Fuzzy Navel

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Here Be Dragons—Bonefishing with Bob Knight, By Kevin Koenig (continued)
Photos by Billy Black

Bimini dock

Back at the Big Game Club we sat at our table and sipped cold Kaliks. Everyone except for Knight, who ordered another iced tea. Havlicek had seen enough. “Hey!” the giant old man yelled, flagging down the waitress from halfway across the room. “Get that guy a fuzzy navel!” He shouted again, pointing at Knight with such enthusiasm that he lifted out of his seat. “Peach schnapps and orange juice!”

It turns out even Generals have to take orders from somebody.

My mind was blown. I had Knight pegged for a whiskey and beer guy before I met him. And then when he said he didn’t drink, it was understandable. But fuzzy freaking navels? The happy hour nectar of blue-haired, little old ladies from Tampa Bay to Cape May? This was too much. “You drink fuzzy navels?” I asked, in evident surprise.

“Ohhh, every now and again I’ll enjoy one,” he responded, evenly.

But just as the drink arrived, one of the Big Game officials brought over a young Bahamian woman whom he had told Knight about earlier. She was a huge basketball fan, and her husband, a coach himself, was in the hospital. Knight pushed away from the table and pulled her up a chair. He spoke to her quietly all the way until his meal arrived.

The ice cubes in his drink melted slowly at the table. I’m not even sure he touched it.

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This article originally appeared in the Summer 2015 issue of Anglers Journal, available here

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