Fishing at Cedar Creek Lake, Texas

My younger brother Tom and I threw everything but the kitchen sink at them: slabs, topwaters, Sassy Shads, Rattletraps, Rapalas, cut shad, and even a Budweiser bottle cap with a treble hook attached. Nothing. We knew for a fact that Cedar Creek Lake was filled to the brim with schooling hybrid and sand bass and we couldn't even get a bite. "Where in the hell are all the fish?" I asked Tom. "I don't know," he said, while chomping on his cigar and finishing a Coors Light, but look at those old coots over there to the right of us: they're killing em."

I took out my binoculars and spotted four old men in an old dilapidated Bayliner cuddy cabin, pulling up a nice-sized hybrid striper with a landing net. Once they landed the fish, they went into trolling mode and immediately had another strike.

"They're trolling," I said. "Put on one of those chartreuse Sassy Shads and I'll throw a large slab out there, and we'll troll the lake for awhile. Back and forth, side to side, fast and slow: No fish. I looked at the old men, no more than fifty yards away from us landing another good one. "These guys are really starting to piss me off."

"You had better call your friend Billy," Tom advised, "he knows just about everything you can about this lake."

I returned to the house with my tail between my legs. I had been skunked. "I thought we were having fish for dinner," my wife said, throwing in a dig.

"Had a bad day─fish weren't biting. We'll have plenty tomorrow," I said as I entered my office and closed the door. Picking up the phone, I speed dialed Billy.

"B...B...Bill here."

"Hey Bill, this is Gary O'Callaghan. We just went out to Cedar Creek Lake and we couldn't even get a bite. What goes?"

"D...D...Don't know; haven't been out in a while."

"There was a group of old men fishing next to us on a troll and they were just slayin' em."

"W...W...Where they fishing in an old Bayliner?"

"How did you know that?"

"B...B...Because that's the 'Dream Team'."

"The 'Dream Team.'?"

"T...T...That's right. If those guys can't catch fish out there, nobody can. I...I...will give them a call and find out what's going on."

Bill's stutter instantly game me a headache.

"Thanks Bill, I appreciate it."

Later that evening, Billy called me back and told me that as a special favor to him, the "Dream Team" would meet my brother and me at Meeks bait shop in the morning to give us a few tips on how to get on the fish. He told me that one of the men was a concert pianist, the other a retired heart surgeon, and the third an old judge from Kaufman County. To me they just appeared as a group of "grumpy old men" in a crummy boat. "T...T...Treat these guys with respect," Bill said, "They are good friends of mine."

"Bill, if these guys could show me how to bring us some of those hybrid striper, I will buy them lunch. Thanks a lot."

The next morning, my brother and I found the "Dream Team" having coffee at Meeks. They were seated inside, and from what I could make of the conversation, they where arguing about who had caught the biggest fish the day before. "That fish I had outweighed yours by two pounds, you old coot," one of them said to the other."

"You need to take those Alzheimer pills the doctor gave you because you can't remember shit, mullet head," the other replied.

"Gentlemen," I interrupted, "My name is Gary, and this is my brother Tom. We were out fishing yesterday and couldn't help but notice that you guys were the only ones catching fish on the lake."

Their conversation stopped and they gave a "Merrill Lynch-like" glance.

"You must be them young fellers that Billy sent over," one of them said. The man looked like a malevolent Mr. Magoo."

"Yes sir, we are."

"That Bill sure is a nice boy," the man said, "he just has them ideers runnin through his head so fast, he can't spit em out quick enough."

"Yes sir," I said using cautious fishing-tip respect.

"Well I would do anything for Bill, so have a seat and we'll talk a bit."

This was going to be tough because Meeks putrid bait shop smelled like a manure farm, and his barnyard animals were all wondering around the stink pit. I already felt nauseous and on the verge of vomiting. I went into a Zen-like state in order to overcome the stench: Breath deeply; feel the wind blow through your hair; relax. I was going to get these fishing tips, even if I did barf.

My brother and I sat down.

"My name is Elmer and this is Rooster and Wallcock."

What?

"Nice to meet you," I said while shaking their hands.

Rooster looked like a miniature Fog-Horn, Leg-Horn with red hair and Wallcock looked liked Barney Fife.

Who in the hell are these guys?

"I noticed that you fellas were on a troll when you were catching fish, but when we trolled we couldn't get a strike," I told Elmer.

"That's because you're not getting your bait deep enough─those fish are down towards the bottom."

"I didn't see any downriggers on your boat."

"You don't need no stinkin' downriggers: all you need is this."

He pulled out some type of modified Heddon Hellbender with a little tiny silver spoon. "If you can find some of these Hellbender's at the Bass Pro Shop I can show how to make your own homemade downrigger."

"Keep going," I said.

"You take the Hellbender and bend the nose of it down like this─that will bring your bait down to the bottom." Picking up the tiny silver spoon, he held it up for both of us to see. "The real trick to the method is right here."

"What's that?" I asked.

"That's what you call a Pett spoon," Elmer replied.

I looked at my brother like the man was crazy. "That thing is so small, you couldn't catch a bream with it," Tom said.

Elmer looked him straight in the eyes, "That's what you think youngin.' " He continued, "Remove the back treble hook from the Hellbender and tie a two or three foot piece of line to the socket that held the hook. Tie this here little Pett spoon on the other end of the line as your trailer: There it is fellas. Guaranteed to bring up fish when you can't find them schooling on the service or you can't locate the birds. I felt something crawling up my leg. What the f...! Jumping up, nearly coming out of my shoes, I hit the table spilling everyone's coffee. Looking underneath I saw a rabbit. One of Meek's GD critters. Elmer and the boys a good laugh but I quickly blew it off because I now had a new secret weapon.

"Thanks fellas," I said, "I owe you one."

"Now you tell that Billy if you see him to lay off the coffee and soda. His thoughts are rushin' way too fast already," Elmer said.

After loading up on Hellbenders and Pett spoons at the Bass Pro, my brother and I headed back to Cedar Creek and clobbered the fish. I was amazed that the hybrid striper could even see the dime-like Pett spoon, but they hammered it big time. "I guess that's why they call those guys the 'Dream Team'," I said looking at my brother.