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ONEIDA LAKE, N.Y. — Dawn. I stood before a beach with no footprints in the sand. In the puddles at my feet, I watched the sky go by, birds asleep, waves bobbing.

Newborn air rose off the trees and gently folded the blanket of mist back into the lake.

Between water and sky came the morning. Brown, orange and yellow bathed the dock and the lone boat floating there.

As the sun rose in the sky, so did the once-sleeping birds. The lake rippled with life from above and below.

Knowing I was the intruder, I slowly lifted my camera and took a quick picture of this morning dance.

Then I stood there all alone, feeling privileged to have been given the one ticket to the show. I came here hoping to find the words to tell you of my first year covering the Bassmaster Elite tour and found the description staring me in the face: I stood before a beach with no footprints in the sand.

And knew that to be me.

Elite

To be the best.

Good is nice. Good might get you a house, pension, college bills and lease payments.

To be good at what we do is what most of us strive for.

Most.

For some, however, good is bad.

(I hope someday you have the opportunity to be around people like that.)

Trust me, it's humbling, it's scary ... and it's inspiring.

Doesn't matter what those people do, but when they do the same stuff you and I do, they do it better.

Flat-out, kick-our-butt better.

When those people take the same tools available to the rest of us and make magic happen, that my friend, is greatness.

Think you can hit a baseball, be on deck with Reggie Jackson at the plate? You might change your mind.

Think you're cool under pressure? Pass the ball to Michael Jordan and let him take the buzzer-beater shot. Maybe you'd change your mind.

I once stood on the sidelines of a Buffalo Bills playoff game and watched as an injured Jim Kelly had to be physically restrained from going back out on the field. After the game, when I interviewed him in the locker room, two people had to help him up on the trainer's table. Covered in sweat. blood, mud and grass, the only thing he wanted to talk about was winning the next game.

That's Hall-of-Fame stuff right there. Do you have it?

This year, I've met 106 guys who do.

I've seen them launch in weather where games would have been called.

I've seen them play their sport under conditions that would not have even allowed the tarp to be rolled back on the field.

I've watched young, middle-aged, and even more mature anglers stand on the bow of a bobbing boat for eight or ten hours, casting a line every 15 seconds, making that four times a minute — and NEVER stop.

For the past couple of days here on Oneida Lake, we've had the type of rain that makes you want to start gathering up animals in pairs.

You could tell the cos from the pros just by the size of their eyes, the former usually sitting in a boat with an Elite angler, fishing under conditions they otherwise never would have even left the dock in.

What follows is a typical conversation with a co-angler.

Me: "What was it like out there today?"

Co-Angler Guy: "Brutal. During the worst of the storm, I was hunkered down in the boat, but my guy, never, NEVER stopped fishing, casting, during a second of it."

Me: "Who did you fish with?"

Co-Angler Guy: "Gary Klein."

That's hall-of-fame stuff right there.

I'm always in awe of people born to do something who then get to do it.

For many of us, life just happens: it is what it is. Inside us all is what we were born to be; usually only the lucky few get to be it.

But when they do, you witness ... greatness.

Trust me people, these folks out here were born to fish. Home is the water, the catch is what fuels them, they can not NOT do what it is they do so well.

(Nor could you stop them if you tried.)

If you reach all of your goals, but none of your dreams, are you a failure?

While I personally don't think so, I can tell you what I do know: when a person is living their dream, it's something awesome to watch.

Snapshot

A child stood atop the rocks, a fishing pole in his hands.

Behind him, Skeet Reese in a bass boat, drifts slowly to the take-off dock.

In front of him, everything.

I watched this child on the rocks fish, while boats launched all around him, as he moved from spot to spot. Sometimes he stood, sometimes he sat.

He was a wormer. Every few casts, he would retrieve his line, reach down into a white Styrofoam container and put new bait on the hook.

The best in the world of putting bait in fish were all around him.

But he never looked up. Never watched the boats go by. Never took his eyes off the tip of the rod, never rested the pole on a rock.

I was likely watching greatness emerge in this child.

To be great is to be focused. And whoever this kid is, if he can maintain that focus, we will likely someday know his name.

I never talked to him, never went over to say hello.

Between me and him was a beach, like a blank canvas.

And this child deserved the right to make his own footprints in the sand.

— db

Don Barone is a member of the New England Outdoor Writers Association. Other stories of his can be found on Amazon.com. For comments or story ideas you can reach db at www.donbaroneoutdoors.com