John Delach

March 2026

Two Irishmen answered an ad asking for experienced fishermen to go out into the North Sea to catch Atlantic Salmon. Both hade papers attesting to their experience. The captain asked the first man, “Your papers are in order, but tell me what’s your religion?”…”Protestant,” he replied…”Excellent!” the skipper replied. “You are part of our crew.”

Turning to the second man, he asked, “Your papers are also in order, and what is your religion?”…”Catholic,” he replied.

“Oh, that’s too bad. Before I can hire you, I need recommendations from your priest, your mayor and the chief of police.”

“Why me and not him?”

“That’s easy, young man, he’s Protestant and you’re Catholic.”

Reluctantly, the second fisherman took the blank forms and had them filled out by his priest, his mayor and the chief of police. He returned them to the captain who said, “Well done and welcome on board.”

Out into Atlantic they sail and after a day or two, ice starts to build up on the boat. The captain calls his two new crewmen to the bridge: “Boys, we have to get rid of that ice and as you are my most junior crewmen, I need you to do the job. He hands the Catholic a pick and the Protestant, a shovel. He ordered the Catholic, “You climb the mast and chip off the ice,” and the Protestant: “You shovel the loose ice over the side.”

The Catholic fisherman objects and he asked the captain, “Why do I have to climb up the mast and he doesn’t?”

“That’s easy, the skipper replies, “Because he’s protestant and you’re catholic.”

The two men went to work and after about an hour, a huge wave crashed into the boat washing the fellow on deck overboard, shovel and all. High up on the mast, the catholic fisherman observed this.

He put the pick into his belt, made his way down the mast and climbed up to the bridge and announced to the captain, “You know that Protestant who you let on your boat without any references? Well, he just made off with your fuuken shovel.”

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There are two clocks on one of the train platforms at the Dublin station that show times that are ten-minutes different from each other. One commuter gets tired of seeing this twice a day every working day. He finally decides to report this to the station manager. The manager listens to him, he thinks about it, then answers, “Well laddie, if they both had the same time all of the time, we wouldn’t need two of them, would we?”

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You don’t have to travel to Ireland to get a dose of their humor. For almost fifteen years, a gentleman known as Papa John Clancy acted as an informal host at his son’s Sports bar, Foley’s NY Pub and Restaurant located on 33^rd Street in Midtown Manhattan.

Papa John loved to play with their guests, especially the women.

One time, a guest noticed a photograph hanging on the wall of Pope John Paul with some man.  She demanded of Papa John, “Who is that with his Holiness?”

John looked at the photo, then at her and replied, “Sorry, I was off that day.”

Another time, John was talking with a woman when she asked him where he lives. “I live in Queens.” He replied.

“Oh, do you take the Long Island Railroad home?”

“Oh no, no, no, no, I’d like to, but where would I put it.

March 2026

Dear reader, my best friend, Mike Scott, passed this February. I spoke at his memorial service but I couldn’t include this story as it would have made my eulogy too long. So, I set it aside to use in this blog to honor Mike, the late Foley’s NY Pub and Restaurant and Shaun Clancy, the owner and our friend.

Michael and Shaun were both avid baseball fans. Mike was a long-suffering Boston Red Sox fan redeemed by their successfully winning the World Series in 2004 and repeating this feat three more times. Shaun was a devotee of the New York Yankees and their bar room rivalry became an important bonding experience. Lordy, could they go at it, but those debates were lined with respect as they both knew what they were talking about. I remained on the sideline enjoying my Guiness while I watched them go at it. Frankly, their debates didn’t last long as, invariability, Shaun, would get an important call, or someone would arrive who needed his attention.      

My personal favorite was lunch with David Cone in 2014. It was the day of his induction ceremony into the Class of 2014 of the Irish-American Baseball Hall of Fame.

Shaun had asked us to arrive early and directed us to sit at our usual round table in the right-hand corner close to the mic. “Leave the seat facing away from the corner vacant for Coney (David Cone) and sit in the two seats on either side.” Shaun sounded like he wanted us to be Mr. Cone’s bodyguards noting that our size did afford him privacy if not protection.

It should be noted that in New York City, many assumed Dave Cone was a Jewish ball player. Ah contraire, mon frere, he was Irish and hence his induction into the Irish-American Baseball Hall of Fame.

David Cone was a delightful lunch partner who regaled us with wonderful stories. Mike asked him about being a Red Sox – particularly a Yankees game at Fenway Park in 2001 in this his last year in baseball.

