The spiky fighter of the still water. It is a fish that did not ask to be here. The perch has a deep humped back and a large mouth. Its body is striking greenish-gold with dark vertical bars. This looks like a prison uniform for fish. Fins are tipped with vivid orange-red. Gill covers are armed with sharp bony spines. These will draw blood if you are not careful. A fish that looks like it belongs in a lineup. Ambush predators with a serious attitude. Perch hide in weeds. They wait for small fish, insects or anything else that moves. When they strike, they hit hard and fast. They often swallow bait before there is a chance to set the hook. They are schooling fish. If one is caught, there are probably a dozen more hiding in the same patch of weeds. A fish that travels in gangs. It is a love-them-or-hate-them fish for Kiwi anglers. Some think they are a pest. They steal bait and compete with trout. Others love them for aggressive strikes and firm white flaky flesh. To catch a perch is to catch a scrapper. The fish fights above its weight class. It looks good doing it. It tastes great in a beer batter. No Māori name exists because it is not a native fish. European settlers introduced it in the 1800s. It spread quickly through lowland waterways. Today it is the fish of the farm pond. It is the one caught as a kid. You pull them out one after another. You fill a bucket. You take them home to show a parent. The farm pond is still. The perch hide in the weeds. A worm drops. The perch strikes. The line goes tight. The kid screams. The perch does not know it is making a memory. It just wants the worm.