John Delach

On The Outside Looking In

Tag: writing

February 25, 2026

Of Fish and Fowl

Edited by John Delach

February 2026, originally edited in 2010              

This piece is one of my favorites. It was written by my friend, Brian Davidson. I edited it and thought up the title. His piece reflects the man he was. We lost Brian to cancer in 2016. RIP Brian.

            George, the owner of the sporting goods store handed me my new annual Alaskan fishing license. “Where are you from?”

            “Houston,” I replied. “I got a job with a contractor to settle insurance claims so I’ll be up here for thirty-days at a time for six to nine months. I don’t read much, hate television and I don’t want to spend my free time in bars so I figured I’d try fishing”

            “Well, you picked a good time to start fishing for pink salmon. They start to run in May and you can fish as late as you like because it doesn’t get dark until about 2 a.m. I’ll help you pick out the kind of equipment and clothing you’re going to need.”

            George selected a rod and reel, a net, tackle box, wading boots, thermal socks, and long johns. “Why do I need thermal socks and long underwear in June?”

            “The water temperature in Prince William Sound does not get out of the thirties. You’ll be happy to be wearing them when you wade out into the sound. If you don’t have a sweater or light gloves, you should buy them too.”

            I figured he knew what he was talking about so I kept quiet as my pile kept rising on his counter. When he finished counting and totaling my purchases, he reached behind the counter, opened a wooden box and placed an odd-looking fishing lure in the palm of his hand. A big silver spoon with a big red plastic diamond shaped thingy glued to it, it looked like something that your grandmother used to wear on her chest to church on Sunday.

            “This is the best lure for catching pink salmon. It’s called a pixie. If I were you, I’d guard it with my life. I’m running out of them and I don’t know when I’ll get new ones in stock.”

            I asked him how many I could have and he agreed to sell me six for six dollars each. I started asking him about places to fish, but he stopped me and called over an Eskimo guy hanging around the store. “Hey, Billy, come tell this guy where to fish.”

            Billy and I got to talking and he agreed to meet me the next night at a camp-ground located on the shoreline. We seemed to hit it off and became regular fishing buddies. Also, it didn’t take long for me to realize just how valuable Billy was to me. The first thing I noticed that night was that when I cast my pixie out into the water, it kept going down and down and down. I asked Billy what was going on.

            “After about ten feet, the bottom drops 500 to 600 feet. If you wander out too far and take the plunge, you’ll have about five minutes left to live.”

I became a good angler catching five to ten fish each night which I cut loose or gave to people staying in the camp-ground who gathered to watch the master fisherman. I usually traded the fish for a cold beer and a relaxing chat with these tourists and retirees in their trailers, campers and RVs. The fishing alleviated my boredom from the seemingly endless task of settling claims. I only regretted losing my pixies which made me feel badly as my supply dwindled.

            One night while fishing with Billy, I cast out my next to last pixie. It didn’t hit the water and my rod started to jerk away from me pulling skyward. “What the hell…,” I shouted as I looked up. To my astonishment, I realized that I had hooked a sea gull on its butt. People on the bank shouted at me to cut the line, but all I could think of was my six- dollar pixie attached to a bird that was maneuvering like an out-of-control kite. Up and down, it flew screeching like all hell as we continued our struggle. I had to let out line fearing that the tension would break it and the gull would make off with my pixie. Finally, it went straight up then came crashing down onto the bank to the oohs and ahs of the crowd who were watching the show.

            I ran out of the water, grabbed onto this pecking and clawing creature who continued to screech for its mother. In desperation, the gull threw up a regurgitated fish onto my boot, but I managed to get a firm grip on its mangy butt to retrieve my pixie. As I stood up, I heard loud and clear, “They’re not very good to eat.”

            Rather embarrassed, I yanked my pixie out of its butt, released the gull who flew away and gave each and every one of my admirers a very low bow.

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February 4, 2026

On the Road Again, Vol. One, Part Two

John Delach

February 2026

Miami One: December 5, 1993

Four of us attended the game that became known as Miami One, Michael and me, Steve B and Doctor Mike.

We stayed at the Pan American Resort, in North Miami. The price was right for a beach-front resort and we soon realized that this place had all of the makings of what was once an upscale facility.

The Pan American Resort had clearly slipped from the top of the hill from where it once was. Everything about it was either old or out of service. The staff were less than diligent and fixtures  seemed in need of repair or replacement. Most of the guests were foreign tourists from Europe and we quickly realized that the Pan American’s first language was German, second, Spanish and finally, English with a British accent. Setting all of this aside, the price was right and it was perfect for us.

We really stepped up to the plate for dinner at Joe’s Stone Crab Claws on Miami Beach and finished our night at a so-called gentleman’s club.

It was a large establishment in North Miami and one of my buds discovered an un-occupied raised VIP lounge where we could view the action in over-sized upholstered chairs mounted on wheels. It was a rather neat place to be until I decided to back up to get a better view.

Little did I know that there was an open staircase directly behind me and before I knew it, I was rocketing down eight or nine steps like I had been ejected from a jet fighter. Fortunately, I went straight down and my oversized cocoon protected me including my neck and head when I landed on the floor.