Mike told him, “You were pitching for the Red Sox opposing Yankees’ starter, Mike Mussina. Mussina was pitching a perfect game and you had a shut out going into the ninth inning.”

David looked at Mike with a measure of excitement, smiled and replied, “It could have been yesterday. Tino Martinez hit a single, but Jorge Posada popped up for the first out. Paul O’ Neill hit a perfect double-play grounder that should have ended the inning and my outing.”

Mike interjected, “But the Sox second baseman, Lou Merloni, whiffed on the play.”

“Correct,” David agreed smiling, while shaking his head. “Instead of getting out of the inning, I had runners at first and third with only one out.”

Mike asked, “Didn’t Joe Kerrigan, the Red Sox manager, came out of the dugout and asked you if you wanted to stay in the game?”

“Right, you are Mike! You have a good memory. I told him what he wanted to hear, ‘leave me in.’ The last thing I wanted to do was give up the ball when I still had a shutout to protect.”

The next Yankee batter, Enrique Wilson, hit a double that scored Clay Bellinger who had replaced Martinez as a pinch runner.

Cone: “Kerrigan took me out of the game. I knew my career was almost over. This could have been my last hurrah, but Mike (Mussina) had a better day. What was utterly amazing was, as I neared the dugout, the Fenway sell-out crowd broke into a standing ovation.

“Guys, understand how amazing that was. 2001 was my only year on the team and I had pitched against their Sox with the Royals, the Blue Jays and, of course, their evil empire, the Yankees.

“What a thrill!”

“You tipped your hat to the crowd,” Mike replied.

“Yes, I did, they deserved that.”

I sat there mesmerized taking it all in. I’ve realized that professional athletes have a photographic memory of all their highs and lows. But David Cone’s responses to Mike Scott’s  prompts were terrific.

All this dialogue took place over servings of cheeseburgers, fries and a couple rounds of Guinness. 

For sure, for me and for Mike, the best lunch at Foley’s, ever.

I first penned, “Through the Heartland,” in 2001 and I included it in my 2011 anthology, “The Big Orange Dog and Other Stories.” I love it and have edited it since then tweaking this and that. Perhaps this is the final edition? In any event, I present it to celebrate these two mile-stones and the fact that I am now 82 years old.

Ten hours out of Chicago, the sun outraces the train as it sets across the flat, western horizon. Nighttime has come to the Great Plains and Kansas speeds by under the brilliance of countless stars shining across a clear, prairie July sky. Blackened fields, silhouetted by a three-quarter moon, stretch out to meet the stars at the horizon.

 He sits alone in the dome car of a westbound Santa Fe Chief, staggered by the scenery, unable to sleep. At 17 it is all too much, too grand to miss. Reaching into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes, he launches one out of the pack and into his mouth with a practiced skill. Clicking open his Zippo, he strikes the wheel and lights another Marlboro. In a few minutes, his eyes adjust to the darkness of the dome car lighted only by muted bulbs outlining the aisle and the glow of his cigarette.

Both the fields and the sky draw his attention and his thoughts wander with them. This is the furthest he has ever been from home and each mile he travels opens the distance. Ahead lays Oklahoma, the deserts of New Mexico, the mountains of Arizona and the Continental Divide. He remembers the exhilaration earlier that day when the train crossed the Mississippi River into Missouri and the West. What about his destination, Riverside, California? What will he discover there, what will he discover about himself? The process began earlier that day when he fell into the company of a group of sailors straight out of the Great Lakes Training Center on their way to join the Seventh Fleet. They treated him as an equal, playing cards and drinking beer. He’s already changing although he cannot explain it.

He becomes part of the rhythm and motion of the train united with the darkness, the Luna landscape and the stars.

Suddenly, he’s startled by a visual jolt. In the distance there is a light. “No, it is not, but wait, it is a light, a street light. I’ll be damned.”

It passes. “Hold on” he thinks, “here comes another one.” It is about a mile down the track. Then another and another, the intervals between light poles drawing closer and closer together until a small town appears, a few buildings, a gas station, some others, maybe stores or a post office, all illuminated as if to hold back the sea of night.

 It passes in a blur. Blackness returns as the gaps between streetlights lengthens and lengthens until they are no more.

Only Kansas at night returns once again.

“Wow.” Lighting up another Marlboro, he returns to his fascination with the magic of it all…Sleep will have to wait. “What will come next?”