I grew up on a farm and loved to shoot guns and hunt. I considered myself somewhat familiar with shotguns and could hit a can thrown in the air. How could I possibly miss a clay target with a shotgun that could throw such a wide pattern? I had been invited to a church activity at a local sporting clays site and was ready to show off my skills. I picked up my dad's old 12 gauge pump and three boxes of #6 high rim field load from Remington. When I arrived at the site, I noticed a church member clad in shooter"s slacks, a Remington shooting shirt, and vest with at least 10 shooting logos on it, and a double barrel shotgun with the barrels on top of each other. He was changing the lenses of his sunglasses for what I thought was to be more fashionable. He wore ear protectors that could be turned up or down for comfort. (Or was it music?) He had open boxes of shells attached to his vest, and a hat that came directly from Cabelas.
Uh oh, I thought. I had coached high school football for 27 years and was still quite competitive. My muddy work boots, paint splattered Ohio State sweatshirt, old coaching shorts, and five dollar sunglasses looked pretty lame next to this "expert". I needed ear plugs? Another shooter gave me some rubber things that looked like he'd let his dog chew on them. Now, how do I carry 50 plus shotgun shells full of lead? I looked in the back of my truck and secured a somewhat wet carpenter's nail apron and dumped the shells into the pockets. I tied the apron on and walked confidently for 10 feet before the apron started pulling my shorts down to my knees! Walking with a shotgun in one hand and lifting your shorts with the other hand is an acquired talent.
Now, we arrived at the first station and the rules/procedures were explained to us by a bearded, cross-eyed, tobacco chewing, limping old guy. He explained he was our thrower and to yell "pull!" when we were ready to shoot. I was third on the shooter's list and felt ready to compete. I said a quick prayer (we're Baptists, you know.) to not be humiliated and lined up to watch the first two shooters. The old guy disappeared behind a wooden fence and and the first shooter yelled "pull!". Two targets flew with great speed from right to left about 10 yards away. The guy didn't shoot, explaining they were a "show pair". How could that old guy do that with a single hand thrower? I peeked around the fence and saw a mechanical thrower. Yes, I was a true rookie!
The first two shooters hit several, but missed the second of the pair with regularity. Phew, I thought....at least I had a chance. Now it was my turn. Hoping my prayer had worked, I put two shells in my pump gun and yelled "pull!. I aimed down the barrel like shooting at a sitting target, pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. I almost fell over the front of the shooting station and to my embarrassment had forgotten to turn the safety off. Five guys laughed and I was as red as the shells I was shooting. I turned off the safety and yelled pull again. I shot where the targets were and broke both of them with one shot. Wow, this sport is a piece of cake! I reloaded the gun and noticed a hot feeling on my upper arm near my shoulder. It hurt! Old coaches don't show pain! I did hit one of the remaining two pairs and felt somewhat successful.
Now the sportily-clad guy stepped in the box. I watched closely, hoping to get hints on how to shoot successfully. He missed all six targets and I felt better! To make a long story short, I broke 22 of the 50 targets over the whole course. The Cabelas fashion model hit only 6! I discovered he had borrowed the gear from a friend and was as much of a rookie as I was. To this very day, I have never seen someone miss the targets as far as he did. He didn't have a clue. He even swung his loaded gun around one time toward the waiting shooters to ask a question. It looked like World War II with guys jumping on the ground it all directions.
I found out later when I arrived home and looked at the huge bruise on my shoulder and arm that I had been pulling the shotgun away from my shoulder when I pumped in the second shell and shot. This must not be a sissy sport! No one else had complained, so I gutted it out as a "real" man would. My dad would have been proud!
So, this is how I got started in this sport. You might imagine that I would quit after that first experience, but I wanted to get my brother-in-law into it so I could teach him to be as good as a shooter as I was! Ha!
In future entries into this blog, I will discuss how I have evolved into a better shooter and some of the perils I have been through with shooting techniques, gun purchasing, reloading, and acquiring great friendships. I do have some complaints to air also. After all, I am dealing with people who all have their own opinions about shooting sporting clays.
Is all you've read true? Yep! Only the names have been left out to protect me from physical harm.
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