Straddling my shotgun on my sore shoulder, I sauntered to the third station, twenty-five fresh bullets clinking together in my vest pocket. At thirteen years old, I was not confident about my ability to blast a flying clay target. I was one of the most consistent youth shooters on my Amateur Trapshooting Association team and shot fairly decent, but the pressure of possibly missing the bird would consume me.
It was just an ordinary Thursday night practice at the shooting range. Usually only the ATA team would be present, but that night served me several old men, the most common competitors in the sport. My nerves danced with aggression up and down my spine. I believed I would perform in the upper teens or lower 20’s as my practice rounds with my teammates indicated that I was having an “on” day.
My mother, my uncle, my sister, Laura, my friend, Charlie, and his parents, and a few others watched as I made my way to the third station. My dad took his place at the second station. There are five stations with one shooter at each place. A concrete house situated half blow ground level sits about 50 feet away and when a shooter calls “pull!” a target will fly out. The person on the first station will shoot first and each person at each of the next four stations will follow. The trend will repeat until everyone has shot five times. Then you shift to the next station.
At my starting station, I hit all five targets, not entirely unusual- it is considered the easiest of all the stations. At the fourth and fifth stations, I hit them all. Each time the sold orange disk fractured like fragile glass, I became hopeful of shooting in the high 20’s, but I still did not have faith in myself to shoot a perfect 25. At the first station, the hardest of them all, I obliterated all five. By the time I reached the second and last station, I was shaking with excitement and determination. I had no problem with the first three targets. The fourth one made me extremely nervous. I also knew everyone I cared about was watching. I could not fail now. The three other shooters had no idea that I was doing the best I had ever done since starting two years before. Only my dad knew as he had been in my position himself years ago.
My last turn came. I lifted my gun to the “pocket” in my shoulder and pressed my cheek tightly against the gun, making my signature wing with my arm. I closed my left eye, found the bead at the end of the gun, and called “pull.” The target flew out. I pulled the trigger. The target broke in half. My aim had been accurate and with that final shot, I shook my head in disbelief. The last two shooters took their shots and then there were cheers and shouts. I turned around, smiling. I felt paralyzed and could barely move as I was engulfed in hugs from my family and friends. I had shot my first 25!
The owner of the clubhouse immediately offered me a “25” patch for my vest indicating my achievement for my first straight 25. “Congratulations, young lady. Someday you might be as good as me,” he joked. I considered the patch a badge of honor, along with the bruise on my shoulder that I always got after shooting several rounds. My dad insisted that I shoot again. I did not want to because I was scared that I would not do as well. With every hobby I have ever done, I have always wanted to finish a night’s practice on a good note. However, I did not have a choice because my dad was already shoving another box of bullets into my vest and writing my name down on the next round of shooters.
“You can do it,” my mom told me. “Just take deep breaths and focus. Forget everything else.”
It was a group of four older men, whom I did not recognize, and me. I shrugged my shoulders and breathed in the scent of the gunpowder staining my black gloves. Relaxing, I nodded to the man on the first station, signaling that I was ready to begin. The man on the second station had loss after loss, grumbling to himself and ejecting his used bullets onto the ground with frustration. I tried to ignore him and consistently hit all the targets on my first four stations.
On my last station, I was more nervous than I had been during my last 25. I repeated my mantra in my head, “God is with me and for me right now,” before each shot. I hit the first target, the second, the third, and the fourth. I was physically shaking when it came to the fifth target, the gun heavy against my shoulder. I squeezed my hands against it with fierce determination, and called out “pull!” Bang! The sound echoed throughout the range. I had not only achieved a straight 25, but I had also shot a straight 50. I had just done what I considered to be impossible.
“That’s my girl,” my dad said as we knocked fists.
I earned another patch for my vest, but this time it had 50 written on it instead of 25. I was eager to do another round. In competitions, there are a total of four rounds with a possible score of 100. If I could accomplish a rare score of 100, I could be the next Annie Oakley.
My confidence ruined my next round, but my mother tells the story differently. She believes that the older man on the second station, with his frustrated grumblings to himself, was purposely trying to rattle me and knock me off of my flawless streak. I also believe that his actions were a factor, but concentration is the most important component in trapshooting. A professional shooter has to eliminate distractions, focusing only on the bird.
I did not get a patch for a 75 that night and never did as well again during my final year of shooting three years ago. I am proud of myself for accomplishing something that I never thought I could. My accuracy as a shooter is something I will always brag about to my children. That Thursday night made me the confident person I am today.
