Shelby Kranz

Shelby Kranz is 31 and Brock's fishing partner on the boat. Thin, with a pale face, dark circles and dark blond hair in a ponytail that passes through the opening of her cap, she is reserved, polite and says little. She always looks at Brock before answering. She has fished with him for two seasons, and before that never got past 15th place.

She lives in a small white-painted wooden house in a river town in Ohio, with a green linoleum kitchen, a two-seat table, rubber boots lined up by the door and a window onto a yard of tomato plants. She wakes early, even on days with no tournament, and spends some time in silence, coffee in hand, before leaving.

She wears a long-sleeved tournament shirt, with the same logos as her partner, gray waterproof trousers and bandages on her fingers, from so many lines and hooks. She holds a water bottle tightly in her hands, like someone who needs something to hold on to. When she speaks, she weighs each word, and corrects herself right afterward, in a low voice.

About the day on the lake, her account is short: it was bad. She got seasick early, with the lake choppy, and spent the morning lying in the cabin, eyes closed, not much help. Of the prize, she takes a third, if the sponsor pays. With Brock they won four straight finals, and before him she never got past 15th place.

When the question suggests she helped Brock put lead in the fish, Shelby answers that she did not even touch those fish before the weigh-in and asks that the question be asked properly, or not asked at all. She squeezes the water bottle with her bandaged fingers and looks to the side where her partner would be, without finishing the sentence: the shock of someone who feels accused or the care of someone weighing her answer?