I've never been in a trap shooting competition before. I've never even
been to one of those fancy gun range places to shoot. All I had was a,
well, lets just say "antique" 20 gauge shotgun that I got as a young
man, along with a desire to help our companies Corporate Challenge score
by at least getting a participation point. The rules said it was only
two rounds of 25 targets so I figured the humiliation surely couldn't
last too long. I signed up even though I expected to finish in last
place.

The rules gave specific guidelines on what qualified as a legal shell.
I'm not a shooter. I don't know all the cool shooter terminology and I
quickly became confused by the technicalities involved in selecting the
proper load of shot and powder and all that sort of thing. I decided a
couple weeks before the competition that it would be best to simply
purchase proper shells at the range the morning of the competition.

I arrived at the range plenty early on competition morning. One of the
first things I discovered was that I needed a pouch. The rules said we
could only load one shell at a time in our gun so I had wondered how
people contained their other shells. I'd guessed they'd use vests, or
perhaps those Poncho Villa style belts crisscrossing their chests. I
keep a "fanny pack" on my motorcycle to hold my cell phone, spare
goggles, lip balm and that sort of thing. I almost took the motorcycles
fanny pack for my shells, but I was afraid the other guys would laugh at
me for wearing a fanny pack.

I was a bit disappointed that no one had the crisscrossing chest belts,
but my other instincts were right as no one had a "fanny pack" either.
In retrospect I realize how ridiculous the fanny pack fobia was. I
could've worn a hot pink tutu and fanny pack with tassles. No matter how
silly I looked, what fool would laugh at a man carrying a shotgun with a
fanny pack full of shells? I would soon learn the answer to that question.

Perhaps that should be part of my strategy for next year. Wear a pink
tutu and fancy crisscrossing chest belts full of shells! Really big
shells that don't even fit in my gun. Their only purpose will be to
intimidate, or at least distract, the other competitors.

It was too late to do anything about a shell pouch so I figured I'd make
the best of a bad situation and stuff extra shells in my pockets to
reduce the number of times I had to bend over. Of course I still had to
buy shells before worrying too much about what to do with them.

I told the lady at the counter that I needed two boxes of 20 gauge
shells. I suppose a small portion of me was hoping they wouldn't
actually have 20 gauge shells. That would let me off the hook with the
false satisfaction of believing I had tried. I somehow expected her to
laugh uncontrollably and say, "20 gauge shells, we don't have no
stinking 20 gauge shells you fool! No one uses a 20 gauge shotgun to
shoot the clay pigeons. Now run along and stop delaying the nice men
(and women) here to shoot real guns."

She did not laugh. Instead she quickly masked a surprised look and asked
if they were for practice. Deep down inside I knew she didn't ask the
people buying 12 gauge shells if they were practicing. On the other
hand, I doubted there were many people who waited till competition
morning to buy their 12 gauge shells.

My primary strategy in preparing for the competition was to resist any
urge to practice prior to the event. I saw no advantage to making last
minute changes in what had been a perfectly executed training strategy
up to that point. I felt confident that my skills would increase
significantly by shooting an extra box or two just before the event
started. In response to her question, I said I would not be doing any
practice rounds.

That's when she gave me the ever so slight wink, followed by the nod of
respect. In that moment she must have believed she was in the presence
of greatness. Surely only a top rated "shootist" would be up to the
challenge without firing off some practice rounds. Now that she
recognized me for what I was, she delved further into just how big of a
challenge I wanted by asking if I would like the cheap shells or the
Remington's. Knowing that I would surely want maximimal challenge, she
was already reaching for the cheap shells before I even answered. Yes,
she had me pegged.

A significant number of other competitors were getting in some practice
rounds. I felt watching and learning them do the proper "things" might
be a good idea at this point. It didn't take long till I was bored with
watching and was anxious to start shootin. I went back to the car to get
my gun. I reached into the trunk and tossed a small black canvas tool
bag to the side so I could unzip my 30 year old frazzled and torn red
and black imitation leather gun case. I reached up to close the trunk
but stopped in a moment of inspiration. Tool bag. Hum, bag. A bag is
kind of a pouch. Eureka! I laid the gun back down and picked up the
small tool bag.

It seemed to grow exponentially as I held it next to me. I dumped the
tools out into the trunk, unbuckled my belt, and slipped the belt
through one of the tool bag handles. It hung very low so I had to make a
couple wraps around my belt. It was about four times as big as it needed
to be, but I had to choose between being ashamed of my enormous low
slung shell pouch, or be ashamed for being the only so called man on the
range without one.

The choice was an easy one. I'm sure a lot of guys were envious of my
copious storage capacity and they were undoubtedly surprised to find out
Craftsman made such large shell pouch, but the only person I saw laugh at my
shell pouch was my wife. I am somewhat used to being a source of
amusement for her, so I didn't let that worry me. I was feeling more
confident than ever now that I had my regulation shells, AND a pouch to
hold them in!

With the important issues taken care of I could go back to focusing on
the finer subtleties of what a person was supposed to actually do in
regards to the competition itself. It appeared that each of the traps
had five stations for five shooters to stand at. I have not confirmed
this, but I believe it's called a trap because some poor high school kid
was in there loading clay pigeons into some type of throwing device. As
long as there were five guys behind him with bags full of shells he was
pretty much "trapped" inside that bunker looking thing until people ran
out of ammo or a cease fire was called.

The trap was 16 yards in front the shooters. Each person shot five
rounds from each station. Funny how that math works out so conveniently
relative to the number of shells in a box! Position one was to the left
of the trap and position five was on the right side of it. I looked
around and determined that most people seemed to be paying attention to
the shooters, which made it safe for me to bend my strategy rules
slightly and practice with my "arm gun" (think air guitar, only more
ridiculous looking) In an effort to prove I was completely insane, I
actually lowered my arms and my invisible gun when two women walked
between me and the range!!

