BREAKING THE MOLD

BRAD HARDY’S GARAGE is tiny. I can barely picture a Dodge Neon fitting inside, even if you stripped away the movable shelving, folding tables, and mountain of 5-gallon buckets. In the Pennsylvania winter, it’s freezing in here, so Hardy fires up a small electric heater and layers in sweats to work. He started to hand pour softplastic baits at 16 for fun. Sixteen years later, it’s a job.

In this humble workspace, he is surrounded by rubber molds, most featuring impressions of baits he designed himself. A dorm-roomsize microwave covered in stickers melts