a near ludicrous level of control. I don't really care if other people drink, but I feel like I am on constant watch. I have a hard time dealing with people who lose control or cannot control themselves. The drinking affected too many facets of my life growing up not to be an influence. As I got older I knew it was a problem. There was always a story. How the car got beat up. How he got the black eye. How he was jumped and the cash stolen. Why he can't find the car while picking me up at the airport. Why I had to drive us home from the airport. Any of you who've dealt with addiction in your family know exactly the kind of stories I am talking about. And still.... I preferred him drunk... The alternative was bad... for a growing boy who worshiped the man he was... very bad...
Matt was not good sober. He could be brutal. Not physically. But he was cold and sharp and lightening quick when he was sober. You didn't make noise. You didn't get in the way. You didn't ask questions. You didn't eat his snacks. You were afraid. I was afraid. Notice how I switched to You and not I until I caught myself? Tells a lot doesn't it. That was unconscious on my part and didn't notice it until I forced myself to type the next line. Still affects me today. The reason I said above that fortunately it was a lot of the time is because he was constantly battling to escape the addiction. He was a true fighter on that front. And I know he fought hard because there were many times when he was very difficult to be around. I know he fought because he loved us. My mother, my brother, and me. I love him for the fight even as subconsciously I was always rooting for drunk. This is the heart of the conundrum of my love and relationship with this man. I grew up at war with all of it. Terrified when he was sober praying he'd say anything nice to me. And loving him dearly and spending quality time with him when he was drinking. Even if it was not obvious whether he was or not. I knew. I always knew.
Of all the things Matt taught me, bass fishing was the key. Bass fishing was the magic. I fell in love with this fishing specifically. To this day, I really don't enjoy any other fishing with the same passion that I do bass. I know part of it for sure was Matt himself. On the water Matt was a different man. He so clearly loved the water and the fishing. I think it may have been the one place where he could be himself without drinking. I have no idea if this is true, but I know we left before the sun, and I never saw him drink while we were out. He had more patience. He let me try new lures. He fussed because I didn't want to throw a worm. I wanted shiny. I wanted moving. I wanted top water. Like most kids my patience was not great. At least with casting and winding I was always doing something. And I did catch fish. Virtually every perfect father son moment we shared was on the water or discussing tactics or planning the next trip. In the last years of his life after I started competing on the FLW, BFL and Costa levels he was my coach before every event. I would talk to him the night before every event. I gave him everything. Water clarity, temps, grass composition, current...everything... And we would discuss for as much as an hour how I would approach my day. I dreamed that eventually when his health returned he would travel with me and be there for all of my big tournaments. We talked about it often. Somehow his passion became my passion. I love the water. I love bass fishing. I love to compete. I wanted to make him proud. I live today to make him proud. He was alive for my first check. He was alive for my first top ten. I didn't win before he died. I will win. And that win will be for him. I will cry in front of everyone there as I try to express why that win means so much to me and how much I hope he is watching and cheering with me. I call on him on the tough days. When the heat is beating me down and the bite is slow. When I feel like it's going to end bad. Then I remember how tough a teacher he was and I snap back to it, and carry on. No matter the pain. No matter how tough. Putting myself back against those little green fish in an effort to prove myself to them and more importantly him. I so desperately wanted him to be proud of me growing up. I still worry today that I am not doing enough. In the last few years of his life he told me many times just how proud he was of me. How much he loved me. He got to a point where he truly expressed to me how much I meant to him. He went to great lengths to tell my wife Cori just how proud he was of his son. His son. My brother and I are his only sons. A tragedy and a triumph of sorts. I am glad he thought of me as his son. It means the absolute world to me. And in itself was another lesson of huge importance to my own life. I have two beautiful bonus daughters. They are my daughters. I have treated them since day one like my own, and they always will be. He gave me that gift too.
So how do you come to terms with that much mismatched love and hate and fear and sadness? First I had to tell the story. Second I had to have an ink piece that would be near my heart but not on it. I had to have an artist that got the story and could bring the strife to life. In this case the artist is also an addicted bass fisherman himself. He also shared an eerily similar father son relationship. When the universe delivers... it delivers... Eric, my friend... Thank you... from the bottom of my heart... Thank you... This was the last piece to the puzzle of trying to come to terms with my grief...my sadness... and my love of a truly amazing man... who was so ridiculously difficult... who often left me so completely conflicted that I was always lost about it...