I soon learned not to start my aim by pointing directly at the "trap."
The clay pigeons came out too fast so it was hard to catch up to them. I
seemed to get on the bird faster by starting with my gun aimed four to
six feet above the trap. All I had to do then was adjust to which way
(right, left, or straight) the pigeon was flying. After a few rounds
with the arm gun I was feeling pretty relaxed and comfortable so I sat
back down ready and raring for them to call for my group to start.

One guy in my group started stretching out.
That warranted another snicker from my wife which, as mentioned earlier,
I do not recommend. My fellow competitor then got into his "kit" which
was separate from his handmade, initialed, leather shell pouch. He
produced what looked like a stick of deodorant, took the cap off, and
started applying it to his right cheek of all places. Personally, my
back was drenched with sweat. Apparently cheeks were his icky area? He
rubbed the chalky looking stuff in then slapped his face three times.
Then he cocked his head slightly and stood still as if he was trying to
determine if the application of whatever he had applied was adequate. My
wife laughed yet again, and I suddenly felt underprepared while every
muscle in my body tightened up. The mind is a funny piece of equipment.

I tried to be very nonchalant about it, but I had an overwhelming urge
to do some stretching too. While I was at it I snuck a feel of my own
cheek to see if I needed to rub some dirt or something on it. For a
moment I wished I had fanny pack with the lip balm from the bike. If my
wife noticed, at least she had the heart or wisdom to not laugh at me
again. They called our group shortly after that and I was relieved to be
getting to the actual shooting.

I started out in position two, so I was the second guy to shoot in our
heat. It had been eight months since I'd shot clay pigeons with my
brothers and their friends. I'd hit my first target eight months ago, so
I felt pretty sure I had a 50/50 chance of doing that again. I'd
actually been more nervous in front of my brother's buddies than I was
in front of this group of strangers. I didn't know a soul in this
competition and it's somehow easier to embarrass yourself in front of
total strangers.

The first guy in our group hit his first bird. Seeing it be done made me
feel even more confident that I would hit mine too! Reality did not
follow the script my mind had written. Through some strange phenomena of
physics my first bird made it past me when I shot it. It
didn't actually break apart until it was at ground level which means
they did not count it as an official hit. While I might not have hit it
hard, I know I at least scared that first pigeon really good.

My right leg started shaking ever so slightly while I pondered a plan as
the others were shooting. I decided maybe I'd led the first one too
much, or perhaps I shot behind it a little. They seem to be flying
really fast, but maybe not that fast. I told myself either way I should
try and close the gap between the shot and the bird next time around. I
felt it would be advantageous to actually see the bird somewhere in the
line of sight down the barrel of my gun when I pulled the trigger.

All the other guys hit their first birds. The first guy hit his second
bird too. It was my turn again. Now I was definitely more nervous but I
still had every confidence my second shot would either hit or miss.
Before I yelled "pull" I mentally reviewed my plan. I knew exactly what
to do. All I had to do was execute the plan. Simple. I can handle
simple.

I do not know what happened on the sub-conscious level. On the conscious
level, it was: Pull. Bam. Dust. Surprise. Wow, I hit it! I actually hit
it. I hit it good too. I spanked that sucker. Oh, what a beautiful
sight! Not just a chip and a fragment, that sucker was blasted to
powder. Now ya see it, now ya don't style. There was no aiming being
done. I did not lead the bird or gently "squeeze" the trigger. It was
more likely the bird just happened to fly into the path of my shot. None
the less, it was as solid a hit as could be made and it felt good.

Now I was really stoked. Full on, pure adrenaline raced through my
veins. The slight tremor in my leg was gone. It had been replaced by
something that was surely generating a three or four on a Richter scale
somewhere. I'd say it was more of a spasm and I thought there is no way
the people behind me aren't noticing this! Oddly enough, my left leg was
still as a fence post.

In what I can only assume was a feeble attempt at self imposed reverse
psychology, I stood on my left leg so I could shake my right leg even
more??? It didn't make sense even while I was doing it, but it was the
best idea I had. It did not help.

The shaking might have worked to my advantage though. Something caused
one, or perhaps two of the other guys to miss their second birds.
Perhaps they felt the trembling ground underneath them. Who knows? It
eased some of the pressure since I was no longer the only guy to miss a
shot. It was my turn again and I had no idea how I was supposed to hit
anything with my leg convulsing like it was. I felt good that I'd hit my
second bird. Good and lucky that is. There was definite evidence that
whatever I'd done on my second shot had worked, but the question looming
in my head was; what, exactly, had I done?

I took a wide stance and leaned forward to keep more weight on my good
leg. I laughed at myself for thinking my right leg would steady me.
Having that distraction probably helped keep me from overthinking the
actual shot I was making while concentrating on my leg. I didn't dust
the third bird, but there was no doubt about it being hit. When it was
my time for my forth shot the shaking was hardly noticeable at all.
Apparently I was getting accustomed to it all. It's too bad really
because I desperately wanted an excuse for missing my second bird in
four attempts.

For a fleeting moment I considered the possibility that continuing to
yell pull while hoping for a lucky intersection of my shot and the bird
might not be the best strategy. I decided I could afford to wait on the
trigger for another second or two and give "aiming" another try.

For the remaining 46 shots I continued to feel more surprised by the
hits than the misses. I missed 7 birds on my first set of 25. In order
to show everyone that I was at least consistent if not good, I missed 7
more on my second set giving me a total of 36 birds out of 50.