Doctor Mike checked me out and we grabbed a couple of bouncers who helped to extract me. That was enough for me for one night.

On Sunday, the Giants beat the Dolphins at Joe Robbie Stadium: Big Blue 19, Fish 11.   

Miami Two: December 8, 1996

Our flight out from Newark Airport was a near-disaster. Our weather was great for flying, but north of us where most of U.S. Airways flights originated had been clobbered by lake-effect snow. The US Air check-in line was ridiculously long and most passengers walked away, out of luck.

We agreed to divide our group, a few of us remained on line while the majority checked out other carriers. Dr. Mike led the one at American Airlines together with my son. By luck, my group reached the US Air counter the same time as they reached the American counter and my 6’5’ son signaled me that American could accommodate us.

 I instructed US Air agents to send our tickets to American and Dr. Mike convinced their clerks to accept them for a flight inbound from Chicago to Newark, then on its way to Lima, Peru via Miami. It turned out, the airplane was virtually empty on the leg to Miami allowing us to party on.

Unbelievable! That was the most incredible escape from an airline cancellation that I ever made.

We had the largest group of Giants fans on this road trip, ever: eleven of us: Me, my son, Mike, my cousin, Bob, his brother, Bill and Bill’s two sons, Bill JR and Tom. Steve B, Dr. Mike, Dr. Joe and Mike Cruise.  

We stayed again at the Pan American Resort, in North Miami. It was almost as we found it in 1993, but further down the hill. (It would soon become a high-rise condo.)

I treated my cousin Bob and he roomed with my son.

On Saturday morning Bob and I rented a wave-runner from the place’s water sports concession. I started out as the driver and after about twenty minutes, I shut down the throttle and asked Bob if he wanted to take a turn?

Bob gladly accepted my offer and we began maneuvering to change positions. I am clueless as to what we did wrong, but the wave runner flipped over and we found ourselves floating in the Atlantic Ocean.

We both had life vests on so no panic ensued. “Shit,” I exclaimed as I turned to Bob, “Now all we have to worry about is sharks.”

Bob looked at me with a serious look on his face, “ John, you forget, I can’t swim!”

”Damn, you know that life preserver won’t help you when the sharks come.”

Fortunately, the guy from the water sports concession came out to help us. He stabilized our machine so we could safely climb back on board.

We had too many guys in our party to return to Joe’s restaurant in Miami Beach so Steve directed our van’s driver to a stone crab eatery in Coral Gables. I was sitting next to Uncle Bob who asked about stone crabs. Why? Well Uncle has an allergy to shell fish and has had some tough episodes with lobsters, etc. He never had stone crabs and decided to try them.

As we entered the restaurant, I whispered to the two docs to be on the lookout, should his allergies kick in. The look on their faces was a combination of misery and dread, but fortunately for Uncle Bob, the two docs and the rest of us, his allergies didn’t kick in. Hallelujah!

Our team pulled themselves together for the game the next day, we picked up food and beverages and made our way to the Dolphins Stadium now named Hard Rock but back then, Joe Robbie Stadium. Again, we were lucky and Big Blue won by a score of 17 to 7.

The ride back to the airport the next morning had its moments. The expressway was clogged with traffic so the driver took back roads which led us past a high school in a rough section of Miami as it emptied out. The street became full of scary kids and our driver didn’t help when took out a gun and told us, “Don’t worry.”

DON’T WORRY! Good grief!

Fortunately, nothing happened and we had an uneventful flight home..

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March 5, 2025

Newspapers Never Die, They Just Fade Away

I start my day almost every morning by opening the garage door as the clock approaches 7 am to retrieve our copies of The New York Times and Newsday both delivered by the same person and both wrapped in a protective plastic bag regardless of the weather. I am fully conscience of how few of our neighbors still receive printed morning newspapers.

It was slightly over a month ago on February First when the (Newark) Star-Leger permanently ended its printed edition and forced other publications like the Jersey Journal to go digital by stopping its presses. 

Fortunately, and a bit unbelievably, we readers on Long Island still have access to five daily printed newspapers, The Times, Newsday, The Wall Street Journal, The Daily News and The New York Post.

Unfortunately, it won’t stay that way, the clock is ticking. When I was active, The Times meant more to me than any other newspaper. Today, almost twenty-five-years later, (my 25th Anniversary is April 4th,) my paper of record is Newsday. Not often, but there are days when I don’t get to The Times. Damn, it is just a shadow of what it was twenty-five years ago. The Sports Section is a joke and they actually outsourced the content to a new subsidiary they bought called the Athlete.

The daily Metropolitan Section is a memory and too much of its content has disappeared or is dedicated to Politically Correct- BS points of view.

Why continue subscribing? Because I’m too old to let it go and, every once in a while, they publish a feature that hits me like a lead weight. This actually happened last month. On Sunday, Feb. 16th, the weekly Metropolitan Section led off with a piece about Michael Hirsh, a good man trying to restore Most Holy Trinity Cemetery in Brooklyn.

OMG, this piece opened long unused file drawers in my brain about my mother, Aunt Mildred and their relationship with my Uncle Pete who is buried there and our visits to his grave. ( My piece will follow later in March.)

There it is. I can’t quit The Times so long as it remains in print, and so it goes.              

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