The Fishing Derby

I remember as a youngster waking up on a Saturday morning and wanting to go out to play. I went to my parent’s bedside to get permission. Nudging my mother, knowing that I would get her vague, sleepy attention, I pitched some version of my regular summer morning speech: “Mom, I made my bed, had breakfast, cleaned up the family room, and did the dishes; can I go out to play?” I knew such a list would likely win her approbation.

This performance-based formula was an essential dynamic in my relationships at the old homestead and later in my life too. Though it had its price, it paid off in some surprising ways.

One time, when I was 7, my parents went for a month long trip to California. Just to get away from regular life in Windsor, Ontario, I suppose. I’m sure they were grateful they had my grandmother to baby sit me and my brother and sister.

During their absence I went to a fishing derby. It wasn’t easy to get permission. My grandmother was very reluctant to let me go; she was too old to accompany me (that was the official reason, anyway) and, by god, what if I fell in or something?

So to ultimately gain her approval I had to put the performance-based formula to work. A 7 year old doesn’t really bring much consciousness to decisions such as this. Let’s just say the methodology had been well-“conditioned”.

On the day of the derby itself, after plenty of unsuccessful pleas and nagging, my grandmother had assumed the matter was put to rest. But not I. I got up very early and picked worms in my backyard. You can always count on early morning worms to wiggle their way to the surface to enjoy the dewy grass in Windsor’s summer months. After my empty Campbell’s soup can was full of wigglers, it was time to try my luck with my grandmother.

I swept the driveway. I don’t just mean I gave it a “quick broom”; we’re talking about a veritable toothbrush job. And it was no short driveway either. I’d estimate 40 yards.

When I was done I went into the house where my grandmother was making her morning tea and toast and I proudly said, “Hey gram, c’mon outside and look at what I’ve done; I’ve swept the driveway!”

She came outside after her breakfast. She had forgotten about the derby.

Her eyebrows went WAY up when she had a look. “My goodness, Arthur, look at what you’ve done!” I knew she would be impressed.

“Can I PLEASE go to the fishing derby, gram? Please?”

Permission granted.

I called my buddy Jamie Lengyel and gave him the news. I grabbed my rod, reel and can of worms and rode my bicycle to Jamie’s house as fast as I could.

By the time we got to the derby, it was well underway. We were probably the last to arrive. There were hundreds of people lining the banks of the Detroit River at Pillette Park. In the middle of the grassy area of the park was a big trailer set up with balloons and banners and an audio system so they could control the crowd and make announcements and whatnot. I think participants of the derby were supposed to register at that picnic table, but Jamie and I didn’t worry about that. We just squeezed ourselves into a space at the edge of the water, baited our hooks, and cast our lines.

Nowadays the Detroit River is dirty. It was dirty then too. You can’t swim in it today, and you couldn’t swim in it then either. In fact, nowadays fish can’t even handle in the water, except maybe for carp and other scavengers—the fish with stomachs of steel. But in those days there were small sunfish and the odd lazy perch.

I suppose we got to fish for about 45 minutes before the event wound down. Didn’t get a bite. Neither did anybody we could see on either side of us. No surprise, I suppose. But it was fun in its own way.

The hosts of the event told everyone over the loudspeaker that it was time to announce the winners of the contest. Everybody began to reel in their lines and head towards the picnic table at the centre of the park.

I got a snag. What luck.

That’s another problem with the Detroit River. It was loaded with garbage that had been thrown overboard over the last couple hundred years. The river was, after all, a pretty busy Great Lakes thoroughfare basically tying together the lake system.

I tugged at the snag and, although it didn’t come fully free, I did manage to drag whatever was at the other end of the line all the way to shore. It was heavy, like a bicycle tire or maybe somebody’s running shoe filled with mud.

Most of the other people had already assembled at the main picnic table. There were only a few stragglers, people probably dealing with their own snagged lines. Jamie waited for me, with his rod and our can of worms.

When the hook-end of my line finally arrived at shore I couldn’t believe my eyes. I screamed. Jamie looked. He screamed. We saw a dirty-white-looking hunk of ugly fish. Laying there. But it was a fish! And it was even still alive a bit.

Jamie and I glanced at the crowd assembled in the middle of the park. The announcers were making comments over the loudspeaker. We looked at each other.

We started running towards the crowd, carrying the rod with the fish still attached to the line, with the greatest strides 7-year-olds can make. We were screaming at the top of our lungs: “Wait a minute! Wait a minute!”

The man standing on the picnic table with the microphone in his hand saw us running and primed the crowd, “Hold on, what do we have here?” He pointed to me and Jamie and the fish, drawing everyone’s attention. “Look at the size of that fish!” he said to everyone excitedly.

The crowd parted for me the way the waters made way for Moses. I slapped the fish onto the picnic table. Another man approached the table and arranged the fish next to the official yardstick. He straightened the little beastie’s pretty much lifeless body. He turned to the man with the microphone and said, “This one is the winner.”

I won the fishing derby! First prize. A thirteen and a half inch sheephead. For this river, it was a monster of a fish. I had never seen nor heard of its type before. And I haven’t since.

The prize was a brand new rod and reel set. A good one, if I recall. The best.

Jamie and I waddled home, bouncing from foot to foot, singing and jabbering like never before.

When I got back to my house and told gram the tale, she could hardly believe it. I had to convince her by pointing out there was no way I could bring home such a prize without actually having won it.

Happy for me, I’m sure, she also felt absolutely terrible. She knew her original stance had almost denied me the lifelong pleasure of the big win: out of hundreds of people, I won the contest. And I got my name in the paper.

I had to put the new rod and reel behind the main chair in the family room until my parents returned from their trip. My grandmother wanted to punctuate the story with the prize still in its mint condition. I don’t know if that was the right decision but it was a long three weeks.

We didn’t tell my parents by phone or anything; we waited until they first walked in the door. Of course, they were delighted for my win. And grandma felt relieved to tell the whole story.

I continue to operate on the assumption that hard work earns a payback. But that stance only covers how I earned the chance to go. What I most cherish is how good fortune falls on those who keep plugging away.