Matt.... thank you for every single lesson... the good ones and the bad... and thank you for the passion for those little green fish... I know how much you loved me... I know how proud you were... I won't stop making you so... your son.... timothy
Matt was an alcoholic and he battled the addiction until the day he died. I was too young to clearly know early on how much alcohol was a problem. I do however remember learning how to pour his bourbon for him. I remember finding random empty bottles in odd places. I also remember being afraid. Luckily it was a lot of the time. Hold on... Hear me out. It is part of why his demons became my demons. Matt was a wonderful drunk. When he was drunk he was the best bonus dad on the planet. He expressed emotion. He told me he loved me. He talked to me. He wanted to spend time with me. He taught me things. I loved him drunk. How much of that I was aware of at the time? Honestly I can't tell you. I know what I know today is that I was always subconsciously rooting for drunk. How horrible is that? I'm a teenage boy rooting for his bonus dad to drink. I have to tell you it affects me to this day. I have a nearly hate hate relationship with alcohol. I do drink, but I operate at a near ludicrous level of control. I don't really care if other people drink, but I feel like I am on constant watch. I have a hard time dealing with people who lose control or cannot control themselves. The drinking affected too many facets of my life growing up not to be an influence. As I got older I knew it was a problem. There was always a story. How the car got beat up. How he got the black eye. How he was jumped and the cash stolen. Why he can't find the car while picking me up at the airport. Why I had to drive us home from the airport. Any of you who've dealt with addiction in your family know exactly the kind of stories I am talking about. And still.... I preferred him drunk... The alternative was bad... for a growing boy who worshiped the man he was... very bad...
Matt was not good sober. He could be brutal. Not physically. But he was cold and sharp and lightening quick when he was sober. You didn't make noise. You didn't get in the way. You didn't ask questions. You didn't eat his snacks. You were afraid. I was afraid. Notice how I switched to You and not I until I caught myself? Tells a lot doesn't it. That was unconscious on my part and didn't notice it until I forced myself to type the next line. Still affects me today. The reason I said above that fortunately it was a lot of the time is because he was constantly battling to escape the addiction. He was a true fighter on that front. And I know he fought hard because there were many times when he was very difficult to be around. I know he fought because he loved us. My mother, my brother, and me. I love him for the fight even as subconsciously I was always rooting for drunk. This is the heart of the conundrum of my love and relationship with this man. I grew up at war with all of it. Terrified when he was sober praying he'd say anything nice to me. And loving him dearly and spending quality time with him when he was drinking. Even if it was not obvious whether he was or not. I knew. I always knew.
Of all the things Matt taught me, bass fishing was the key. Bass fishing was the magic. I fell in love with this fishing specifically. To this day, I really don't enjoy any other fishing with the same passion that I do bass. I know part of it for sure was Matt himself. On the water Matt was a different man. He so clearly loved the water and the fishing. I think it may have been the one place where he could be himself without drinking. I have no idea if this is true, but I know we left before the sun, and I never saw him drink while we were out. He had more patience. He let me try new lures. He fussed because I didn't want to throw a worm. I wanted shiny. I wanted moving. I wanted top water. Like most kids my patience was not great. At least with casting and winding I was always doing something. And I did catch fish. Virtually every perfect father son moment we shared was on the water or discussing tactics or planning the next trip. In the last years of his life after I started competing on the FLW, BFL and Costa levels he was my coach before every event. I would talk to him the night before every event. I gave him everything. Water clarity, temps, grass composition, current...everything... And we would discuss for as much as an hour how I would approach my day. I dreamed that eventually when his health returned he would travel with me and be there for all of my big tournaments. We talked about it often. Somehow his passion became my passion. I love the water. I love bass fishing. I love to compete. I wanted to make him proud. I live today to make him proud. He was alive for my first check. He was alive for my first top ten. I didn't win before he died. I will win. And that win will be for him. I will cry in front of everyone there as I try to express why that win means so much to me and how much I hope he is watching and cheering with me. I call on him on the tough days. When the heat is beating me down and the bite is slow. When I feel like it's going to end bad. Then I remember how tough a teacher he was and I snap back to it, and carry on. No matter the pain. No matter how tough. Putting myself back against those little green fish in an effort to prove myself to them and more importantly him. I so desperately wanted him to be proud of me growing up. I still worry today that I am not doing enough. In the last few years of his life he told me many times just how proud he was of me. How much he loved me. He got to a point where he truly expressed to me how much I meant to him. He went to great lengths to tell my wife Cori just how proud he was of his son. His son. My brother and I are his only sons. A tragedy and a triumph of sorts. I am glad he thought of me as his son. It means the absolute world to me. And in itself was another lesson of huge importance to my own life. I have two beautiful bonus daughters. They are my daughters. I have treated them since day one like my own, and they always will be. He gave me that gift too.
So how do you come to terms with that much mismatched love and hate and fear and sadness? First I had to tell the story. Second I had to have an ink piece that would be near my heart but not on it. I had to have an artist that got the story and could bring the strife to life. In this case the artist is also an addicted bass fisherman himself. He also shared an eerily similar father son relationship. When the universe delivers... it delivers... Eric, my friend... Thank you... from the bottom of my heart... Thank you... This was the last piece to the puzzle of trying to come to terms with my grief...my sadness... and my love of a truly amazing man... who was so ridiculously difficult... who often left me so completely conflicted that I was always lost about it...
Matt.... thank you for every single lesson... the good ones and the bad... and thank you for the passion for those little green fish... I know how much you loved me... I know how proud you were... I won't stop making you so... your son.... timothy
3 comments:
words can't express. excellent. thank you, Tim. I love you. mama
Thank you for allowing us to share the journey that led to this beautiful artwork!!
Thanks for sharing your story.... Brought many of my own experiences back... My dad is passed on, but I have his favouite fishing pocket knife that is my 'prized possession'! Pain and love... Love wins!
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