It starts with a slight twitching maybe your shoulder shrugs involuntarily. Your brows raise automatically like a primate feeling challenged by a 350 lb tourist wearing a "monkey see monkey do" hat at your local zoo. You sleep in short restless intervals waking at three in the morning to double check that you have heavy enough tippet for your upcoming excursion. Ceaselessly you're ransacking the house looking for your leather NASCAR jacket, the one with the Budweiser frogs on the back. Your wife looks annoyed and probably even a little worried.
You hit all the junkyards, landfills and crime labs within a 25 mile radius of the house, hunting down materials for the perfect bass fly. You need scrap metal, roof tiles, hypodermic needles, hooks large enough to throw not just the feathers but the entire duck into the lake. You call your buddy whose a welder for advice on how certain medals shine in muddy pond water. He asks if you're feeling alright while you rummage yet again through the radioactive junk heap you've amassed on the side of the house.
By May you can no longer speak clearly. You babble about trolling motors and country music. You consult the singing bass (Billy) mounted to the wall in your garage listening to the songs over and over hoping each time to learn something new, some inside information regarding Bubba and his feeding habits. Finally the day comes where your wife just walks up takes you by the shoulders and shakes you repeatedly yelling, "just go fishing already." She walks back into the house and locks the door, your gear is already in the truck and has been since February. With glazed eyes and unbridled fury you bomb down the road headed toward the cause of your mania. Sound familiar? Then you've definitely got Largemouth Fever.